Poster: | tonybaldwin |
Date: | 2009-01-14 09:32 |
Subject: | amor nos quemará outra vez |
Security: | Public |
Mood: | crushed | Music: | legiao urbana |
ainda que el sol brilha nessa verão sem fim e as noites nem se esfriam, deixando meu corpo ferver numa piscina de soar na cama onde posso ouvir você respirar e ver seu corpo quente ao meu lado com um fogo de desejos cursando as minhda veias me sento frio e nua sem abrigo contra o vento sem miseracordia e minha alma chora no silêncio da noite chora de saudades, de dor inaguentável para seus lábios meu único remedio...
© a baldwin - 07/29/2008
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Poster: | tonybaldwin |
Date: | 2009-01-11 11:28 |
Subject: | Myst'ries Seed |
Security: | Public |
Music: | Nunu Do |
Myst'ries Seed
(an ode to William Shakespeare)
To read the lines of he who has stirred hearts
In generations gone and which remain
In regions far abroad and nearby parts
Whose Muse upon the stage holds light domain;
Amazes each: the mind, the eye, the ear.
A trail to take true care to tread upon,
And stepping blind, 'tis strange we do not steer
Beyond the path, the Poet's pre-scrib'd song
To search, perhaps, for sights we cannot see
Through times' obscured, dim and distant lens.
I would we'd let our lips determin'd be
To taste ambrosia issued from his pens.
But then, perhaps, we fear our ignorance
Would transplant mystr'ies seed and grow offence.
copyright1994 anthonybaldwin
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Poster: | countrymouse |
Date: | 2009-01-10 10:42 |
Subject: | Imagine Love |
Security: | Public |
Mood: | peaceful |
A poem I wrote a few years ago for/about Lord Ganesha.
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Poster: | tonybaldwin |
Date: | 2009-01-08 12:33 |
Subject: | |
Security: | Public |
Espero curar-me de te em alguns dias. Debo deixar de fumar-te, de beber-te, de pensar em te. Será possível? Segundo as prescrições da moral em turno...Pode até ser. Me receitam tempo, abstinência, solidão. O que é que se sabe disso? Ninguém quer lembrar do que quer dizer "compromisso".
Parece-te bom que te queira mais um dia só? Não é muito, tal vez é poco...será suficiente? Num dia se podem reunir todas as palavras de amor que já se dizerem sobre a terra e pode lançá-los no fogo. Vou acalentar-te com essa fogueira de amor queimado. E também o silencio. Porque as melhores palavras de amor estão entre duas pessoas que não digam nada.
Deve-se queimar também esse outro linguagem lateral e subversivo do que ama. (Você sabe como te digo que te quero quando digo: "qué calor, ne", "quer um cafe, meu amor?", "adoro as comidas que você cozinha", "ja é noite"... Entre a gente, a um lado de sua gente e as minhas, te falo "ja é tarde", e você sabe que digo "te amo".) Deve-se queimar-as...todas as palavras... Não restará uma única palavra, e a gente ficará muda.
Uma noite, um dia mais para reunir todo o amor do tempo. Para dar-te-o. Para que faz com ele o que você queira: guardá-lo, acariciá-lo, botá-lo no fogo. Não serve, é certo. Só quero um tempo para entender as coisas. Porque isso que estou vivendo é muito parecido a estar saindo da luz dos céus para voltar ao escuridão do manicômio, para sufocar-me na fumaça dessas palavras de amor. Para queimar-as, ou queimar-me nas chamas que surgem.
-- copyright 12/2008 - anthony baldwin
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Poster: | tonybaldwin |
Date: | 2009-01-08 12:20 |
Subject: | Sonnet #18 |
Security: | Public |
Mood: | amused | Music: | running water |
Sonnet #18
(a parody)
Shall I compare thee to a bale of hay?
Thou art more dusty and far less neat.
Rough winds do toss thy mop about, I'd say,
Which looks far worse than hay a horse would eat.
Sometime thy squinty eye looks into mine
Through stringy, greasy hair that needs be trimm'd,
And ne'er a horse had such a stench as thine,
As though in stagnant sewers thou hast swimm'd.
Thy disgusting image shall not fade;
This my tortured mind and soul doth know.
O, I should love to hit thee with a spade;
And with that blow I hope that thou wouldst go.
So long as I can breathe, my eyes can see,
And I can run, I'll stay away from thee...
(sorry, Will)
copyright1991anthonybaldwin
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Poster: | tonybaldwin |
Date: | 2009-01-08 12:20 |
Subject: | the Firewater |
Security: | Public |
Mood: | contemplative | Music: | running water |
The Firewater
I.
Sometimes it is hinted at in whispers.
Breezes. The wide-eyed cattle who cling
side by side, flank to flank bawling at first and loudly
and then silent know.
It is the pressure. They feel it
When there is not yet a cloud
They smell it in the air
like the tell-tale smell of liquor on the breath.
They smell it and they know.
The breezes hint more strongly
the air becomes colder by degrees
until we, too, begin to huddle for warmth.
We smell it, too. We feel it
now. A drop...not to worry.
And this is the beginning of the flood.
II
It always starts slowly
Pitter patter....children scatter
to find shelter
leaving their games behind.
Helplessly herded and hushed.
Hide-and-seek no more.
Bawling, clinging to Mother's side
and searching in her eyes
which reflect only the grey approaching
and coldness.
Some would say we should have seen it coming
In their restlnessness.
And some would blame them.
Regardless, it comes.
Slowly.
The Firewater!
III
The winds whimpering winds to a wail
and alarming drops tear into, onto, over...
Pitter patter...doesn't matter
We tell ourselves
Surely it will pass.
but the gutters now are overflowing.
Now the windows are blurred
We fear and we can't reach out
to wipe them dry.
The gutters are overflowing
the firewater pushes, tears, shoves
Throwing up from the gutter here
and there a dead leaf. Soaked.
It begins to become apparent that our Mother
impermeable Nature is not always kind.
and the windows are blurred.
The windows are closed
to keep the storm out
to keep us from the storm's screams, or
perhaps we don't want the neighbors to
see us cowering like cattle
flank to flank.
but now, of course, we can't see
outside. The windows are bleary.
We want to hide and seek but
We can't see past the tearing rain.
We can't see the playground.
We want our games.
IV.
Perhaps it is then that we realize
Walls are useless, windows blinding
and a roof no protection.
We look again to Mother,
Searching her eyes to see
only the grey.
She struggles angrily with the storm.
Storm opposing storm
wind on wind
Jetstream and breath
rain opposing ice
searching her eyes to see
Only stormy reflections.
what now (?)
We look for a father.
Father lies in the grasp of the storm.
We fear and we can't reach out
We fear that he shall be driven by the wind and tearing rain
like so many leaves, soaked.
Driven until he lies like so many dead
Leaves in stagnant puddles
Tossed, broken, and soaked to lie
where the wind can no longer lift like leaves.
Soaked. Leaves. Left,
Mother has blown away. Impermeable.
The wind whispers now. Screaming
left to children.
V.
Orphaned, now the storm is over
Bawling calves wander restlessly
heads down finding stagnant reflections
in sterile puddles
searching for mothers and dry ground.
We breathe deeply, now the storm is gone.
We fill our lungs, and eyes.
We find a sterile world.
We breathe the sterile air
and shield our eyes from
stagnant reflections in sterile puddles.
We, homeless, search as well. Until
We find a father's charred body
Drowned,
But as the grey subsides
A reflection in the skies
Reminds us of the wondring eyes
of a father. A reflection
of a father. A reflection
of a father. A reflex...
I suppose it is a reflex.
No...a dance...of degrees.
By intense effort
slowly, clumsily, eagerly
by degress
by the call of some divine voice
(like Lazarus)
and as we watch in awe
Father comes forth.
Father regains life.
The stagnant water drains.
A new life begins.
copyright1992anthonybaldwin
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Poster: | tonybaldwin |
Date: | 2009-01-08 12:20 |
Subject: | Return (June 1991) |
Security: | Public |
Mood: | contemplative | Music: | running water |
Return (June 1991)
I
I awake at 9 a.m. to the sound of the rain
and can't get back to sleep again.
So I sit on the porch and watch the puddles form,
watch the black bird bathing in the rain.
Some would call this a portent;
Blackbird, grey cloud, chill teasing rain...
But I know better than to look at the future like that.
I don't look at it at all.
I have this day to listen to the rain
as it cleanses my world
washes it clean again.
~~~~~~~~~~
II
Later on that day I find you blowing bubbles.
Like the bubbles in puddles I know that they are good.
They float away with the clouds, just wandering,
No place particular to go. And I can go too.
You say you find four-leaf clovers as we walk you home.
You share your luck. It comes off in your hand.
And in your lips
I feel myself going with the bubbles and the clouds
and returning with the rain.
~~~~~~~~~~
III
Soldiers have been coming home for days.
Students are returning their books.
Much knowledge passes through these walls.
Many deaths for dollars have kissed this year.
But I can only die to myself time and again.
Today I only live to hear the music play,
to feel the wind and the rain coming down
to explore the world
within
whatever makes us
who we are
you and I
and wherever we can go...
~~~~~~~~~~
IV
I have no fear of darkness
of lightning and of rain.
Although the storm is violent
all becomes clean again.
~~~~~~~~~~
copyright1991anthonybaldwin
written June 1991, Purdue University-West Lafayette, IN)
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