Cidades

Cidades

Estaciono o carro. O local é novo para mim, apesar de nele eu encontrar muitas semelhanças com o bairro onde vivi. Será seguramente dos anos 60, quanto muito, finais dos 50.

Levo a minha filha mais nova à sua aula de ginástica, semanalmente tem três, uma é na cidade. Nem sempre me apetece vir, mas hoje é um daqueles dias de outono estival que pedem bonomia e relaxamento.

Entrego-a no meio de totós, fatos, arcos e salsa, muita salsa.

Distraio-me à saída com a quantidade de mães que sentadas nos degraus da escadaria, esquadrinham informação nos seus regaços, infalivelmente cibernaúticos.

Regresso ao carro, atravessando o mesmo bairro pitoresco e bucólico, com as suas vivendas normais cheias de trepadeiras e flores. Do átrio das casas chegam-me odores familiarmente esquecidos, a sopa e roupa lavada, a estojos de escola e sebentas rabiscadas a lápis de carvão; as memórias de jarros e rosas invadem o r/c daquele jardim ladeado com hortenses roxas e liláses.

Tabaco. Passa uma senhora. Cumprimenta-me com desdita, só quanto baste. Conhecer-me -ia? Sei que não. Apresso-me a devolver-lhe as boas tardes.

Reparo que estou na praça dos Açores e no centro desta ilha, de partida, um parque infantil entretém outras mães e outras crianças, mais presentes aquelas, envolvidas elas também no doce brincar de um fim de tarde que até parece, feliz.

Penhoro-me nesta transumância urbana, já com o livro e um bloco de notas na mão, enquanto caminho de novo pelo bairro, mas agora por outra rua.

Sempre em frente, depois à direita e desemboco no cruzamento que divide o bairro em dois, zona clássica e zona moderna. Entre sons de violino e clarinete, a silhueta de uma bailarina aponta-me, por instantes.

Sei que vou sentar-me naquela esplanada, lado moderno, com vista para as pessoas que passam com algum sentido saído dos seus muitos desejos.

Entretanto, a passadeira. Aproximo-me. Um carro desce a rua no sentido oriental. Vem com pressa. Espero. Estou paciente. O carro parou e pelo vidro vejo o condutor, num gesto resoluto, ordena-me que passe... quanto antes. Passo, tento não ligar. A meio ainda lhe aceno um obrigado que poderia ser de condescendência ou de reconhecimento da sua boa vontade. No intímo faço-lhe piretes desde o mais pequeno ao mais extravagante, mas passo e finalmente assento na esplanada o meu pedido de uma cerveja, fresquinha... Sagres, se possível.

Enquanto aguardo

puxo do meu bloco de notas e

ponho-me a escrever.

Obrigado meu!!!

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Atelier Chão

Atelier Chão

The description may not fit the picture, in which case, please, just ignore the copy and keep in mind that I know what original I'm talking about.

Long after the nymph has visited me in that old woodwormy rented room, back then in the years of solitary enlightenment, declamatory meals by the national conservatoire devoured in four tempos among patterns of leotard ballerinas, me a foreigner, as always, swallowing afternoon breeze with the move of the clock, fingering velvet skies deep in the taste of bier, all wrapped up with Godel's statement of incompleteness, when not messing up the lyric sound of shoes tapping the underground of my dreams, the ones postponed by biology and pharmacology and the harshness of a long northern winter, unknown but desperate to kill.

Long after that

I found the room for a new

temple.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Simple Systems

Simple Systems

Simple systems are

systems

demanding nothing else than

expression

through the

beauty of simplicity

Simple systems

deliver balanced facts

like water

flowing in circuits

radiating freshness and

nourishment

from its

pure-deep-purple-lighted-pellucid

corpuscles

Simple systems are

touchable

through all 5 senses

nurturing love and passion for those

aiming to study their

intrinsic purpose

Simple systems

exist

though

they tend to turn

complicated

with age

The secret of

simple systems

is their self unawareness of

being so.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Stay or leave

Stay or leave

The dichotomy comes forward
like bubbles raising from the bottom
of something
sweet & bitter
       liq uid
tendrils 
holding the pressure
of the inner inside
walls
grabbing you
rationally
                     but

Arise
[when I write the word arise
can't do but think about Ariza
my shyest naval
addicted]

if you think of it
properly
there's so much inside the
apple as
outside

staying or
leaving!
both essential if not
substantial
when it comes to fulfilling
the apple
with
juice, taste and
vitamins

the pleasure of
escaping
into the personal
forbidden, wild and cozy
garden of the void
can be as rewarding as
engaging in standard earthly
duties

, not to mention, a stimulus for
creativity.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Why do flies exist? (but not really)

Why do flies exist?

[Dialogue warm up]

The radio

is out of tune

That's how the frequency

lies to us

[Monologue]

Another night of

envious troubles I await

if

not even

whispers, at the least

gather by my side

satisfying

my tender appetite for

lipstick noise

I close my umbrella

and let the rain do

the rest

unless, u n l e s s

color fades from

your cheeks

and

you tremble, your legs

trying to tell me the

truth

though unreal & needless

it's always the

only way

to become

yourself

.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

The pillowcase

Barely spoken, scarcely wet. One of my favorite places on earth [...]. Pressed between water and water, stupidly standing upright. No fingers.

Though my histogram of scenic negatives has no entry on that, since I was ten its landscape has regularly been invading the medulla of my chemical devices.

These have reckoned for a substantial part of my fictional being, promoting a never ending urge to understand them - as far as nature can be understood, as part of what I desire.

The rotation of the meridians could have an odd effect if you're driving on the N125 from east to west.

Let me offer you a surreal sunset and

a pillowcase

in about 3 hours [That’s about 167km at an average speed of 55km/hour,]

if you’re heading for Sagres

mostly crossing every village and city on the last slopes of land before joining the sea

The side of the road went as pale as my inner thoughts, populated with pink and ultra violet flowers as soft as dreams under a linen sheet. Let’s have some sun to start with and allow our microscopic pores to readjust and play a tune in the scent of this harmonic field.

If you’re heading for Sagres you might get stunned by how arid, windy and flat the landscape can be. The perfect scenario to avoid thinking and await auguries; so the last thing you have in mind are bed sheets and pillows. But then, just on the right side of the road as you slow down at the red traffic light, because you’re driving too fast, there’s a typical house, middle size, all white with a green strap, horizontally painted with some green text as well – linen.

Bizarreries are such a common place in this land that you don’t stop to question yourself any more how it happens? You just stop the car and accept it as it is. As walking to the store, all doors were closed – there was a sign inviting clients to step in by the back door.

I could only think of one book I read 20 years ago with a misleading title and an absurd content – can’t remember neither, but the title could be something like “Winter in Paris”, I think the author was definitely French.

Once inside we were friendly helped by an English young man that did his best to show us all the good quality available.

We ended up buying some very good stuff, the best local linen, in white.

Let me offer you a surreal sunset, she said from the top of the wooden stairway, Thinking she was buying me a drink, but not wanting to show it I said, I might accept if you tell me what that is. She rambled about

regeneration of body and soul within the realm of earthly sins. Somewhere in the middle I heard her digress on paradise – green gardens and orchards spread among the swell of the land. All yellowish!

[I could only think of one book I read 20 years ago]

Somewhere between pale brown and yellow, sparse house concentration and most important, a singular feeling emanating from each particle, promising you a happy blue.

Will I end up singing as the sun slides across that idiot rock pointing up from the sea? Will we watch it hands in hands or most certainly forget all about it and sip little gestures as words flow from our mouths in search for transparency.

Just before the sunset

all together, the pieces blended.

No fingers.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Blunt Resolutions

Blunt Resolutions

But. Far into the west
where an ocean dwells beyond reasons
our cells expired

doped up on pheromone
claims and lips
touched

chromatic pitfalls. Never!

Wings of body
literacy
snoozed words as love, sex, cocoon

ageless sparkles, forever. Yet.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Just Numbers?

Just Numbers?

I've always collected little notes
jewelry, personal letters
memories of memories
or just memories
mine or those of
beloved

She used to write down the address number
of relatives
including husband, daughter, brothers and sisters
She used to keep them
with a solid line in one of her notebooks
small entries on charcoal
meant to hold her dearest alive
faraway from oblivion of the
living remnants

It’s hard to know what it means
if you’re not the one searching
among the rests
of hundreds

           you can get lost as in the desert
           holding the weight of years gone by in
           drought and many to come
               s  t  i  l  l
           you could feel the throb below the skin of your throat
           paralyzing
           your mouth glands avoiding lubrication

There is nobody here! Just
unknown, undefined dust scattered in rows of
History, waiting
sometimes decades for tears
to pump their hearts, their home
their present

She was relatively prepared to
take place in her row
she said
I think

Not me, I'm lost
imperiled while I linger among the names in this pale
graveyard.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

I am looking at sound

I am looking at sound
Imagine yourself
wakening
your eyes are open, but you don't see
there is no color
not even dark
your mind starts searching
for references
inside
the solidness of your past compositions, melting
for a tiny second the notion of
you
is swept into this black hole
of memory
lost in loops of anxiety
Imagine the fear
as you never thought of it
the real panic that
suddenly
nothing to be named, is there
no meaning of plural I, exists
around what?
in a last futile attempt
you scream
                   a long convulsive cry
I was able to see you
then, but
it was too late to
have you
back!
© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Therefore I exist

Let's see: the inconstancy of things is the core of our quest for the balance we never reach

and that quest makes us materially fleeting, always at a fringe of the intangible, always falling short of the moment, brief, plausible.

I speak with uncertainty of the roundness held by the words when we recall the softness of a meridional moon, the glare of greasy hair rippling, speaks to me within eyelids that uncover

I speak artificially of the nights' roundness and her eternal light, in lukewarm breasts that I fondle, I speak to you, now, so round, soft and complete between breathed commas and though subordinated, included prepositions

I think as a delicacy that one devours, slowly, I approach you as a shadow looking for shelter in a plain, of such brightness, obscene, I squeeze you until the skyline's accuracy, where you decay, resting and I find you again in the dodged ramble of my committed hands

I think you, therefore I exist!

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho