Sylvia Death

Quando meteu a cabeça no forno de gaz
como um leão caindo sobre a presa
todos os poemas estavam prontos
dirigidos
para a morte sobre a mesa
Ela fê-lo de novo, e de novo
toda a manhã escureceu
a sua pele brilhante e o cabelo
como um sol loiro.


SYLVIA DEATH

When she put its head in the oven of gas
as a lion that falls on its prey
all poems were already
directed
to die on the table
She did so again, and again
through the morning dark
the shiny skin and Sylvia's hair
as a sun blond.

October 15, 2008

Charlie Parker

The ghost of Bebop
from 52nd Street,
left footprints in the snow.
A Cab passed, in the yellowish night,
a drunk volatile
with a goose-step, almost
gave a kick in the stars.
Slid under the door
of the Three Deuces the blues.
The street was a cold mirror
when it rains, now remember
a mantle of ermine
the lap of Lady Day.

2008

JTParreira

Obituary

Fernando Pessoa died

in the Bairro Alto, he put glasses on the table

for ever, three days

before was still seen to bend

a corner downtown Lisbon

laughs loose, a cough

to bend the body forward.

2008

Short Tale

A car door slamming in the night
John Ashbery

Your noise

reached the house

the house

filled of light

the windows

It was opened curtains

flew in the wind

when you left

your noise.

The Creative Pen

Congratulations - jtparreira June2008 award winner

Folies Bergère 1968

Our breasts are on strike

Our legs

they do not fly far away

until the man's dream

Even our joy of the white of teeth

The feathers don't fly

in the transparency of the bodies

We, too, have a heart and wings

Our body only will light

the beauty of the soul.

(Thomas-John Parr)

Paris, Inverno 1994

Paris, Inverno 1994 /Paris, Winter 1994

Paris nessa noite tinha
a luz distribuída pelas gotas da chuva.

Sartre e Beauvoir não estavam lá.

No Café de Flore, três ou quatro
colheres de açúcar afogavam
o amargo do café. Beberam-no
primeiro os meus olhos como um ritual, os lábios
depois, na minha língua
mais tarde escreveria um poema previsível.

Outras vezes, Paris era um bocado
de ar azulado.

J.T.Parreira