#523

(image by Kenia Cris)

Em algum lugar na Coreia do Norte,

há um homem esperando uma carta

que eu nunca escrevi.

Eu me levanto,

ele assiste o pôr-do-sol

sobre o rio Taedong.

Ele come um tost-u no desjejum,

eu solfejo uma canção de volta pra casa.

Ele enterra um ditador,

eu trabalho no jardim.

Eu apago as luzes,

ele olha pela janela.

Em algum lugar na Coreia do Norte,

esperando uma carta que eu nunca escrevi.

Somewhere in North Korea,
there is a man

waiting for a letter I never wrote.

I wake up,

he watches the sunset
over Taedong river.

He eats a tost-u for breakfast,

I hum a song
on my way back from work.

He buries a dictator,

I work in the garden.

I turn off the lights,

he looks out a window.

Somewhere in North Korea,

waiting for a letter I never wrote.

---

Kenia Cris

#522

(image by Anna)

O que há com as pessoas que

precisam tocar suas feridas para

ter certeza de que você é real

e então

fazê-lo chorar para ter certeza

de que você é humano?

What is it with people that
have to touch your wounds
to make sure you're real
and then
make you cry
to make sure you're human?

(Posted to Carry On Tuesday #135)

#521

(image on DeviantArt)

Quando eu encontrar
o meu lugar no universo.

vou guardar uma parede para você:

as cartas de amor que me escreveu
vão cobri-la.

Os postais,

os cartões de natal,

as anotações em guardanapos,

a foto de você usando óculos engraçados.

Num canto no chão,

a caixinha de música vai tocar

nossa canção há muito perdida

e a bailarina que eu não fui

vai dançá-la para você.

When I find my place in the universe
I'll save a wall for you,
the love letters you wrote will cover it.

The postcards,
the christmas cards,
the notes written on napkins,
the photo of you
wearing funny glasses.

On the floor in a corner,
the music box will play our song
long lost and forgotten and
the ballerina I wasn't will dance it

for you.

(Here's the ballerina I wasn't)

posted to dVerse

The astronaut

(image by Leticia)

The night I learned you had lifted off,

I laid awake in bed in my favorite

flannel PJs - the ones with the moons

and rockets you always made fun of

and I refused to throw away because

they made me feel a little closer to

being the astronaut I always wanted to.

I laid awake in bed studying the

peeling paint on the ceiling, patched

with fading stars we sticked together,

one of us floating in zero gravity

and the other giving instructions

on where each of them should be placed

according to a printed quadrant diagram.

Well, a thought crossed my mind then

that would take another 76-year period

to be be visible to the naked mind's eye

again: I would have to fix things all by myself,

my sky falling down, I might need to fight

my fear of heights and borrow a ladder,

a rocket, a spaceship or an umbrella.

I might need to fight my fear of heights

and my fear of love to reach for my stars

so they could have the chance to make it to wishes

so I could have the chance to come true, all by myself.

You see, I needed no help, and you may think of it

as one small step for a man, but it looks like

a giant leap for this woman here.

(PS.: I miss the talk of nebulas and meteors and I do miss the feeling of sharing galactic coordinates and constellations, but like the moon, I've gotten used to living with my phases, I'm learning my path unhurriedly, and I'm fine with being alone.)

Posted to We Write Poems prompt #83

A few notes of interest:

- This is an experimental poem in an experimental tone, it's 3:30 in the morning and I would like to read it but I'd wake up the house, so I may come back when the sun is up with an update.

- Because I'm trying to make blogging simpler, I'm bringing everything from my other poetry blogs into this one. This poem doesn't sound any nicer in Portuguese, reason why I didn't include a version.

#520

(image by Simon)

Cresci um centímetro hoje

antes da entrada do sol

em sagitário

e todas as surpresas.

Fechei os olhos e num único fôlego

desejei ver as pessoas mais devagar,

desejei ser eu mesma e vê-las

em retratos daguerreótipos.

Contei os anos

nos tijolos nas minhas paredes:

elas estão caindo

e ainda não consigo tocar meus sonhos

- mas estou crescendo.

I grew up a centimeter

at some point today,

between the sun

entering saggitarius

and the surprises.

I closed my eyes and on a lungful of air

I wished not to see people so fast,

to be myself and see them as they are,

in daguerreotype portraits.

I counted years

in the bricks of my walls:

they're falling down,

I still can't touch my dreams

- but I'm growing up.

Posted to dVerse