Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Margarida Vale de Gato

ALICE

Heart-hammer, coffin-nails, passion-swindle.
Shakespeare died on an old calendar in April
wrote “these violent delights have violent ends”
and declared romantic love deceased with a quill.
Since then many lovers have become case studies   
in western research centers piles of men and women
are grabbed by the nape devouring each other and the dark
– they can hardly be identified in the fluorine of headlights,
on screens, in office waiting rooms and hotels –
silent blue collars sweep us away, tidying things up
at dawn, those whose dreams are more meager than salaries.

From you I hope for what does not occur to you to ask,
to you I must point out this world full of errors.              
The world is full. Of the dead who never
drop dead. The world is full of the dead living
with little thirst. The world is full of kids         
who slide for two days through solid sleep resuscitated  
on the third without redemption, without anyone checking
their pulse or what they took, or was given them in excess.
I ask your forgiveness and understanding for the many deceptions
the garrote of maturity won’t staunch, you’ll find out

one day what is so overwhelming to confront. The world is full
of adults without detachable answer keys they stagger
on top of waves over long tectonic faults, the world
is full of the apathetic convulsing domestic quakes
torpedoes in picturesque rest houses villas swept
off the map where there were once squares pools sodas and Sunday
matinees, there were intersections and corners and white  
upturned wandering eyes. The world is full of wires
great migrations to worse places inoculated
with molds that won’t heal but burst the indices
of scholarly publications, one day you will live where
   
you shall sway – so that I hope you’ll accidentally find
alternatives. The world is full of rebels who are        
ambivalent and meek unrolling black rolls  
of linoleum where nothing can be read, they use them
to cover bellicose mines of all the parents’ wars, patiently reject
millenarian dowries of folly and decide that what’s left
is to draw gestures of dance against the precarious underpinning
of having a floor on which to fall. From you I hope for justice, loyalty   
and an innocence of fear and resistance if possible 
to theories of conspiracy as well as the entire imagination 
of others, the distraction that trains the tourist in courage.

There’s enough magical thinking, Alice, which you’ll discover  
as well: that your existence was born in part
of a meeting of intensities; of there having been absolutes  
and afflictions, settlings of collisions, replayed promises, shames
re-acknowledged, interrupted correspondences, offenses  
of affectionate detail. I expect nothing less of you, not to mention
everything else: that sense of humor which hits the mark and disregards
the chill of indifference, the forgetfulness that upon us bestows 
the dazzlement of successive aspects without any previous
memory, solicitude, curiosity, the filter
of love if possible sweet minimally diluted.

ALICE

Hart-hamer, doodskist-spijkers, passie-bedrog.
Shakespeare stierf in april op een oude kalender
schreef ‘heftige lusten vinden heftige eindes’
passeerde met ganzenveer de doodsakte van de romantische liefde.
Sindsdien worden bergen geliefden als casussen bestudeerd
in westerse onderzoekscentra vrouwen en mannen
worden bij hun nekvel gepakt en verslinden elkaar
en de duisternis – hoe moeilijk herkennen ze elkaar in het fluor
van koplampen, beeldschermen, salons van kantoren en hotels
– in de vroege ochtend geplumeaud en gezogen door zwijgende
blauwgejasten met dromen magerder dan hun salaris.

Ik verwacht van jou wat niet als vraag in je opkomt, moet
je wijzen op deze wereld vol vergissingen.
De wereld is vol. Vol doden die niet zullen vallen.
De wereld is vol doden die leven
van weinig dorst. De wereld is vol jongeren
die binnen twee dagen wegglijden in solide slaap herleven
op de derde zonder verlossing, zonder iemand die hun polsslag
checkt of wat ze in overdosering namen of kregen toegediend.
Ik vraag van jou vergeving en begrip voor zo veel teleurstellingen
die de knevel van volwassenheid niet stelpt, je ontdekt

op een dag wat loodzwaar te verstouwen is. De wereld is vol
volwassenen zonder bijsluiters met oplossingen ze strompelen
over golven langs lange tektonische breuken, de wereld
is vol verkrampte apathici huiselijke aardbevingen
torpedo’s in rusthuizen van de kaart geveegde pittoreske
stadjes waar je pleintjes zwembaden priklimonade en
zondagmatinees had, kruispunten, straathoeken en wit wegdraaiende ogen
gericht op de hemel. De wereld is vol sperdraden
grote migraties naar slechtere plaatsen besmet
met schimmels die niet genezen maar wel de aantallen
wetenschappelijke publicaties omhoogjagen, op een dag woon je

waar je moet wikken en wegen – je zult nuances vinden van wat ik
onvoorzien verwacht. De wereld is vol ambivalente
opstandigen die zachtmoedig zwarte rollen linoleum
uitrollen waar niets op te lezen staat; waarmee ze mijnen
toedekken uit oorlogen van alle ouders, lijdzaam duizendjarige
gaven van dwaasheid verwerpen en besluiten dat hen rest
dansfiguren te maken tegen de hachelijke toevlucht
dat er een grond is om te vallen. Ik verwacht van jou rechtvaardigheid, openheid
en onbekendheid met angst en weerstand tegen complottheorieën
zo mogelijk gewaagd aan de volle verbeelding
van anderen, de afleiding die toeristen traint tot moed.

Magisch denken genoeg, dochter, ik hoop dat je
bij toeval zult ontdekken dat je bestaan deels resulteert
uit de ontmoeting met intensiteiten; doorleefde volstrektheden
en zorgen, corrigerende botsingen, bijgestelde beloften, hervonden
schaamtes, verbroken correspondenties, krenkingen
met liefdevol detail. Ik verwacht van jou niet minder
en veel meer: het soort humor dat raakt en vergeeft
tegen onverschilligheden in, de vergetelheid gebracht
door de verrukking van opeenvolgende gezichtspunten zonder
voorgaande herinnering, hulpvaardigheid, nieuwsgierigheid,
het liefdesfilter dat zoet is bij de minste verdunning.

Close

ALICE

Heart-hammer, coffin-nails, passion-swindle.
Shakespeare died on an old calendar in April
wrote “these violent delights have violent ends”
and declared romantic love deceased with a quill.
Since then many lovers have become case studies   
in western research centers piles of men and women
are grabbed by the nape devouring each other and the dark
– they can hardly be identified in the fluorine of headlights,
on screens, in office waiting rooms and hotels –
silent blue collars sweep us away, tidying things up
at dawn, those whose dreams are more meager than salaries.

From you I hope for what does not occur to you to ask,
to you I must point out this world full of errors.              
The world is full. Of the dead who never
drop dead. The world is full of the dead living
with little thirst. The world is full of kids         
who slide for two days through solid sleep resuscitated  
on the third without redemption, without anyone checking
their pulse or what they took, or was given them in excess.
I ask your forgiveness and understanding for the many deceptions
the garrote of maturity won’t staunch, you’ll find out

one day what is so overwhelming to confront. The world is full
of adults without detachable answer keys they stagger
on top of waves over long tectonic faults, the world
is full of the apathetic convulsing domestic quakes
torpedoes in picturesque rest houses villas swept
off the map where there were once squares pools sodas and Sunday
matinees, there were intersections and corners and white  
upturned wandering eyes. The world is full of wires
great migrations to worse places inoculated
with molds that won’t heal but burst the indices
of scholarly publications, one day you will live where
   
you shall sway – so that I hope you’ll accidentally find
alternatives. The world is full of rebels who are        
ambivalent and meek unrolling black rolls  
of linoleum where nothing can be read, they use them
to cover bellicose mines of all the parents’ wars, patiently reject
millenarian dowries of folly and decide that what’s left
is to draw gestures of dance against the precarious underpinning
of having a floor on which to fall. From you I hope for justice, loyalty   
and an innocence of fear and resistance if possible 
to theories of conspiracy as well as the entire imagination 
of others, the distraction that trains the tourist in courage.

There’s enough magical thinking, Alice, which you’ll discover  
as well: that your existence was born in part
of a meeting of intensities; of there having been absolutes  
and afflictions, settlings of collisions, replayed promises, shames
re-acknowledged, interrupted correspondences, offenses  
of affectionate detail. I expect nothing less of you, not to mention
everything else: that sense of humor which hits the mark and disregards
the chill of indifference, the forgetfulness that upon us bestows 
the dazzlement of successive aspects without any previous
memory, solicitude, curiosity, the filter
of love if possible sweet minimally diluted.

ALICE

Heart-hammer, coffin-nails, passion-swindle.
Shakespeare died on an old calendar in April
wrote “these violent delights have violent ends”
and declared romantic love deceased with a quill.
Since then many lovers have become case studies   
in western research centers piles of men and women
are grabbed by the nape devouring each other and the dark
– they can hardly be identified in the fluorine of headlights,
on screens, in office waiting rooms and hotels –
silent blue collars sweep us away, tidying things up
at dawn, those whose dreams are more meager than salaries.

From you I hope for what does not occur to you to ask,
to you I must point out this world full of errors.              
The world is full. Of the dead who never
drop dead. The world is full of the dead living
with little thirst. The world is full of kids         
who slide for two days through solid sleep resuscitated  
on the third without redemption, without anyone checking
their pulse or what they took, or was given them in excess.
I ask your forgiveness and understanding for the many deceptions
the garrote of maturity won’t staunch, you’ll find out

one day what is so overwhelming to confront. The world is full
of adults without detachable answer keys they stagger
on top of waves over long tectonic faults, the world
is full of the apathetic convulsing domestic quakes
torpedoes in picturesque rest houses villas swept
off the map where there were once squares pools sodas and Sunday
matinees, there were intersections and corners and white  
upturned wandering eyes. The world is full of wires
great migrations to worse places inoculated
with molds that won’t heal but burst the indices
of scholarly publications, one day you will live where
   
you shall sway – so that I hope you’ll accidentally find
alternatives. The world is full of rebels who are        
ambivalent and meek unrolling black rolls  
of linoleum where nothing can be read, they use them
to cover bellicose mines of all the parents’ wars, patiently reject
millenarian dowries of folly and decide that what’s left
is to draw gestures of dance against the precarious underpinning
of having a floor on which to fall. From you I hope for justice, loyalty   
and an innocence of fear and resistance if possible 
to theories of conspiracy as well as the entire imagination 
of others, the distraction that trains the tourist in courage.

There’s enough magical thinking, Alice, which you’ll discover  
as well: that your existence was born in part
of a meeting of intensities; of there having been absolutes  
and afflictions, settlings of collisions, replayed promises, shames
re-acknowledged, interrupted correspondences, offenses  
of affectionate detail. I expect nothing less of you, not to mention
everything else: that sense of humor which hits the mark and disregards
the chill of indifference, the forgetfulness that upon us bestows 
the dazzlement of successive aspects without any previous
memory, solicitude, curiosity, the filter
of love if possible sweet minimally diluted.
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