Study Nature, by Gertrude Stein

I do.
Victim.
Sales
Met
Wipe
Her
Less.
Was a disappointment
We say it.
Study nature.
Or
Who
Towering.
Mispronounced
Spelling.
She
Was
Astonishing
To
No
One
For
Fun
Study from nature.
I
Am
Pleased
Thoroughly
I
Am
Thoroughly
Pleased.
By.
It.
It is very likely.
They said so.
Oh.
I want.
To do.
What
Is
Later
To
Be
Refined.
By
Turning.
Of turning around.
I will wait.

Poems of a line

The moon inside of a wash tub.

The leaves hit the wind.

(J.T.Parreira)

Read This- a Magazine

Steinway & Sons

Three legs of the Steinway
raise a symphony of birds
in the veins above of the floor

the elegant legs
of the Steinway
as a woman

whom we listened
slowly
in its black dress.

(J.T.Parreira)

Mondrian's tree

At day when the Piet Mondrian’s tree
was of the red size of the branches
the wind
entangled in the calm branches
Mondrian shows to us
the interior of nothing.

J.T.Parreira

Mister Lazarus

Dying/Is an art, like everything else.
Sylvia Plath

He sits on ancestral door
from where its eyes
eat a few dreams

can’t spring
into streets of world
its weak legs

its
tired eyes
read the Job's book.

J.T.Parreira

L’étranger - Edmond Jabès (Egipto, 1912 - 1991)

La coquetterie des choses
à paraître ce qu’elles sont
Le monde est une coterie
L’étranger y a du mal à se faire entendre
On lui reproche gestes et langue
Et pour sa patiente courtoisie
récolte injures et menaces


La coquetería de las cosas
por parecer lo que son
El mundo es una conjura
Al extranjero le cuesta hacerse escuchar
Se le reprochan su gesto y su lengua
Y por su paciente cortesía
cosecha injurias y amenazas

(Versión de Norman González y Cristina Burneo)

Meeting

The first time we met

was in coliseum books

you was sunk in

a chair reading

Jean-Paul Sartre

I said

“what are you reading”

You said

“Sartre”

“you need nausea for this"

I said

(Thomas-John Parr)

Scottish Poets ...Edwin Morgan

The Loch Ness Monster's Song

Sssnnnwhuffffll?

Hnwhuffl hhnnwfl hnfl hfl?

Gdroblboblhobngbl gbl gl g g g g glbgl.

Drublhaflablhaflubhafgabhaflhafl fl fl -

gm grawwwww grf grawf awfgm graw gm.

Hovoplodok - doplodovok - plovodokot - doplodokosh?

Splgraw fok fok splgrafhatchgabrlgabrl fok splfok!

Zgra kra gka fok!

Grof grawff gahf?

Gombl mbl bl -

blm plm,

blm plm,

blm plm,

blp

Babel

In all the words only had a language

Peter Bruegel the Elder, he painted

Babel,

just built between the words and men

of armed arms

The confusion, that

Bruegel did not see

in its piramide unfinished

with a cloud blow

What it brought the water

to the eyes of the men?

Now the whole world had one language.

Thomas-John Parr

MoMA

As Picasso did it, the eyes
bigger than the head, it extends
for the spectator
the primitive bodies
Les Demoiselles,
I saw it with my wife
in the summer of 1991,
New York in suspension
below of the heat’s humidity,
lively and intact in a recurring wave
of air, the soul
establishes itself
in the girls of the Calle d'Avignon.

Thomas-John Parr

Literary Movements

«You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.» Robert Creeley


We will change our poetry
as who exchange the same

complicity in the eyes,
a quick word

it will tend to leave the circle
will leave obtuse angles

and the tautology
of the four walls

We will change silence,
Small nothings with depths

You send me your poems,
especially those

to swim against the tide
I will send you mine.

J.T.Parreira

Paris, Winter 1994

Paris in that night had the light

distributed for the drops of rain

Sartre and Beauvoir were not there

In Café de Flore, three or four

spoons of sugar drowned

the bitter taste of the coffee, they drank it

first my eyes as a ritual, my lips later

In my language I would write

a previsible poem

Other times, Paris was a bluish air bit.

What it saw the Lot’s Wife

The ground did not receive
the rest of the Lot's wife: of foot
it stayed of foot to emerge
of the lowest molecules of salt
the sunk white dream in silence
did not have following morning, never
emerging of the dawn.


J.T.Parreira

The Second Coming - W.B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

1920

The Smile of Mona Lisa

The smile of Gioconda to decorate
the museum, nobody
will mold it again
the bureaucratic smile
of Gioconda is a door
behind which does not have nothing
soul? landscapes? the silence
a navel of the soul
to smile for within.

J.T.Parreira

Fall in JFK

We breathe in the windows

of the airplane

in the depth of clouds

We sail in the sky

but we need a nest

to make

We landing our eyes in the JFK

as birds

are bound for JFK

Birds fallen

of clouds frozen

inside the

JFK

J.T.Parreira

Common Prayer

Our Father in heaven, Your
kingdom come, Your will
be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us today our daily
bread, forgive us our bread,
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into evil,
and not be the evil.

J.T.Parreira

Allen Ginsberg's Poem Kaddish 44

Kaddish 44

To Lindsay

Vachel, the stars are out
dusk has fallen on the Colorado road
a car crawls slowly across the plain
in the dim light the radio blares its jazz
the heartbroken salesman lights another cigarette
In another city 27 years ago
I see your shadow on the wall
you’re sitting in your suspenders on the bed
the shadow hand lifts up a Lysol bottle to your head
your shade falls over on the floor

[Paris, May 1958]


Para Lindsay

Vachel, as estrelas sairam de cena
o escuro caiu numa estrada do Colorado
um carro lento rasteja através da planície
o rádio ressoa jazz no crepúsculo
um vendedor desanimado acende outro cigarro
Há 27 anos noutra cidade
vejo a tua sombra no muro
estás sentado sobre teus suspensórios na cama
a mão da sombra ergue até à cabeça um frasco de Lysol
teu vulto decai sobre o soalho

*Vachel Lindsay, Poeta norte-americano, 1879-1931. Suicidou-se, bebendo Lysol
(Tradução: J.T.Parreira)

Literary Kicks

New Poems

Here are a few recently posted poems from Action Poetry
that have caught our eye ...

The Talmud by JTParreira
The Circle of the Lustful by therequired
Psychedelic by Silver-Golem

Wind's Arabesque

I like what you're trying to do –
this one

is a few drafts away from
being finished, I'd say.

The sally tree went pale
in every touch

I was standing watching you
take the leaves

as if your fingers
were walking on the ground.

J.T.Parreira

A Haiku

Windmills in the sky.
A Quixote goes breaking
one to one the clouds.

The Factory

Warhol, the dust has fallen

on the floor

a heart attack

of the ceiling close to our eyes

from the sky

light falls, your shadow

falls on the floor.

Confession: Charles Bukowski

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed
I am so very sorry for
my wife
she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again:
“Hank!”
Hank won’t
answer.
it’s not my death that
worries me, it’s my wife
left with this
pile of nothing.
I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her
even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid
and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:
I love

you.

Confissão

À espera da morte

como um gato

que vai saltar na

cama

estou muito pesaroso

pela minha mulher

ela verá este

corpo

duro

e branco

uma vez e

talvez outra

o abanará

«Henri!»

o Henri não

responderá.

Não é a minha morte que

me preocupa, é minha mulher

sozinha com esta

pira de nada

não obstante

eu quero

que ela saiba

que dormir

todas as noites

ao seu lado

e mesmo os mais inábeis

argumentos

foram coisas

sempre esplêndidas

e as palavras

difíceis

que temi sempre

dizer

podem agora ser

ditas:

Amo

te.

(Tradução: J.T.Parreira)

The small feet of Pavlova

The small feet of Pavlova

flow in space; leaping

through invisible clouds of air.

Fragile dawns never touching the soil.

Her small golden feet

suspended as fish in

an aquarium of wind.

(To Anna Pavlova)

J.T.Parreira

Villegiatura

VILLEGIATURA by Joao Tomaz Parreira (JTParreira)
May 8, 2007 1:55 PM in Literary Kicks

We wait for cross the crowd
on the beach, we cross arms
photographic legs, breasts
raised for the fire of the beauty
we pass over sand castles, and the air
does not support our body
we fall into the sea
soon we will walk across the Atlantic.

(To Billy Collins)

El Toreador

Man and bull disarm one another

bodies touch

as arrows reach their targets

touching his suit of lights

and the bull's dark hide

coloring the wind

and the soil of the bullring

man and bull

do not deny the contest

until blood soaks the sand.

(Thomas-John Parr)

(Translated of the portuguese for Linda Marshall )

Literary Kicks

Literary Kicks
where literature lives online

New Poems
Here are a few recently posted poems from Action Poetry that have caught our eye ...
Everything that comes by JTParreira
black by twisted roots
Coalholes by therequired

Apology, william carlos williams

Apology

Why do I write today?

The beauty of
the terrible faces
of our non
entities
stirs me to it:

colored women
day workers-
old and experienced-
returning home at dusk
in cast off clothing
faces like
old Florentine oak.

Also

the set pieces
of your faces stir me-
leading citizens-
but not
in the some way.
(William Carlos Williams)

Justificação

Por que escrevo hoje?

A beleza dos
rostos terríveis
da nossa gente anónima
move-me para isso:

pretas
mulheres a dias -
idosas e experientes -
que a noitinha devolve a casa
na sua roupa gasta
rostos como
velho carvalho de Florença.

Também

as harmónicas peças
das vossas faces me estimulam -
notáveis cidadãos -
mas não
do mesmo modo.

(Tradução: J.T.Parreira)

Subject for a Haiku

All the branches that I observe
lie

Lying today in the wind

Are prepared already
as a road for the Autumn

for the nudity

they wait under the dust
that will remain of the Summer.

As Adam early in the morning

As Adam early in the morning,
Walking forth from the bower refresh'd with sleep,
Behold me where I pass, hear my voice, approach,
Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass,
Be not afraid of my body.
(Walt Whitman)

COMO O ADÃO MADRUGADOR

Como o Adão madrugador,
passeio à frente das ramagens, acordado pela água,
vejam onde passo, ouçam a minha voz, aproximem-se,
toquem-me, com a palma da vossa mão passem por mim,
não temam o meu corpo.
(Thomas-John Parr)

America

To Allen Ginsberg

When will I be able to go to Safeway

with this heart in my hand?

I will pay for the wine and the milk

flaunting my boldeness.

I will use fingers

as a bar code

that always says the truth.

(Thomas-John Parr)

Allen Ginsberg: A Supermarket in California

Excerpt de Ginsberg with Whitman and Lorca


What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

A Brasileira do Chiado

In the cafe A Brasileira do Chiado

sat the plural Pessoa,

Fernando with a vacillating smiles

in its lips

They waited for words to pass among them

and the noise of machines

and silence

that tasted the mouths

silenced in the desert wharves.
(Thomas-John Parr)

Adieu dans Paris-Orly

Your taxi-cab pushing through traffic,
through lights and horns overflowing
like a river in flood;
feverish cars, clocks running counter,
all odds stacked against you,

you still make to Paris Orly
barely in time to light your interior fire
with the bitter taste of a last cup of coffee
that goes down burning like a bonfire on a field of dreams.

Last call, calling all fliers,
the good-byes and the kisses, overwhelmed
lips turning around,
once more, a last time,
before becoming airlifted.
(Thomas-John Parr)

Everything but a haiku

Alone in the wind
the seagull goes after the shade
of the fish that flow.
(Thomas-John Parr)

Inspiring Joyce

http://www.themodernword.com/Joyce/music/pomes_penyeach.html

To Vincent Gallo & etc

The Last Night in Buffalo 66

No love is more cutting than this.

At 2:30 in the morning

Layla leaves off for the nothing.

The door of the hotel room

opens, a tear bursts in the eyes,

turns the key, locks the door.

Somebody sat in the bed of the night.

Passing for a smile

under the sadness.

(Thomas-John Parr)

BAHNHOFSTRASSE

The eyes that mock me sign the way
Whereto I pass at eve of day.

Grey way whose violet signals are
The trysting and the twining star.

Ah star of evil! star of pain!
Highhearted youth comes not again

Nor old hearts' wisdom yet to know
The signs that mock me as I go.
(James Joyce, in Pomes Penyeach)

Translator

sometimes
the typewriter
thinks
for me

and sometimes
i v_i_o_l_e_n_t_l_y
i disagree
violent
ly

(Emmett Williams, Carolina do Sul, 1925_)


às vezes
a máquina de escrever
pensa
por mim

e às vezes
eu, v_i_o_l_e_n_t_a_m_e_n_t_e
eu, discordo
violentando-
-a

(Thomas-John Parr)

Homage to Pessoa

The Tobacoo Shop (A Tabacaria)

It does not have nothing

to make, with the window

they come ice glasses

and the night's deep.

It will never be anything

more than a window

despite the light inside of itself.

It can´t wish to be nothing.

But it has in itself eyes

for all the dreams of the world.

It has millions of these rooms in the world

with walls underneath of pictures

with moistness in the Landscapes

and the Nature Morte.

(Thomas-John Parr)