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Ana Rüsche

1979, São Paulo, Brazil

 

She has three published poetry books: Rasgada (Quinze & Trinta, São Paulo: 2005), translated and published in Mexico (Limón Partido, Mexico City, 2008, translated by Alberto Trejo and Alan Mills), Sarabanda (Demônio Negro, São Paulo: 2007), later re-published by Patuá (São Paulo, 2013) and Nós que Adoramos um Documentário, funded by ProAC (Ourivesaria da Palavra, São Paulo: 2010). She has one published novel, Acordados (Amauta, Brasil: 2007), also funded by PAC, Secretariat of Culture of São Paulo.

As a teacher and/or speaker, she has worked with the following institutions: Casa das Rosas, SESCs, b_arco, International Movie Academy, Ángel Rama Center (FFLCH-USP), UNESCO Chair of the Institute of Advanced Studies (USP) in São Paulo. Abroad, in the Brazil-Mozambique Culture Center in Maputo, at UNAM – National Autonomous University of Mexico and Diego Portales University in Santiago de Chile, among others. She holds a PhD in Cultural Studies with the thesis Utopia, feminism and resignation (FFLCH-USP). She also holds a master degree in International Law and a Law major by the same University of São Paulo.

Her writing is featured in many Brazilian magazines such as Revista Coyote nº 17, Inimigo Rumor nº 20 – 10-year anniversary issue, Revista Poesia Sempre nº 2. Her poetry has also been feature in international publications on Brazilian contemporary poetry, such as Rattapallax from New York, Litro #129: Brazil from London and the Mexican anthologies Caos Portátil (Bilar de Lucrecia, 2007) and ¿Qué será de ti? Como vai você? (Vaso Roto, 2015). Her work was cited and commented in articles on vehicles such as Le Monde Diplomatique, O Estado de S. Paulo, Folha de S. Paulo. Her writing is a source of research for final papers in the areas of journalism and letters.

She also writes about gastronomy. She wrote the texts in Pois sou um bom cozinheiro – Receitas, histórias e sabores da vida de Vinicius de Moraes (Org. Daniela Narciso and Edith Gonçalves, Companhia das Letras, 2013) and organized Sobre Farinha para Sonhos: Quixote, moinhos de vento e culinária with Dan Rolim and Vanderley Mendonça (Feirinha Gastronômica, abril, 2013). She is professionally trained as a beer sommelier and has written pieces on the subject: Quando uma mulher decide fazer cerveja [When a woman decides to make beer], for Revista Vida Simples, August 2014 and De bar em bar – um guia sobre cervejas artesanais em Nova York [From pub to pub – a guide about artisanal beer in New York], for Have a Nice Beer Magazine, November 2014).

She lives with her dog, she makes her own bread and her own beer. She considers herself a happy person.

Contact: anarusche@gmail.com

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SOME POEMS

translated by Dirceu Villa

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the song of otocinclus, the glass cleaner

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i, a fat aquarium fish,

consuming what comes in these dim waters.

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the passers-by down there like roller-skating octopuses,

a girl with a black hole to-go and

chewing gum.

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next to the internet news

my cactuses die in their water compulsion.

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polar bears will be extinguished by refrigerators.

in australia, whales commit suicide in the sand.

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i keep consuming whatever shines a little,

i, a rotting fat fish in these dirty waters.

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The Purple Flower
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It has suddenly blossomed tattooed in my left breast

This one must like the night

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Anorexic
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Losing weight,

extirpating the last fat,

returning the borrowed ribs

and disintegrating into light.

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stubbornness
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depth in a scintillating blue shadow,

discipline in the 1.54 in. of eyeliner,

but they really like me smeared in the morning.

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Commonplace 10: Salome
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And she dances.

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Her sleigh bells still wet,

cocaine eyes and panting

chest. And she yells:

– Bring me the head of John the Baptist!

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They brought it on the silver tray, beggar’s hair running down the purplish paleness of beheaded angels.

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Anticlimax and white lights on stage. Some expectator coughed, popcorn bags.

And lacking sufficient words, the kiss was invented:

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I thrust the lips with hatred into that cursing mouth.

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And she sucks – stiff lips with the rest of the last saliva,

the dead’s tongue loose like a rock overlaid with velvet.

She ends it and looks around.

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Lighted Salome, with the white dress by the fake moon, with the horrendous head slipping by the hand.

And lacking sufficient words, there came the applause:

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At first bleating as a dull herd, then exulting, the army of white hands,

for the romantic plasticity of the scene.

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And she dances.

 

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