Thursday, December 15, 2011

Poesia Americana 5: ANDREW ZAWACKI


One of me stuttered and one
of me broke, and one of me tried

to fasten a line to one of
me untying it from me.

One of me watched a fisherman haul
a sand shark from the breaker,

while another was already years later,
returned to where a local man

baited for striper but landed a shark.
One of me sat under olivine clouds,

clouds of cerise, a courtesan sky,
and one of me sunned himself

as a child, imagining a fish-rod
turned fermata. One waved a sash

of cornflower blue, one heard
a windmill, one heard the wind,

one waved goodbye to an imminent
leftover love. And one strolled

barefoot and sunburnt across
the nickel inhibitions of afternoon,

tossing amber bottles at a smoke tree,
the gun lake, swimming toward

his family on the dock as twilight fell,
as the same boy stayed behind

to look at him swim. One believed
a father could be killed by falling rock,

and one woke up to find he’d only
dreamt, although his father was dead,

and one believed in a beautiful house
not built by any hand. One promised

nothing would break, and nothing did,
and one saw breaking everywhere

and could not say what he saw.

O vídeo começa com o poema acima e depois tem ainda muitos outros.

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