UM NÓ CEGO

Em Novembro do ano passado, Lee Bains publicou em “The New Yorker” uma extensa “freewheeling poetic sequence” – Work Lunch – acerca da qual Kevin Young, o editor dessa publicação, diria: “Este ciclo de poemas tem o poder da música, uma exaltação do quotidiano que recorda Coney Island of the Mind, de Lawrence Ferlinghetti”. Pelo meio dessa imensa proliferação de personagens, tempos e lugares, uma “grandmama” viajava entre passado, presente e futuro – “She would walk those dusty miles down to the picture show. She usually didn’t have shoes then. This was the Twenties. The Depression hadn’t even hit yet. She would clutch the dime in her tight little hand, feeling the smooth cool of the plated silver and the wings on the side of Lady Liberty’s head. She would come to reach the pasture that, in warmer months, would be transformed into the expansive prairies of the Wild West, the glittering ballrooms of New York City, the dark stony castles of France, the sun-swept courtyards of Arabia” – para, a determinado ponto, deixar cair uma surda observação: “You may be poor, but at least you ain’t Black”. (daqui; segue para aqui)

"The Battle Of Atlanta"