"marra" poems
e com essa marra sua
eu faço nosso laço
e ajeito nosso passo
como quem se perpetua
e com esse teu jeitinho
eu nos desenho, sem pressa
te encho de carinho
e o delírio me atravessa
na tua cama
contorno as tuas linhas
que eu sei não serem minhas
mas trato como quem ama
e nesse paralelo criado
nesse universo só nosso
eu faço o que posso
pra ver o mundo atravessado
como quem ama
meu bem
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 6:48 AM UTC
Al campo, dove roggio nel filare
qualche pampano brilla, e dalle fratte
sembra la nebbia mattinal fumare,
arano: a lente grida, uno le lente
vacche spinge; altri semina; un ribatte
le porche con sua marra paziente;
ché il passero saputo in cor già gode,
e il tutto spia dai rami irti del moro;
e il pettirosso: nelle siepi s'ode
il suo sottil tintinnio come d'oro.
882
AS DEW IN APRYLLE
It is as if
he has fallen
from the end of
the 15th century
into this
present day.
A Friday as it
happens.
And falling from
century to century
he has lost weight
the flesh fallen from him
so that
Simon Sadd
(“Sadd by name…sadd by nature!”)
arrives at this
particular now
nothing but
a bag of bones
with a skin
that no longer fits him.
As if…as if
he had once been a fat man
and Time had
thinned him…tamed him.
And so it is
I bathe him
sing songs for him
recite for him
carols, poems, hymns
anything
that lets him escape
even for a moment
this nursing home.
My voice carries him
back to his Norfolk childhood
where his mother
bathes him
on some forgotten Friday
in the once upon a time.
Soap stings his eyes
then and now.
“Moder ‘ud give us
such a ding on the lug.”
He laughs as if
she were there.
“Cor blarst me...stop yer blarin!
Such a sharmin’!”
he scolds himself
with her voice.
Then she’d hush me with…
“I SYNG OF A MAYDEN”
“I syng of a mayden
þat is makeles,
kyng of alle kynges
to here sone che ches.”
I finish it for him.
“My heart alive…how does
a yung feller like you…no dat!”
“He came also stylle
þer his moder was
as dew in aprylle,
þat fallyt on þe gras.”
“You must have high learnin’
bor!”
He, for his part,
creates a world of words.
I enter entranced
into his voice
where a ladybird
transforms itself into
a bishy barneybee!
A woodlouse
becomes a Charley pig.
A jasper
is a wasp.
“Ahhh look a King Harry
by the Lady’s smock!”
And when I look
the goldfinch has
already flown away
into the lost years.
The Canterberry Bells
still…so still
“…as dew in Aprylle.”
His mind a “bishy bishy
barneybee…”
“When will yer weddin’ be?
he says softly to himself
“If it be a ‘marra day..."
I towel him dry.
“Tairk yer wings an’
floi away!”
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC