HORÁCIO COSTA

SONG OF THE EXILE

Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühen?  
GOETHE

My land is three hours ahead by satellite.
Intelsat.
Every year it is burnt in my land
one Germany, a country which has been
Wilhem II´s and Hitler´s.
In the ever transforming Nature,
carbon dioxide will bloom orchids
in the future forests of Greenland.

The smoke doesn't prevent the connection.
Click.
WouJd che silicon birds be canorous,
the ones that repear the same beep?
In my land no one answers the call.
The teJephone rings in the open air
in the Esplanade of the Various State Departments.
ít is assisted by three hieratic ornamental
palm trees. Alone in the canicule,
they preserve themseJves for rhe next
auto-da-fe.

CANÇÃO DO EXÍLIO

Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühen.

GOETHE

Minha terra está a quatro horas via satélite.

ïntelsat.

Queima-se nela uma Alemanha por ano,

país que já foi de Guilherme II e Hitler.

Na natura que é transformação,

o gás carbônico brotará orquídeas

nas futuras florestas groenlandesas.

A fumaça não impede a comunicação:

Click.

Serão canoras as aves de silicone

que repetem o mesmo bip?

Na minha terra não respondem

à ligação.

Toca a céu aberto o telefone

na Esplanada dos Vários Ministérios.

Assistem-no três hieráticas palmeiras

ornamentais. Sós, na canícula,

reservam-se para o próximo

auto-de-fé.

THE PRACTICAL POET

The practical poet thinks in Greek with the help of a good
         software dictionary
The practical poet goes trekking in mountains dragons of fire
And he never mixes up his credit cards in the breast pocket of
         his Argentinian leather jacket
Oh    he does not forget his forgetfulness
Oh    he will not endure / renounce his biographemes
Oh    he tells the winds unheard elegies on the warm
         tropical waters
He writes two columns of dactyls in the sand
And loses his poems to the sea with a fierceness ali his own

The sea becomes literate
The waves swirl in laocoönian contorsions
Mountains of poems everchanging libraries of practical
presumption burn in this poet's retinas
That urn-like building retains ali ashes including this poem's
         perfection
Red Beach Red Winds Red Muses of blackening rhetorical
         symptoms
Hesiod was practical and Sappho his best friend
Hesiod was prone to writing in the dust his so so endearing
         conclusions
The poet's agenda is avant-garde and sets the time for sailing
         in the dunes
There is no moonlight as clear as this one in the backwoods
Decide what you will between rising and stumbling from that
         flight
The practical poet is practical knows his time and thinks in
         Greek
The practical poet's love's the size of Liechtenstein
Oh    he summons them ali Red Hair Red Nipples Red
Asses
Oh    he experiences falling in the mist

Oh    he conveys urns are not his cup of tea

The poet is practical takes his cars keys from the lower pocket

         of his Argentinian leather jacket

And ignites his membership in the fraternity / sorority of

         flames

The practical bonzo practical

Poet   is
Ιαπετιουί'δη, πάυτωυ περί μήδεα είδώζ 

— Son of lapetus, among all tricksters the trickiest —

And in his practicality

He is also

Practically

Dead

THE VLTAVA

           for Milos Sovak

The Vltava is full of ducks

She said

Her eyes go baroquish unruly rollerballing

around all saints vestments unveiled

No ducks at sight from this bridge

Swans most noble swans Zeus' favorites

are not ducks you could ever cook

I said

Jellybelly burghers of Prague we command you hear!

Rollerskating crusaders under Sezession ǽgis pass by

enacting a memory of not that long ago

5 P.M. sunset shines in the Castle´s rows of windows

in the company of pigeons their equals for the effects

I want to talk about not of food but

Clouds Oh! Clouds Clouds Clouds

Pigeons à la Bohème is a traditional dish of our countryside

She's much too insistent

Feathery white flocks of nobleness swans aren't pigeons you

         could roast

I answer to no question spinning

like a dervish Am I one

Am I one baroque somebody defenestrated from no window

over a bridge's edge

gracefully bending my neck      so

Muse Oh! Muse Muse Muse

why is she deaf why is she dumb

Her walk the Vlatava flow through the meadows of an

unknown land

I fall
History is the bottom
History the botton line
Peacocks
Hens
Chicks
Hummingbirds
Other birds
even smaller
I fall over oh I fall
While we talk and talk about
Fowl

Página publicada em fevereiro de 2009