domingo, 29 de abril de 2012



Occipital flower is the head’s name.

Lines, volumes.

A writing of bones, nerves,
orbs, memories.

Words that got lost in some place
that you avoid.

Stage scenery that suddenly emerges
like lakes, crystals,
small white

A snake that is not the Name that runs on your

Tree that says neither more nor less

Can madness be learnt?

You crush an insect between your fingers
but the sensation

It’s a shiver that you cannot explain.
Fibres, everything fibres of a miraculous cloth.
An oriental carpet
shaped like a kidney,
on which we are a minuscule detail,
ant riding on the back of a dragon.

On your palm, your pulse, your epidermis,
you thought you felt the games of the night,
fleeting hands, a stilled voice,
no board
or pawn.

This is not the face of a dream,
less light, no membrane,
fuck, you yell
at the breadcrumbs.

Nobody’s ants are crossing, from one side to the other,
the garden’s

The illusion of love exists and the teeth, teeth, teeth.

Because everything is real.

The stone that explodes in your temples.

The Earth in the shape of a chalice.

The word that reproduces like the birds in the Palace
of the Moon Goddess.

The meaning is just the shadow.

I’m the hunger for a clarity that will never be.
Because the rhythms, the rhythms, the rhythms.
Because of the she-dog’s laughter.

Celan and the ‘lunatic-open pore’.

Now exit to anywhere.

Crabs adrift in the rain, a portrait, a name
that is not the snake
that does not run
on your lips.

Throwing yourself into the shadow searching for the meaning of chewing
copper leaves.

Throwing yourself into the shadow searching for the intimate beetle
tattooed on the pussy
of Lady Language.

Throwing yourself into the shadow because stone is more than yell
is more than squirrel
is more than the cloudy
of the centipede.

Writing poetry is not a job for delicate men.

Occipital flower is the head’s name.

Here are all the games, all the maps, all the
including the ones to be invented.

Occipital flower is the head’s name.

Your voice.

Your faces.

Your mandalas of affection and scorn.

Lines disfigured on the convulsing body, exploding spectres.

Everything commences and ends with the enchantment of the emerald.
In memory of Rodrigo de Souza Leão, 2011

poem by Claudio Daniel
translation © Stefan Tobler

Um comentário:

  1. Celso Vegro30.4.12

    Prezado prof. Claudio Daniel
    Formidável que tenha tido o poema vertido. Parabéns.