Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Chus Pato

She keeps on the cloud path

She keeps on the cloud path, perhaps because they’re weightless (path, clouds) and hurtle forward like love and are canopy / wandering. White, purple or golden like lichen on rock

and they’re a screen for blue and a screen for darkness

propulsed and free like everything that concentrates time

“we women dreamers are centaurs, but we don’t share centaur dreams: we’re centaur because our bodies are mammal but what we deduce is human. A centaur is a border figure, has the advantage of being able to walk on both sides but they’re not reliable and awaken suspicion, are often castigated like Tiresias. We poems are centaurs, can placate wild beasts and move humans. If no dreamer underwrites your life it means no one will back up your integrity or support your requests. The poem is the one that rules the beasts, you can sleep with horses because they don’t know what you dream”

so there are two kinds of centaur, poem centaurs and dreaming women centaurs: all are foundational and myths

a poet remembers, still remembers, still

thus I felt a huge exhaustion, not a sad exhaustion, I was a river and recalling who was coiled in a spiral made itself a nest; a nest is made with twigs and effort and into it plunge eagles, trout, lamprey and the salmon of a thousand rivers and all the dragonflies, earwigs, and all the summer butterflies and insects, and all the clouds reflected in the waters

I was dragon and remembering all the dragons of the most ancient massif altered them into a site of serenity and protection, to be able to think, which is a way to feel pleasure, will and distress

and they dangled themselves from trees and from the eaves of houses

and a beautiful fishmonger walked by and she told them
“I’m going to the Mekong
I’m off to the Zambezi”

(and the reader to the author, she who is an infinity or two)
—you’re writing a chronicle?
—ummm!
—but are we safe?
—yes, if it’s an epic, we women are safe

but what about the beasts, the stones, the Thracian warriors!

Zij blijft hardnekkig op het wolkenpad

Zij blijft hardnekkig op het wolkenpad, misschien omdat ze gewichtloos zijn (het pad, de wolken) en je overkomen zoals de liefde en baldakijn zijn / en dolende. Witte, purperen of gouden wolken als korstmos op een steen
 
en ze zijn een scherm voor het azuur en een scherm voor het donker
 
voortgestuwd en vrij zoals alles wat de tijd samenbalt
 
‘wij droomsters zijn centauren, maar we delen onze dromen niet met hen; we zijn het omdat onze lichamen zoogdieren zijn maar wat we deduceren is menselijk. Centauren zijn grensfiguren, het voordeel is dat ze twee kanten op kunnen, maar ze zijn niet te vertrouwen en wekken argwaan, dikwijls worden ze gestraft zoals Tiresias. Wij gedichten zijn centauren, we kunnen wilde dieren temmen en mensen ontroeren. Als een dromer of droomster niet langer borg staat voor jouw leven wil dat zeggen dat hij je integriteit niet langer garandeert, noch je verzoeken inwilligt. Gedichten regeren de beesten, je kunt met paarden slapen omdat ze niet weten wat jij droomt’
 
er zijn dus twee soorten centauren, de gedicht-centauren en de droomsters-centauren, allemaal institutioneel en allemaal mythen
 
een dichter herinnert het zich, nog herinnert hij het zich, nog
 
en dus voelde Ik grote vermoeidheid, geen treurige vermoeidheid, Ik was een rivier en toen hij zich herinnerde wie hij was draaide hij zich tot een spiraal en maakte van zichzelf een nest; een nest gemaakt met takjes en inspanning en in dit vlechtwerk begeven zich palingen, forellen, lampreien en zalmen van duizend rivieren en alle libellen, oorwurmen, alle vlinders en insecten van de zomer en alle wolken die weerkaatsten in het water
 
Ik was een draak en toen ze zich zichzelf herinnerden veranderden alle draken van het oudste bergmassief in een kalme en beschermende plaats, om te kunnen denken, wat een manier is van bedanken, wilskracht en vaardigheid
 
en ze gingen aan de bomen en de dakgoten van de huizen hangen
 
en toen kwam er een mooie visverkoopster voorbij die zei
‘ik ga naar de Mekong
ik ga naar de Zambesi’
 
(en de lezer tegen de schrijfster, die een oneindigheid is of twee)
‘ben je bezig een kroniek te schrijven?’
‘hmmm!’
‘maar zijn we veilig?’
‘ja, als het een epos is, zijn we veilig’
 
maar de beesten dan en de stenen en de Thracische krijgers!

Porfía no vieiro nube, talvez porque son ingrávidos (o vieiro, as nubes) e se abalanzan como amor e son dosel / errantes. Brancas, púrpuras ou douradas como na pedra un lique

e son pantalla para o azur e pantalla para o escuro

propulsadas e ceibes como todo o que concentra o tempo

“as soñadoras somos centauros, pero non compartimos soños cos centauros; sómolo porque os nosos corpos son mamíferos pero o que deducimos é humano. Un centauro é unha figura de fronteira, teñen a vantaxe de poder andar polos dous lados pero non son fiábeis e espertan sospeitas, a miúdo son castigados como Tiresias. Os poemas somos centauros, podemos aplacar as feras e emocionar humanos. Se un soñador ou soñadora non sae fiador da túa vida quere dicir que non vai garantir a túa integridade, nin avalar as túas peticións. O poema é quen goberna as bestas, podes durmir cos cabalos porque non saben o que soñas”

así que hai dúas castes de centauros, os centauros poema e os centauros soñadoras; todos son fundacionais e mitos

un poeta lembra, aínda lembra, aínda

entón Eu sentiu un cansazo enorme, non era un cansazo triste, Eu era un río e lembrando quen era enrodelouse en espiral e fixo de si un niño; un niño faise con garabullos e esforzo e polo seu urdido van as anguías, as troitas, as lampreas e os salmóns dos mil ríos e todas as libeliñas, as cadelas de frade, e todas as bolboretas e insectos do verán, e todas as nubes que se reflectiron nas augas

Eu era dragoa e lembrándose de si todas as dragoas do macizo máis antigo se modificaron nun lugar de serenidade e protección, para poder pensar, que é un xeito de agradecer, vontade e destreza

e penduráronse das árbores e dos beirados das casas

e pasou por alí unha peixeira belida e díxolles
“voume para o Mekong
voume para o Zambeze”

(e o lector á autora, que é un infinito ou dous)
—o que escribes é unha crónica?
—ummmh!
—pero estamos seguros?
—si, se é unha epopea estamos seguras

pero as bestas, pero as pedras, pero os guerreiros tracios!
Close

She keeps on the cloud path

She keeps on the cloud path, perhaps because they’re weightless (path, clouds) and hurtle forward like love and are canopy / wandering. White, purple or golden like lichen on rock

and they’re a screen for blue and a screen for darkness

propulsed and free like everything that concentrates time

“we women dreamers are centaurs, but we don’t share centaur dreams: we’re centaur because our bodies are mammal but what we deduce is human. A centaur is a border figure, has the advantage of being able to walk on both sides but they’re not reliable and awaken suspicion, are often castigated like Tiresias. We poems are centaurs, can placate wild beasts and move humans. If no dreamer underwrites your life it means no one will back up your integrity or support your requests. The poem is the one that rules the beasts, you can sleep with horses because they don’t know what you dream”

so there are two kinds of centaur, poem centaurs and dreaming women centaurs: all are foundational and myths

a poet remembers, still remembers, still

thus I felt a huge exhaustion, not a sad exhaustion, I was a river and recalling who was coiled in a spiral made itself a nest; a nest is made with twigs and effort and into it plunge eagles, trout, lamprey and the salmon of a thousand rivers and all the dragonflies, earwigs, and all the summer butterflies and insects, and all the clouds reflected in the waters

I was dragon and remembering all the dragons of the most ancient massif altered them into a site of serenity and protection, to be able to think, which is a way to feel pleasure, will and distress

and they dangled themselves from trees and from the eaves of houses

and a beautiful fishmonger walked by and she told them
“I’m going to the Mekong
I’m off to the Zambezi”

(and the reader to the author, she who is an infinity or two)
—you’re writing a chronicle?
—ummm!
—but are we safe?
—yes, if it’s an epic, we women are safe

but what about the beasts, the stones, the Thracian warriors!

She keeps on the cloud path

She keeps on the cloud path, perhaps because they’re weightless (path, clouds) and hurtle forward like love and are canopy / wandering. White, purple or golden like lichen on rock

and they’re a screen for blue and a screen for darkness

propulsed and free like everything that concentrates time

“we women dreamers are centaurs, but we don’t share centaur dreams: we’re centaur because our bodies are mammal but what we deduce is human. A centaur is a border figure, has the advantage of being able to walk on both sides but they’re not reliable and awaken suspicion, are often castigated like Tiresias. We poems are centaurs, can placate wild beasts and move humans. If no dreamer underwrites your life it means no one will back up your integrity or support your requests. The poem is the one that rules the beasts, you can sleep with horses because they don’t know what you dream”

so there are two kinds of centaur, poem centaurs and dreaming women centaurs: all are foundational and myths

a poet remembers, still remembers, still

thus I felt a huge exhaustion, not a sad exhaustion, I was a river and recalling who was coiled in a spiral made itself a nest; a nest is made with twigs and effort and into it plunge eagles, trout, lamprey and the salmon of a thousand rivers and all the dragonflies, earwigs, and all the summer butterflies and insects, and all the clouds reflected in the waters

I was dragon and remembering all the dragons of the most ancient massif altered them into a site of serenity and protection, to be able to think, which is a way to feel pleasure, will and distress

and they dangled themselves from trees and from the eaves of houses

and a beautiful fishmonger walked by and she told them
“I’m going to the Mekong
I’m off to the Zambezi”

(and the reader to the author, she who is an infinity or two)
—you’re writing a chronicle?
—ummm!
—but are we safe?
—yes, if it’s an epic, we women are safe

but what about the beasts, the stones, the Thracian warriors!
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Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
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