C. K. Williams

The Gaffe



1

If that someone who's me yet not me yet who judges me is always with me,
as he is, shouldn't he have been there when I said so long ago that thing
I said?

If he who rakes me with such not trivial shame for minor sins now were
there then,
shouldn't he have warned me he'd even now devastate me for my
unpardonable affront?

I'm a child then, yet already I've composed this conscience-beast, who
harries me:
is there anything else I can say with certainty about who I was, except that I,
that he,

could already draw from infinitesimal transgressions complex chords
of remorse,
and orchestrate ever-undiminishing retribution from the hapless rest
of myself?


2

The son of some friends of my parents has died, and my parents, paying
their call,
take me along, and I'm sent out with the dead boy's brother and some
others to play.

We're joking around, and words come to my mind, which to my
amazement are said.
How do you know when you can laugh when somebody dies, your brother dies?

is what's said, and the others go quiet, the backyard goes quiet,
everyone stares,
and I want to know now why that someone in me who's me yet not me let
me say it.

Shouldn't he have told me the contrition cycle would from then be ever
upon me,
it didn't matter that I'd really only wanted to know how grief ends,
and when?


3

I could hear the boy's mother sobbing inside, then stopping, sobbing
then stopping.
Was the end of her grief already there? Had her someone in her told her
it would end?

Was her someone in her kinder to her, not tearing at her, as mine did,
still does, me,
for guessing grief someday ends? Is that why her sobbing stopped
sometimes?

She didn't laugh, though, or I never heard her. How do you know when
you can laugh?
Why couldn't someone have been there in me not just to accuse me, but
to explain?

The kids were playing again, I was playing, I didn't hear anything more
from inside.
The way now sometimes what's in me is silent, too, and sometimes,
though never really, forgets.

Wallace Stevens

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour


Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:


Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one...
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

Marvin Gaye "Fly Me To The Moon" (1985)

Charme, puro charme....

Matinália e Luiz Melodia

Timing, charme, tudo que é preciso....

Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Kat Edmonson - Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most

Maravilhas por aí, basta um espírito livre e tempo idem....

Estibáliz Solis

Poeta da Costa Rica, mais uma do imenso continente que insistimos em desconhecer....Uma criança e escrevendo tão lindamente....

Poemas


ME MIRA DE lejos
Por debajo de los lentes

El sudor es un escaparate

Las miradas lamen las flores
del vestido, pegadas a la piel

No me queda una gota
Nada me sobrevive

Tuve un perro sin nombre
Dejó de ladrar, se le cayó el pelo.
El pez también murió y
la niña blanca que fui
en mi primera comunión.

El se acerca y pregunta;

Nada me sobrevive, insisto
Acabo de olvidar mi nombre


PAOLO Y SELVAGGIA

a Artaud

Paolo se mira los pies todas las mañanas, siempre del mismo tamaño. Selvaggia amanece a menudo enredada entre sus pies. El vaho los revuelca. Algunas veces realmente se desean. Selvaggia tiende la cama con Paolo adentro, adentro de ella. La cama es un abismo que también los revuelca. Antier creyeron tener el mismo sueño, pero Selvaggia amaneció en otra cama. Las camas a veces se multiplican, como los pares de pies revolcados por el vaho. Paolo le teme a la multiplicación, por eso a veces no la toca. Ayer Selvaggia le dijo que se iba y Paolo masticó los años mientras le recorría la espalda. “Paolo Uccello no tiene nada en sus ropas, sólo un puente en lugar de corazón”.

(Poemas tomados del libro Los taxis nunca vendrán vacíos, Ediciones Perro Azul, 2009.)

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