Achados e Perdidos

Terra azul Céu escuro Fantasmas passam nas ruas Como eu fantasma nua A caminhar A quem procuro? Em que corpo quero estar Em que cama repousa espírito tão inquieto? Nas rotas de sol em ritmo blues Em remansos passados Em fechados futuros Em furioso silêncio

Aquilo mesmo que busco Como saída, me interrompe Num tempo de esquecimento Em suspenso Suspense. Ânsia edificada no ar Não tenho a oferecer ao outro A não ser uma vida concluída. A terminar. Um exílio forçado, Não-voluntário. Um susto, muitos riscos Uma eterna ascensão Um lugar não tombado Nenhum traço de união Só uma obra de arte O espaço que ocupo Completo, não despojado Dos meus receios e temores Dos meus ódios e amores Do olhar dessemelhante De qualquer ângulo em que estás.

If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

So much for pain; what about love? When you’ve been writing love poems for thirty years, those later poems are the ones that really hit the “nitty-gritty,” that walk your boundaries. They witness what you’ve been through. Those are the real love poems. And I love those later love poems because they say, Hey! We define ourselves as lovers, as people who love each other all over again; we become new again. These poems insist that you can’t separate loving from fighting, from dying, from hurting, but love is triumphant. It is powerful and strong, and I feel I grow a great deal in all of my emotions, especially in the capacity to love. The love expressed between women is particular and powerful, be- cause we have had to love in order to live; love has been our survival.