Os Meus Poemas: coisas concretas

coisas concretas

as coisas muito concretas

que parecem alucinações

quando olhamos para elas e nos afastamos

daquilo que é poesia

e daquilo que são corpos pregados num céu sem estrelas

feito a partir de retalhos e remendos dos contos que me contas

com os olhos fechados

para o mundo

e se agora me atingisse um relâmpago

quando estou a acordar

e a ser engolida pela noite

uma coisa concreta

mas impalpável

tudo se transformaria

numa coisa desfeita

e dolorosa

aquilo que escondemos

por entre sorrisos abertos

e momentos transitórios

colocar-nos-á um pouco mais longe

do que vemos reflectido

e a sensação com que ficamos

é que as coisas concretas

não nos deixam ser aquilo que queremos

My poems: naming things

naming things

why did you shut the lights?

I was watching the birth of your face

the music coming out of your lips

and now there is only a dance of shadows

who don’t belong

let’s not name our feelings for now

there is no need to scare them away

with words

we don’t need to think about what’s to come

or predict it

the moments will end up discovering themselves

let’s not open ajar boxes

let’s not keep them

intact

we can promise that we will never stay the same

and break that promise

because it is so easy to fall apart

but not as easy as turning the lights on again

there is so much more that we can see

when there is no pain involved

the process of acknowledgement of one another

is completed when we are quiet

and exposed

and everything that can be uncovered

deserves to be

and maybe we will find ourselves that way

when we least expect

and start living at once

because what else is there to learn

about intimacy

that doesn’t force us to be closer?

why should we wait?

Poem of the day:The Anxiety of Coincidence

Mark Bibbins

The Anxiety of Coincidence

Your object will have made a good subject
and I should get to tell you so: the bird
with a beak but no mouth, we hear him only

when it's night in the Dominican Republic
and Israel at the same time. Someone will
find your marginalia useful, so try to spare

some ink. I took dictation only from you,
for whom verbs were nothing and tense
everything. See the difference, you kept asking,

but it wasn't a question. See how enormous—
camel hauling an empty wheelchair, conspiracy
of hangman men, dried-out song that makes

it snow. You realize we could have walked
home in the hours taking inventory took, jack
of no traits. Bird with no wings.

My poems: everyday cruelty

everyday cruelty

how much more cruel can you be
how much more insane
in the one-dimensional brain
that exhales nothing but rage
for your humankind

while you hang on to everything you possess
even though it’s only a fallible monetary value
your life chews away at you
as if toying with the hypothesis of an afterlife

and the psychosis that’s been your home
the place where you belong
and suffer
will never wither
as long as you keep staying faithful to your death wish

never mind the self-destruction appeal
whatever you might feel
or whomever you might call
will not be trustworthy enough
to make you comfortable in your own skin

all your thoughts are barred
now that you find yourself
lost
with no reproach

more alone than you have ever been
and more prone to error than everybody else

but you are no accuser
your end is not taking place
you place your hand on your face
you are now a believer
that the truth will come
buried in someone else’s dream
just a word away

Novo Poema: manter os sentidos

manter os sentidos

quando for mais do que um mausoléu defeituoso
um corpo estranho num casulo

a escurecer
com a dor
de ter de crescer

posso não conseguir
respirar

posso não conseguir
fugir

posso não conseguir
cair
em mim
e manter os sentidos

como conseguiria
se soubesse parar de tremer
quando já não desapareço
na rebentação

quando o estar presa
a uma inocência desprotegida
é apenas mais um momento
de ilusão