melifluos

[melifluos]

notes on the seasons

(Raquel Salas Rivera)

in spanish, we don’t naturally occur. the seasons differentiate us from natural people. when there are no seasons, let’s say, when we are a caribbean country, better yet, when we are a territory, we aren’t allowed to use the x, except for the word xylophone, because who uses a xylophone? and who wants us? every time you think these questions aren’t the same, you recognize that you never met me, despite the i’ve seen you before and somewhere.

if i’m going to explore my nationality, i have to be recognizable. this is what everyone knows. in fact, if i’m not recognizable, it’s as if i had no nation.

i wrote the following in a letter to the lions of the mayagüez zoo:

i know that right now you are lions, and you’ve spent a lot of time in the heat, but when you become snakes, no fence will be able to contain you. they’ll have to put you in a glass cage. they call this cage a fish tank. they’ll decorate the cage with rocks. you’ll no longer be able to roar. but don’t worry, when you become spiders, you’ll be able to leave the fish tank. you’ll climb up to the roof. maybe it’ll take you many weeks to find a window, but in the interim, you’ll eat mosquitos, since these are abundant, despite the aromatic candles.

i wrote them this letter because i know what it’s like to wait for transmogrification.

i wrote them this letter because i know what it’s like to wait for transmogrification in captivity.

outside of the fish tank, there is a room. outside of the room, there is a zoo. outside of the zoo, there is a hometown. outside of the hometown, there is a colony. outside of the colony, there is an empire. outside of the empire, there is the king of seasons. if you kill the king, you kill the game.

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The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On

(Franny Choi)

Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of boats: boats of prisoners, boats cracking under sky-iron, boats making corpses bloom like algae on the shore. Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of the bombed mosque. There was the apocalypse of the taxi driver warped by flame. There was the apocalypse of the leaving, and the having left— of my mother unsticking herself from her mother’s grave as the plane barreled down the runway. Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of planes. There was the apocalypse of pipelines legislating their way through sacred water, and the apocalypse of the dogs. Before which was the apocalypse of the dogs and the hoses. Before which, the apocalypse of dogs and slave catchers whose faces glowed by lantern-light. Before the apocalypse, the apocalypse of bees. The apocalypse of  buses. Border fence apocalypse. Coat hanger apocalypse. Apocalypse in the textbooks’ selective silences. There was the apocalypse of the settlement and the soda machine; the apocalypse of the settlement and the jars of scalps; there was the bedlam of the cannery; the radioactive rain; the chairless martyr demanding a name. I was born from an apocalypse and have come to tell you what I know—which is that the apocalypse began when Columbus praised God and lowered his anchor. It began when a continent was drawn into cutlets. It began when Kublai Khan told Marco, Begin at the beginning. By the time the apocalypse began, the world had already ended. It ended every day for a century or two. It ended, and another ending world spun in its place. It ended, and we woke up and ordered Greek coffees, drew the hot liquid through our teeth, as everywhere, the apocalypse rumbled, the apocalypse remembered, our dear, beloved apocalypse—it drifted slowly from the trees all around us, so loud we stopped hearing it.

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The Thing Is

(Hellen Bass)

to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you’ve held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you down like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this? Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again.

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Grinding the lens

(Linda Gregg)

I am pulling myself together. Don't want to go on a trip. I have painted the living room white and taken out most of my things. The room has never been so empty. Just now a banging thunder and suddenly falling rain. I leave the typewriter and run outside in my nightgown and take the cotton blanket off the line. It is summer and I am in the middle of my life. Alone and happy.

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The moon rose over the bay. I had a lot of feelings.

(Donika Kelly)

I am taken with the hot animal of my skin, grateful to swing my limbs and have them move as I intend, though my knee, though my shoulder, though something is torn or tearing. Today, a dozen squid, dead on the harbor beach: one mostly buried, one with skin empty as a shell and hollow feeling, and, though the tentacles look soft, I do not touch them. I imagine they were startled to find themselves in the sun. I imagine the tide simply went out without them. I imagine they cannot feel the black flies charting the raised hills of their eyes. I write my name in the sand: Donika Kelly. I watch eighteen seagulls skim the sandbar and lift low in the sky. I pick up a pebble that looks like a green egg. To the ditch lily I say I am in love. To the Jeep parked haphazardly on the narrow street I am in love. To the roses, white petals rimmed brown, to the yellow lined pavement, to the house trimmed in gold I am in love. I shout with the rough calculus of walking. Just let me find my way back, let me move like a tide come in.

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Letter Poem #3

(James Schuyler)

The night is quiet as a kettle drum the bull frog basses tuning up. After swimming, after sup- per, a Tarzan movie, dishes, a smoke. One planet and I wish. Just you, or rather, us. The stars tonight in pale dark space are clover flowers in a lawn the expanding Universe in which we love it is our home. So many galaxies and you my bright particular, my star, my sun, my other self, my bet- ter half, my one

[melifluos]

Confessions of a Bird Watcher

(Chard deNiord)

The windows are dressed in feathers where the birds have flown against them, then fallen below in the flowers where their bodies lie grounded, still, slowly disappearing each day until all that is left are their narrow, prehensile bones. I have sat on my window now for years and watched a hundred birds mistake the glass for air and break their necks, wondering what to do, how else to live among them and keep my view. Not to mention the sight of them at the feeder in the morning, especially the cardinal in the snow. What sign to post on the sill that says, "Warning, large glass window. Fatal if struck. Fly around or above but not away. There are seeds in the feeder and water in the bath. I need you, which is to say, I'm sorry for my genius as the creature inside who attracts you with seeds and watches you die against the window I've built with the knowledge of its danger to you. With a heart that rejects its reasons in favor of keeping what it wants: the sight of you, the sight of you."

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(Gilka Machado)

Lépida e leve em teu labor que, de expressões à míngua, o verso não descreve... Lépida e leve, guardas, ó língua, em teu labor, gostos de afago e afagos de sabor. És tão mansa e macia, que teu nome a ti mesma acaricia, que teu nome por ti roça, flexuosamente, como rítmica serpente, e se faz menos rudo, o vocábulo, ao teu contacto de veludo. Dominadora do desejo humano, estatuária da palavra, ódio, paixão, mentira, desengano, por ti que incêndio no Universo lavra!... és o réptil que voa, o divino pecado que as asas musicais, às vezes, solta, à toa. e que a Terra povoa e despovoa, quando é de seu agrado. Sol dos ouvidos, sabiá do tato, ó língua-idéia, ó língua-sensação, em que olvido insensato, em que tolo recato, te hão deixado o louvor, a exaltação! – Tu que irradiar pudeste os mais formosos poemas! – Tu que orquestrar soubeste as carícias supremas! Dás corpo ao beijo, dás antera à boca, és um tateio de alucinação, és o elatério da alma... Ó minha louca língua, do meu Amor penetra a boca, passa-lhe em todo senso tua mão, enche-o de mim, deixa-me oca... – Tenho certeza, minha louca, de lhe dar a morder em ti meu coração!... Língua do meu Amor velosa e doce, que me convences de que sou frase, que me contornas, que me vestes quase, como se o corpo meu de ti vindo me fosse. Língua que me cativas, que me enleias ou surtos de ave estranha, em linhas longas de invisíveis teias, de que és, há tanto, habilidosa aranha... Língua-lâmina, língua-labareda, língua-linfa, coleando, em deslizes de seda... Força inferia e divina faz com que o bem e o mal resumas, língua-cáustica, língua-cocaína, língua de mel, língua de plumas?... Amo-te as sugestões gloriosas e funestas, amo-te como todas as mulheres te amam, ó língua-lama, ó língua-resplendor, pela carne de som que à idéia emprestas e pelas frases mudas que proferes nos silêncios de Amor!...

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Arco-íris

(Guilherme de Almeida)

1 – Roxo Na paisagem litúrgica as coisas estão vestidas de malva de lilases de violetas de heliotrópios como os longos, longos corpos dos santos na quaresma.                    Há olheiras doloridas de glicínias em torno das janelas que olham as coisas quietas, as coisas velhas da vida. Roda no ar parado um cheiro quente abafado moreno pesado de baunilhas.                     E as distâncias imensas têm uma cor de adeus – de saudades – de ausências. 2 – Azul Primavera. Um pedaço do céu caiu na terra: em tufos fofos de flocos frouxos frívolas hortênsias volantes como crinolinas fúteis desmancham-se em reverências ou passeiam como sombrinhas lindamente inúteis ou pousam empoadas de ar como pompons.                                                                   [O céu é um grande linho muito passado no anil que o vento enfuna num varal de vidro. Ele é o toldo azul de um bazar onde brinca vestido de ar um clown elástico, ágil e sutil. 3 – Verde A hora forte esmalta o jardim, lapida como uma esmeralda a relva polida. Grandes folhas verdes movem-se nos galhos como papagaios ou são como redes sobre as quais se encolhe a preguiça mole das lagartas verdes. A paisagem fresca é como uma bolha de água numa folha. E por uma nesga de ramagem tomba do alto sobre o bojo trêmulo da sombra, como um rolo frouxo de serpentes de ouro, um novelo louro de sol reto e bravo. E todo o arrabalde cheira como o cravo verde de Oscar Wilde. 4 – Amarelo Todas as acácias estão floridas. Pendentes para o chão suas mãos hirtas têm cachos de anéis de topázios violentos. O sol é uma bola de enxofre fervendo pondo empolhas redondas como gemas de ovos entre as folhas das laranjeiras.                  Na gaiola de ouro um canário pálido trila um pio fino frio como um fio de ouro. E o derretido ri como um menino... (Que riso amarelo!)                    ... um menino louro. 5 – Vermelho Um incêndio silencioso abrasa a terra numa esplêndida explosão. Nos barrancos as flores de São João lambem o ar como labaredas rubras. Os caminhos são vergões de fogo no dorso das montanhas encolhidas de medo. As frutas ardem como bolas de brasa. Insetos chispam como fagulhas. Fogaréus espertos de aves inflamadas batem no ar de vidro incandescente. Os rios são lambadas no flanco da terra sangrando um sangue grosso roxo e oleoso que escorre e borbulha como cobre derretido.

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Chuva e Sol

(Raimundo Correia)

Agrada à vista e à fantasia agrada Ver-te, através do prisma de diamantes Da chuva, assim ferida e atravessada Do sol pelos venábulos radiantes ... Vais e molhas-te, embora os pés levantes: – Par de pombos, que a ponta delicada Dos bicos metem n’água e, doidejantes, Bebem nos regos cheios da calçada... Vais, e, apesar do guarda-chuva aberto, Borrifando-te, colmam-te as goteiras De pérolas o manto mal coberto; E estrelas mil cravejam-te, fagueiras, Estrelas falsas, mas que assim de perto, Rutilam tanto, como as verdadeiras...

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Língua Portuguesa

(Olavo Bilac)

Última flor do Lácio, inculta e bela, És, a um tempo, esplendor e sepultura: Ouro nativo, que na ganga impura A bruta mina entre os cascalhos vela... Amo-te assim, desconhecida e obscura, Tuba de alto clangor, lira singela Que tens o trom e o silvo da procela, E o arrolo da saudade e da ternura! Amo o teu viço agreste e o teu aroma De virgens selvas e de oceano largo! Amo-te, ó rude e doloroso idioma, Em que da voz materna ouvi: “meu filho!”, E em que Camões chorou, no exílio amargo, O gênio sem ventura e o amor sem brilho!

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Vaso Grego

(Alberto de Oliveira)

Esta de áureos relevos, trabalhada De divas mãos, brilhante copa, um dia, Já de aos deuses servir como cansada, Vinda do Olimpo, a um novo deus servia. Era o poeta de Teos que o suspendia Então, e, ora repleta ora esvasada, A taça amiga aos dedos seus tinia, Toda de roxas pétalas colmada. Depois... Mas, o lavor da taça admira, Toca-a, e do ouvido aproximando-a, às bordas Finas hás de lhe ouvir, canora e doce, Ignota voz, qual se da antiga lira Fosse a encantada música das cordas, Qual se essa voz de Anacreonte fosse.

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Museon

(João Ribeiro)

(nº 2)

Helés, a formosíssima das gregas, Róseo trecho de mármor sob escombros Dum Pantheon que as divindades cegas Soterraram depois de tê-lo aos ombros, Helés, um dia, sobre a praia chegas... Inclinando-se extensíssimos os combros E o vento alarga em frêmito de assombros Da túnica do mar as verdes pregas E tu reinas, tu só! Debalde, vagas Sobre outras vagas se atropelam, correm, Uma por uma, indiferente, esmagas: Como as paixões na tua vida ocorrem, Uma e mais outra, nas desertas plagas Chegam e morrem, e chegam e morrem.

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Num Turbilhão de Estátuas

(Luís Delfino)

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping...                                         T. Moore - Irish melodies

Quando os formosos mármores de Atenas, Brancos, como os luares transparentes Desmanchando seu feixe de açucenas Na limpidez sonora das correntes, Murmuram suas doces cantilenas Pelas suaves curvas esplendentes, Mas como um sonho, um vago sonho apenas, Que embala a noite em páramos silentes... Numa ebriez de luz, turbado e incerto, Entre o alarido de rosais desperto, Via erguer-se, surgir... ficar só tu. Do turbilhão de estátuas fugidias Restavam só as formas luzidias Do teu corpo orgulhosamente nu.

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On Love

(Kahlil Gibran)

Then said Almitra, Speak to us of Love.     And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: ��   When love beckons to you, follow him,     Though his ways are hard and steep.     And when his wings enfold you yield to him,     Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.     And when he speaks to you believe in him,     Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.     For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.     Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,     So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.                                       •     Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.     He threshes you to make you naked.     He sifts you to free you from your husks.     He grinds you to whiteness.     He kneads you until you are pliant;     And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.     All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.     But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,     Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,     Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.                                      •     Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.     Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;     For love is sufficient unto love.     When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”     And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.     Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.     But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:     To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.     To know the pain of too much tenderness.     To be wounded by your own under- standing of love;     And to bleed willingly and joyfully.     To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;     To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;     To return home at eventide with grati- tude;     And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

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Casey at the Bat

(Ernest Lawrence Thayer)

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play, And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast; They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that— We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat." But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake, And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake; So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all, And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball; And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred, There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat, For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place; There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face. And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt; Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped— "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore; "Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand; And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew; But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!" "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

[melifluos]

Poetry

(Marianne Moore)

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond      all this fiddle.   Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one      discovers that there is in   it after all, a place for the genuine.      Hands that can grasp, eyes      that can dilate, hair that can rise         if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because      they are   useful; when they become so derivative as to become      unintelligible, the   same thing may be said for all of us—that we      do not admire what      we cannot understand. The bat,         holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless      wolf under   a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse      that feels a flea, the base-   ball fan, the statistician—case after case      could be cited did      one wish it; nor is it valid         to discriminate against “business documents and

school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must      make a distinction   however: when dragged into prominence by half poets,      the result is not poetry,   nor till the autocrats among us can be     “literalists of      the imagination”—above         insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them,      shall we have   it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion—   the raw material of poetry in      all its rawness, and      that which is on the other hand,         genuine, then you are interested in poetry.