uma boa dose de poesia

Poesia (s.f.): 1. Arte de fazer versos. 2. Obra em verso, poema. 3. Característica do que toca, eleva, encanta. 4. Forma especial de linguagem, mais dirigida à imaginação e à sensibilidade do que ao raciocínio. 5. Em vez de comunicar principalmente informações, a poesia transmite sobretudo emoções.

Sempre gostei de poesia, desde aquelas de apenas um ou dois versos até as que tomam páginas. Um tipo de poesia que vem tomando meu tempo, atualmente, é a poesia falada – e sim, isso existe. Como ela é? Normalmente em um palco com um microfone, alguém recita a sua poesia como se contasse uma história; a poesia falada tende a ter um tipo de construção mais casual, diferente da poesia escrita, e também normalmente é bastante carregada com a emoção daqueles que a recitam. Os assuntos que elas abordam são muito variados, já vi poemas falando de uma história de amizade, outro sobre as dificuldades de um homem negro e até sobre pessoas com TOC. Esta é uma maneira não apenas mais interativa de fazer poesia, mas também é uma forma de agregar a ela detalhes que a enriquecem – tom de voz, pausas, ritmo – e é um mecanismo que pode ser aproveitado para se ter um primeiro contato com a poesia, principalmente por aqueles não muito ligados à leitura.

O primeiro poema que eu “vi” foi um chamado “Thinking About You” do Mike Taylor; um poema denso que ilustra a maior particularidade dos poemas recitados, que é somente quando se o poema que se entende a sua dimensão e pode-se compreendê-lo de fato. (A transcrição está abaixo para acompanhar junto ao vídeo.)

Yesterday you asked me
if I think about you during the day,
in class or on the bus.
Do I ever wonder who you’re with,
or what you’re doing,
or what you’re thinking about?
Well, I’m in math class right now…
and I’m thinking about you like crazy!

Like hands think about holding,
and arms think about folding,
and minds think about not thinking,
but knowing.
I’m thinking about you
like feet think about socks
and socks think about shoes.
I’m thinking about you
like rock and metal think about screaming
like blues thinks about rhythm,
like hip-hop thinks about… hoes?
Like gardeners think about hose,
I’m thinking about you
like tops think about spinning
like rocks think about sitting
and cops think about arresting people…
I’m thinking about you
like people think about the clock
five minutes before their shift ends.
I’m thinking about you
like A thinks about being with B,
like B thinks about C and D,
like E, F and G,
like H, I and J.
I’m thinking about you
like white and black think about
making grey in a paint pallet,
like night thinks about making day in the morning
like rain clouds think about pouring,
I’m thinking about you
like math analysis thinks about being boring
‘Cause, seriously,
any class this boring
has had to take some serious thoughts!
I’m thinking about you
like the last problem in this math quiz.
I’m thinking about you
like bugs think about grass,
like thugs think about… grass.
like students think about class,
like, ladies think about class,
like lower mid class people think about flying first class to places
they only think about, like New Zealand or France.
I’m thinking about you
like pilots think about the horizon,
like the clouds think about the wind
and the wind thinks about trees,
like teenage boys think about the birds and the bees,
and the bees think about serving the queen, and making honey,
and honey, I’m thinking about you like crazy!
Like,
like mattresses think about springs
and winter thinks about spring,
who thinks about summer
and it doesn’t matter what season it is,
when I’m thinking about you it’s always sunny..
like rainbows and bunnies,
and I’m thinking about you
like rich people think about making money,
and broke people think about making money,
and when I’m thinking about you,
the world makes sense.
Let me go change..
I’m thinking about you when I get dressed
because, before I step on stage,
when I look at myself in the mirror
you’re the only one
that I’m trying to impress.
I’m thinking about you
like boats think about floating
and paddles think about rowing
and poets think about flowing
I’m thinking about you
like bankers think about loaning
and renters think about owning
and stoners think about…
throwing rocks!
I’m thinking about you
like keyboards think about keys,
and keys think about unlocking locks,
like goldilocks still thinks about bears
like bears think about being cool.
I’m thinking about you
like refrigerators think about being cool
and microwaves think about being hot,
like kids think about breaking rules,
like targets think about getting shot.
I’m in math class right now,
not trying to get you off my mind..
Just simply off the sine, cosine
and tangent lines I’m graphing!
I’m thinking about you
like numbers think about adding,
like cripples think about standing.
I’m thinking about standing up
and walking out.I’ll say I have to go to the bathroom or something
and I’m gonna find out exactly who you’re with,
and what you’re doing and what YOU’RE thinking about!
but,
I think you’re in math class right now, too.
So I’ll text you:
‘I’M. THINKING. ABOUT. YOU.’
Send!

E nestas procuras incessantes , encontrei Sarah Kay e Phil Kaye, que são dois amigos que muitas vezes constroem esses poemas juntos, e o meu preferido deles, que é também o escolhido para ilustrar o último post deste ano aqui no blog é o chamado “When Love Arrives“. A todos, um ótimo 2014!

I knew exactly what love looked like…
in seventh grade.

Even though I hadn’t met love yet
if Love had wondered into my homeroom,
I would’ve recognized him at first glance.
Love wore a hemp necklace.
I would’ve recognized her at first glance.
Love wore a tight french braid.
Love played acoustic guitar
and knew all my favorite Beatles songs.
Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me.

And I knew,
I just must be searching the wrong classrooms;
just must be checking the wrong hallways.
She was there, I was sure of it.
If only I could find him…

But when Love finally showed up,
She had a bullcut.
He wore the same clothes every day for a week.
Love hated the bus.
Love didn’t know anything about the Beatles.

Instead,
Everytime I tried to kiss Love,
our teeth got in the way.
Love became the reason I lied to my parents.
I’m going to… Ben’s house
Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor,
but made sure we never missed a slow song.
Love waited by the phone,
because she knew if her father picked up
it would be, (heavy breathing)
“Hello, hello… I guess they hang up.”

And Love grew…
Stretched like a trampoline.
Love changed.
Love disappeared..
slowly, like baby teeth
losing parts of me I thought I needed.
Love vanished like an amateur magician,
everyone could see the trapdoor but me.
Like a flat tire,
there were other places I had planned on going
but my plans didn’t matter.

Love stayed away for years.
And when Love finally reappeared,
I barely recognized him.
Love smelled different now,
had darker eyes,
a broader back.
Love came with freckles I didn’t recognize,
new birthmarks,
a softer voice.
Now there were new sleeping patterns,
new favorite books,
Love had songs that reminded him of someone else;
songs Love didn’t like to listen to…
so did I.

But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly.
We found jokes that make us laugh.
And now Love makes me fresh homemade chocolate cookies.
But Love will probably finish most of them for a midnight snack.

Love looks great in lingerie but still likes to wear her retainer.
Love is a terrible driver but a great navigator.
Love knows where she’s going,
it just might take her two hours longer than she planned.

Love is messier now;
not as simple.
Love uses the word ‘boobs’ in front of my parents.
Love chews too loudly.
Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste.
Love uses smiley messages in her text messages
And turns out,
LOVE SHITS!

But Love also cries.
And Love will tell you, “You are beautiful.”
And mean it.
Over and over again,
“You are beautiful.”
When you first wake up,
“You are beautiful.”
When you’ve just been crying,
“You are beautiful.”
When you don’t want to hear it,
“You are beautiful.”
When you don’t believe it,
“You are beautiful.”
When nobody else will tell you,
“You are beautiful.”
Love still thinks you are beautiful.
But love is not perfect,
and will sometimes forget,
when you need to hear it most,
“You are beautiful.”
Do not forget this.

Love is not who you are expecting.
Love is not what you can predict.

Maybe Love is in New York City,
already asleep.
You are in California, Australia,
wide awake.
Maybe Love is always in the wrong timezone.

Maybe Love is not ready for you.
Maybe you are not ready for Love.
Maybe Love just isn’t the marrying type.
Maybe the next time you see Love is twenty years after the divorce.
Love looks older now but just as beautiful as you remembered.

Maybe Love is only there for a month.
Maybe Love is there for every firework,
every birthday party,
every hospital visit.

Maybe Love stays.
Maybe Love can’t.
Maybe Love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when Love is supposed to
and Love leaves exactly when Love must.

When Love arrives,
say, “Welcome, make yourself comfortable.”
If Love leaves,
ask her to leave the door open behind her,
turn off the music,
listen to the quiet,
whisper, “Thank you for stopping by.”

P.S.: Um verso de Leminski ao vô Mereles, “quem parte leva um jeito de quem traz a alma torta”.

assinatura_Carla Mereles

Carla Mereles

Morena de cidade alemã, tem na escrita a sua maior liberdade. Além disso, tem inquietação por tudo o que parece fora do lugar – ou num mesmo lugar há muito tempo. Crê na força das palavras, no poder catalisador da música (em especial a quem a faz) e, principalmente, na força sinérgica das pessoas. Gosta de ouvir e contar histórias, sempre que pode está na/pega a/bota o pé na estrada e deseja um dia ter a sabedoria em bem enxergar o mundo.

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