Conde Lev

Talvez acabe morrendo sozinho, numa pobre estação isolada de caminho-de-ferro, como Tolstoi. Espero que sim, porque enquanto agonizava, deitado numa espécie de maca, os seus dedos continuavam a desenhar no lençol letras e letras que o encarregado dos comboios ia tentando ler. Uma estação de caminho-de-ferro isolada pela neve, um velho agonizante a deixar na mortalha uma mensagem de fogo e um camponês a soletrar-lhe as frases até que a mão parou. A mulher de Tolstoi no seu diário: morei quarenta anos com Leão Nicolaievitch e nunca soube que espécie de homem ele era. Ninguém sabia então. Hoje sabemos: fez-nos erguer sobre as patas traseiras e projectamos uma enorme sombra.

António Lobo Antunes, Segundo Livro de Crónicas, Lisboa, Dom Quixote, 2002.

Auto-retrato #32

fotografia de Frank Horvat, Paris, 1958

Please be kind if I'm a mess*

*Rufus Wainwright

Eu que me comovo por tudo e por nada #32

Três doces quadrados de metafísica (ao cubo, portanto), com Álvaro de Campos em epígrafe e Lorca a fazer cócegas à realidade.

Home sweet home

Overheard in Lisbon

«As coisas são melhores quando são feitas com amor.»

No caso das camas, quando desfeitas.

Auto-retrato #31

Eu não me comovo por tudo e por nada.

Eu que me comovo por tudo e por nada #31

Os sorrisos à porta da maternidade.

Auto-retrato #30

NEWS ITEM

Men seldom make passes

At girls who wear glasses.

Dorothy Parker

Excepcional.

Cet lumineux objet du désir

Sim

IN CELEBRATION OF MY UTERUS

Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings.
They wanted to cut you out
but they will not.
They said you were immeasurably empty
but you are not.
They said you were sick unto dying
but they were wrong.
You are singing like a school girl.
You are not torn.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
and of the soul of the woman I am
and of the central creature and its delight
I sing for you. I dare to live.
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup.
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain.
Hello to the soil of the fields.
Welcome, roots.

Each cell has a life.
There is enough here to please a nation.
It is enough that the populace own these goods.
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it,
“It is good this year that we may plant again
and think forward to a harvest.
A blight had been forecast and has been cast out.”
Many women are singing together of this:
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine,
one is at the aquarium tending a seal,
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford,
one is at the toll gate collecting,
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona,
one is straddling a cello in Russia,
one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,
one is dying but remembering a breakfast,
one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
one is wiping the ass of her child,
one is staring out the window of a train
in the middle of Wyoming and one is
anywhere and some are everywhere and all
seem to be singing, although some can not
sing a note.

Sweet weight,
in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
let me carry bowls for the offering
(if that is my part).
Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
let me examine the angular distance of meteors,
let me suck on the stems of flowers
(if that is my part).
Let me make certain tribal figures
(if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
let me sing
for the supper,
for the kissing,
for the correct
yes.


Anne Sexton