Amid Strings

Amid Strings

You'll have to look amid strings

friends, believers, writers, readers

the strings of composition, the ones

that hold the pieces

together

while your body rests and mind

sleeps, slipping through

eternity - way forth and back -

whirling life's mess -

a pudding you lick

alone -

until exhausting flavor

and memory of light, becomes

day, astoundingly

you

you shape the horizon

to match God, so thin, untouchable

yet always there

as a destiny, irrefutable

to the blind

excruciating to the eye

that looks and sees

sun's piercing rays playing

the same act

as a fool, killing nonsense with

food

day after day

amid curse and bliss

you'll have to, if you

want to

enter heaven or hell, but enter

and be

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Moscas

Os campos e os corpos

preparam-se cortando neles

os excessos

As barreiras de silvas deixam

marcas amorosas, na pele

de quem as corta

Anos de geometria

concêntrica, exuberante, vertical

claudicam na rudeza

metálica

de peixes-espadas

arvocidas

Sem Kyoto, somos todos

desperdício

errante

moscas egocêntricas, fulminando

ilusões alheias

Mas, o universo, é grande

e não dará por

nada!

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Mariolas - Um Poema Prometido

Antes da viagem, anuí

na dispersão dos elementos -

calcite, cânfora, licra -

e reuni

as várias madrugadas;

os pontos cardeais já

lá

estavam

As abelhas e outros polinizadores

fixaram

uma ténue nuvem – em forma

de caravela, alada – e as

mariolas

desenharam troncos, bustos

perdidos em equilíbrio entre giestas

a popocar

direcções

Das fendas da terra e da rocha

apenas um lobrigar

de estados de alma

a desorientar os sentidos – não

mais que musgo

seco

e lagartixas

mortas

de sede -

enquanto passamos

e depois, depois o silêncio - que esmaga

e ofusca

a luz

ainda, ainda, ainda -

penetrando a rugosidade das coisas

avançando

até ao pináculo.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Ler poesia

Ler poesia ao entardecer

pode ser

desconcertante

a injecção de nebrina na doce inconsistência

dos membros flácidos

extenuados

pela viagem aos antípodas

da alma e do corpo

que vagueia

subtil

entre as margens do negrume.

E escamas passam à beira mar, enquanto

tudo se desfaz

com o tempo

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Walking Naked

Walking Naked

An exact finger

closed my eyes

as hers, minutely

were

driven out of her body

commingled with what was left of night's

star dust

I wasn't scared – there was no space

there was no time; in fact

there was nothing

And so it remained

literally

a border of voids

until the next winter

an exact finger

pointed hungrily at three

but irrelevant facts:

a window was missing and I was cold

I didn't walk naked for a long time – and that

had become an habitude

sheets of paper laid

spread on the table, a blanket hung on the chair and I

was sitting, mercilessly

writing

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Ancient Spring

Ancient spring

spouting

a continuous claim for permanence

make me drink

from your water, I shall not

die -

nor live -

forever

No more than the exact

time

of becoming

one, with your stream

and a sea is born.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Endless Constancy

Endless Constancy

So much drift

on the floor, shadows

question

their absolute

fidelity

and mourning

becomes a reasonable word

disguised, within drops

of falling rain

dreamed

So much relief

in constancy -

the one able to pair

heart & universe, in that

endless traverse -

when living turns odd

and unique.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Poetic Picture #2 – The Essence

Poetic Picture #2 – The Essence

On advice of some inner numen
I've consistently saved samples
of my former houses, wives
and objects

Everything had been carefully scraped
Kept in glass containers
so I can look into and watch it
shrink with time
as water and other organic stuff
dies out

It's a slowly process, I know
but, one day, I hope to
get a glimpse
of their souls

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

At Night

At Night

At night, the path
is narrow. The scent of moldy wood
seems to flow, under
one's feet. Hands
seize the nature of stars
remnant within our flesh, searching
the darkness. And
chests, breathe as lizards
sucking out mother earth's
warmth.

For what?

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Sweet Planet Earth & I

Sweet Planet Earth & I

Underneath a September
fig tree
her almond eyes

defile, lost
in the muck of others

~ José Coelho, 2015

Dim Me!

Dim Me!

If I look at the stones
the trees
the skies above
a huge sense of anxiety
disrupts
me

as if a rope has been
cut
long ago, between
me and the rest

I need a fix
of thoughts
of memory
a bit of quartz in
my heart
and of green pulp in
my blood

Maybe that will dim
my perception
lower my
temperature
anesthetize my
emotions

so I can
breathe.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Poetic Picture #1

Poetic Picture #1

Her lurid face fills
the emptiness of space
with particles

of her own
ethereality – which I
adore

Convective shapes
rise
undulating

our names
as born fitting surfaces
in the vastness

of seas.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Beyond Plain Patterns

For those blessed with

the vision

or the wish

to see beyond

plain patterns, there

are two possibilities

can it

or write poetry

© José Coelho, 2015

Saturday Evening

Saturday Evening

The TV is on

definitely uncomfortable

she speaks

introducing the upcoming movie

It's an historical drama of the post-war period; Italian director

story takes place in Salina – one of the Aeolian islands on the Tyrrhenian sea.

I usually love Italian movies. They're much more focused on the human condition, with things as love, friendship, honor, art, decadence and magic – yes, the magic of survival, the magic hidden in every days' life, in every body's sensuality or just in time – showing up in 1^st plane.

I get up and prepare myself to the 90 minutes ahead. In the kitchen both dogs are asleep; just as the kids, upstairs and tat makes me feel entitled to rob time and use it to my own wish.

Silently

I walk, glass in one hand

crispy, salty peanuts' bag

in the other

I've done this so often. I know

the squeaking squares, their position

their mighty indifference constantly

waiting for my unresolved

distraction

as I move and rotate

gently, the knob on the door

caresses my skin – it's soft, inviting

a deeper and tender dissection

of my unsought emotions

I have to pee. I always seat – it's better

when you enjoy looking at the ceiling

as I do. Besides, you save time

and you drain better.

When I get back to my long chair, the movie has begun. A scooter gallops against the wind through an arid landscape. On the right side, the sea; on the left, parched fields of a pale yellow. Because of the hair, one can see that's a woman ridding.

The road seems endless.

© José Coelho, 2015

Nothing Certain

Nothing Certain

Within 4 hours, your face
will join me

outside, in the cold of the night
That weightless sensation
whirling within us, as speed
writing surreal poems
by the side of the highway – maybe

it was all happening
inside, even the landscape
cascading into our irises

But hell, no!
Your face, as an angel of glass -
warm though -
and sugar, dripping

onto my face. You
licked it, though it was cold
and dark.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Nothing Dubious

Nothing Dubious

There's nothing dubious
about sound. As we walk down
that path – or shall I say I, in singular
walking – down that path, the sound arrives
ordered by flavor, intensity
and a notion of expectation, direction

matters as much as
noise – the salt of sound – leading
to multiple reads

The wind – warmer than flowers
and gypsies – blows away the noise
so we - or shall I say I, in singular
walking – keep inhaling the blocks
of sound

arriving at the coast
like waves
of ordered strength, pushing
us forward

or shall I say I?
walking, in singular.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

If This Is Me

If This Is Me

Today, I'll be the water

drip drinking your dust

fainting into earth's crevice

thinning out

memory

tomorrow you can find me

among the splinters of your

crystal voice -

I, a naked particle

with no aim

besides being

the multitude or eventually

a river, an ocean -

manoeuvring one side of

absentness

from north to south

and perhaps then

rising

to the clouds

© José Coelho, 2015