Brazilian Heat – 2014

Some poetic silliness to kick-start your weekend 😉

Chairs

Heat defeat!
Never thought it would happen to me,
even less so that I would admit;
yet here I am, back in Brazil,
sadly unable to part
in this summer treat;
can’t go to the gym or work on my tan,
had to cancel a date,
all because I can’t let my heart beat
at too high a rate.

So what’s left to do
on this scorching afternoon?
Cry all alone,
surrender to lunacy,
rebel in dark secrecy
against my hot enemy?
Guess better let go,
sing out of tune,
dance under the moon.
Then work hard on this poem,
make it silly and sweet,
all so randomly upbeat.

With these words, I greet
all of you who, like me,
at a 100 degrees Fahrenheit,
squirm and sweat and strive,
comically embodying
the expression dead meat.
So at sundown, let’s raise
a glass of cold beer
to the invention of the A/C…

As for this ailing, petite poetess,
she’s to retreat and recover,
resurrect her Brazilianness,
till she feels, once more, replete…

Then go out there for another round,
sun-bound she’ll be.
This time ready, you bet,
to beat the heat.

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5 thoughts on “Brazilian Heat – 2014

  1. Ah.. nice one.. how often and quickly we adopt.. I would find it hard to get some Brazilianness — but I definitely recall when I had lost my Swedishness after a summer in Arizona, and felt the balmy (?) autumn chill me to my bones. Björn

  2. Hi Flavia, Loved it! Interesting how you vacillate between ‘ailing’ and feeling ‘replete’, which is something you should always be. Heat is just a given. Back in Norway for the last month I go through similar emotions! Best, Finn

  3. HI Flavier
    Nice work……How about this one? Titled _

    Sun Tanning

    The Sun beats down on tender skin
    And warms the tissue deep within
    Breezes cool the glowing fire
    That belies of consequences dire

    Sunbathers sleep and dream of home
    Heedless of holiday syndrome
    The Sun, its work still incomplete
    Intensifies its downward beat

    The bather wakes from blissful doze
    To find a blister on his nose
    His front and back are all aglow
    His sides as white as driven snow

    For days he remarks upon his plight
    To oft awake in deep of night
    He’s sore and groans at every turn
    Then returns next day for another burn

    Nor from experience do I speak
    I remain in the shade all through the week
    No Sun will harm this temple’s shine
    Or taint the blood, except with wine

    No blister on my alabaster hide
    As I gently lean on the bar inside
    A happier morsel, fit to pick
    Not beaten to submission by the Sun’s red stick

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