Masumi's Voice

Masumi's Voice

“It was a day to forget.

Too tired, I receive a call from a friend

I have long decided to cut on.

Shit! we used to be good, the best among the

best, until he screwed it up

or I, so he says.”

Masumi's no longer mad

at his friend   He just reminds himself

daily, he has to

And now the phone call, so

unexpectedly – unlisted number – coming

ashore with its devilish army of memories

foaming sound and

vision wrapping a marble surface

where head's going to

knock

hard

“There was a moment, deeply

sad, when his heart bounced

down the flume. I thought I would

cry.”

Later, he writes it all down   No

need to forgive   No need

to forget

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Haiku Imperfeito

Nestes dias o véu

destapava-se e a pele

banhava-se de chuva

~José Coelho, 2015

Precocemente Afirmo

Precocemente Afirmo

Acho que a natureza

está mais precoce

ultimamente

as nozes caem

mais cedo, os figos

apodrecem

nos ramos ou nas mãos

de quem os come, as

bolotas, patéticas,

definham desde os idos

de agosto, no chão

à espera

de porcos, cabras, cães;

algumas pessoas apanham-nas

e enchem baldes delas, num rol

de dias putativos; depois,

em casa, tapam os buracos nas paredes

como se de ouvidos se

tratasse e receassem que até

estas mendigariam as suas

ladainhas.

Acho que

apesar de não ser, estar, querer

ainda frio,

as azeitonas ensejam por

ser varejadas, sujeitas

ao olhar e vontade do homem,

espremidas.

Será que as oliveiras

também têm internet

livre ou será que

vêem telenovelas antes de irem

dormir?

© 2015, José E.T.M.Coelho

Translucent Poetry

Translucent Poetry

(or Poetry Beyond Lucidity)

Each day I go past the memory, yours, naked, as in a boat slithering on the good side of the diamond-western waters, they and I, a chorus of voices – body spluttering secrets dripping on our melancholy.

I go past the gentle singing as the morning, auguring warm growing zephyrs, sends me your hair's color and map where I intend to lose myself – made into a nutshell adrift – when I get to meet you.

© 2015, José E.T.M.Coelho

Poesia Trans Lúcida

Poesia Trans Lúcida

Cruzo-me todos os dias com a memória tua, nua, como num barco a deslizar nas águas-diamante do bom lado do oeste, elas e eu, um coro de vozes - corpo a balbuciar segredos que pingam na nossa melancolia.

Cruzo-me com o canto dócil e a manhã augurando mornos zéfiros crescentes, envia-me a cor e o mapa dos teus cabelos

onde penso perder-me – feito casca de noz à deriva - quando te conhecer.

© 2015, José E.T.M.Coelho

Poetry of Barnacles

Poetry of Barnacles

the end of the journey is strictly

the first step out of an organized path

leading us somewhere – let the new world

begin, then, as I roll down my tongue

into a damp sea-salted cleavage

biting tenderly to grab the marrow

in its tubiform hulk  each pleat

unbelting much of deposit like

untold images - or so it seems -

it strikes my attention the amount of

possible disguised enigmas hiding behind

the structure of this cirriped's

flesh  filtering an array of sensations

it locks me into my early youth

and I see the curling has been bent

consistently over and over

all these years

transforming the knob into a feeble

dormant thing

- unscathed stone -

the same that used to bring me into

a state of plenitude  an odd and claysome

moment occurring at times

by which I came to be each and every

sand grain resting in our universe

with no other needs besides fulfilling

space with presence – one only possible if

singular and plural at once – in such times

I was alone though in my solitude

there was room for the whole – human

and material kind

I realize there is a timeless link

between past and present – the barnacle's leg

has a crispy outward layer slightly

wizened as an old man

in contrast its inside is soft and

juicy flavors remain active

long after swallow occurs

inviting to further

explorations – might

be

© 2015, José E.T.M.Coelho

morri

morri

hoje morri. depois de um dia vulgar transcorridas as horas de sol e luz debaixo da mundana normalidade abracei a noite e então morri. morri dentro da sombra da lua em mim sem mácula desespero arrependimento apenas estando só e sendo o pouco que soube ser. morri na horizontal do tempo que as horas acumuladas nos vincos de uma memória parda asfixiaram.

talvez a maré da tarde pudesse ter impregnado a atmosfera de sais e a humidade salobra da tua boca velado a instância que me representa adiando o inevitável talvez. talvez o ocre da terra ou o entardecer das oliveiras. e os cogumelos voltariam? a brotar das paredes como no sonho em que tu despertas e eu nem sei se é sonho. e os pintainhos correriam para ti escanifrados através d'aquela porta? talvez o azul-céu do oriente da minha rua por detrás do cedro constante e verde revelasse o segredo que sempre me murmurou a uma distância inaudível. e seria bom. sei-o porque mo revelou o bom deus das crianças inócuo contador de histórias. eternas. para lá dessas fronteiras e planícies esculpidas ao vento morri na tua ausência. naquele andar inconsciente para trás e para a frente. cansado de não encontrar a saída da direcção e sem porques nem porquês esbati-me na brancura do vinco do tempo. penso.

agora

morri sem saber. dei-me

conta.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

  

Unlikely Habit

Unlikely Habit

the obsession of getting on a bus without leaving to grab what from the window stares at me while mine don't even settle, fly over displays' landscape, colours' range and shapes about legs and breasts, hanged from naked torsos with hard necks, tanned; the starts and brakes, the acid indifference of the alike; suddenly a startled reflux, or a memory haunting, jumping from stomach to tongue, without more than a hopeless now, when a piece of sky between an alley or a façade turns into some exquisite glory, soiling.
and while inside this distressing trance, repeat the same unfinished lines, sort I think one day I would like to or What do you think you would say if, until reaching the mechanically unlikely habit of not knowing anything nor over nothing, to forget all names, all stories, all dates; to get used to forget everything of myself - routes, journeys, the order of things, the houses, the beds, the houses.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Pensamento no Dia / Thought in the Day

Thought in the Day

To be selfish to the exhaustion of altruism

to be egocentrically
alone
being an eclogue's writer

beyond the hours of the day
the misanthropic

ruses
gain flux and blood
uncovers
the ego blemishes
king - paltry

Pensamento no Dia

Ser Egoísta até à exaustão do altruísmo

ser egocentricamente
só
sendo ecloguista

para lá das horas dos dias
as artimanhas
misantrópicas
ganham fluxo e sangue
destapa
as manchas do ego
rei – reles

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Word Sensed

Word Sensed

It was that day's

and year's instant, subject to

angle's gradient, in the look

parallel to the spill – let the sun
flutter about his mettle, manly
making us females

of ourselves, the question
obeys, warms, slides

It was that day's
instant when everything would be born -
eyelid, light, word

sensed, nearby
the ground, which at that angle
would be low - pebble, dust - tide.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Palavra Sentida

Palavra Sentida

Era aquele instante do dia

e do ano, sujeito a inclinação

do ângulo, no olhar

paralelo ao derrame - que o sol

bordeje o seu ânimo, viril

fazendo-nos fêmeas

de nós próprios, a interrogação

obedece, aquece, desliza

Era aquele instante

do dia em que tudo ecloderia -

pálpebra, luz, palavra

sentida, rente

ao chão, que naquele ângulo

seria maré - seixo, poeira – vazia.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Quase Livre

Quase Livre

Esta manhã surpreendi-me:

o livro de bolso que levo

a passear à rua

não estava. À minha espera, no lugar -

já seriam horas -

a imaginação levou-me

a percorrer corredores

rocambolescos

frios, de um sombreado

extenuante e encharcado numa doçura

carnal, fui tomado

pela repetição - esta e o entusiasmo são

contagiantes -

de certas expressões até

ao limite da compreensão

do sorriso

humano

da fisionomia

do sexo e da saudade

da memória que se atravessa

no corpo, quando

deambulamos assim

por ruelas, de copo em

punho

sem saber como lá fomos

parar ou o que

queremos, se é que o

queremos

Mas não agora – agora vou de bicicleta

sem livro, sem casaco, apenas

só

diria quase

a esta distância

livre.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Estados da Alma

Nada melhor que a afável leveza
das coisas fúteis;
a sua narcísica materialidade é
um convite
ao nada- ainda que
simbólico, mesmo assim
um nada -
aquele ócio que

de vez em quando
entre o ins e o ex pirar
nos seduz no seu leito
de pétalas rosa-carmesim
soçobra
deslizando para bem fundo
do que ainda resta
firme, lúcido
oponente;
e é então que somos
pura
fruição
banalidade
puro
opróbio.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Mexican Notes

Voyeurism sneaks through
dance-eye-notes, smiles, bellies, hats;
these skin-wholly-scenes keep revisiting me
beyond expectations, I
exempt
any help.

~José Coelho, 2015

Provavelmente Hoje

Nada se assemelha ao deserto - 
a circunstância, o detalhe
um,      no outro
a desconcertante arrumação
dos conteúdos, como se alguém 
tivesse a ilusão
da disciplina da areia
do recatado pudor da sede
da sublime delicadeza dos seus
contornos-cristas
em permanente fuga e 
inebriado
clamasse, súpeto, seu
a autoria desta
loucura -

para além da ausência
do mesmo.

~José Coelho, 2015

Clipping Edges

Men weights lengths and strengths;
Irregardless the tree falls
to the weakest side.

~José Coelho, 2015

To The Bone

To The Bone

Mr Masaki's daughter

was keen on dancing, while I

slobbered over

home made plum's jam

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Errant Refuse

Errant Refuse

Fields and bodies

prepare, slicing excesses

in them

Bramble fences leave

lovely impressions on the skin

of who does the cutting

Years of geometry -

concentric, exuberant, vertical -

falter upon the metallic

rudeness

of treecide

swordfishes

Without Kyoto, we are all
errant
refuse
egocentric flies, fulminating
others illusions

But the universe is large
and will not give a
thing

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Late Afternoon Leak

Late Afternoon Leak

Lemon drop
erasing
her vanilla tissues
shaping forms, acutely -
a promenade
bedewing primary
wants

~ José Coelho, 2015

The Invention of Cities

The Invention of Cities

Sublime, the sun

broke iced conglomerates arresting

life in untold

propositions

Sibling matters dispersed

dissonant notes gathered

wholly by the antipodes

                                waiting

upon

the dialect of ordered bricks

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Masumi's Dream

Masumi's Dream

Mr Masumi had a dream

In his dream he was sleeping

Through a faintly opened window

a dimmed light penetrated the

inside, somehow

humming a note of silence

On his walls, a maelstrom

of ants, moths, centipedes -

some were walking in lines

other just standing

still

as if happy

with that –

obscured the meaning of life

outside

the dream

Mr Masumi told us, then, that

was everything

he remembered from the

dream

Until yesterday

Mr Masumi visited me at

work. He held a gracious look

in his eyes an intense

juvenile luster

A few days before, he

had been blessed with a few

more inches of the film

he dreamed. At first, he was afraid

all that insect paraphernalia

would have killed him

in his sleep or maybe left him

bleeding over

his white linen; but no -

at this point, he took another sip

of his black coffee and I

couldn't help noticing how surreal

it suddenly got:

no longer at my office

instead, there was a round table, outside

just near a road, but no traffic

the landscape resembled something familiar

dry, arid, with angular objects

fitting across the fields as

beasts waiting for the

prey

I had a wine glass filled with coffee, too

It was a pleasurable afternoon -

amazingly – he went on -

all the ants

formed lines, so consistently moving

in their trails

movement, slowly, got erased from perception

and then one ant fell to floor -

he made a painful gesture

and a clashing sound -

then the second ant, the third

they were falling as if the dream

for them

had come to an end

This scenario went on for a while

I was scared as hell, though

my other I, the one sleeping in

the dream, looked like

an angel

I wanted to get closer to

my self

and feel how it feels

even if just in a

dream

but the ants kept falling

and walking

and on the walls, now

it was clear

words were being shaped

in the gaps

ants left

There was no time

to ask him the obvious question

In this exotic story, not even

Masumi's shadow was real

I finished my coffee, which by now

tasted as wine and

moved back into office

Above my desk, two

clocks displayed time

fighting for attention with

a sense of humor

However it was a folded

paper

stuck into my keyboard

I grabbed and opened

first

The message, balancing

before my eyes

- as a phantom -

Keep dreaming

Signed, Masumi.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Maybe Flowers

*Maybe Flowers*

Objects, apparently

inoculate some neutrality

among people

The simple presence

of a table between strangers

or a glass vase

a glass, a clean, transpicuous, empty glass

Maybe flowers -

flowers mean much more

than the space they

occupy

Their invisible moistened arms

embrace strangers

their color

speaks of composition

their scent

becomes an addiction

Why not the sun

The sun will undress

strangers and make them

think

in liquid blank verse

think

in blind sentences

or even melt

the bodies, the objects

Guns are objects, too

Too often found on tables

between strangers

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Hermits Know It

Hermits Know It

Silence is always a good start

to flatten the water surface

and look beneath

the mirror in your eyes

But few want to

dive into such network of

detail – an auto defense tool

against self awareness niemity

and memory porn

Moreover, silence is

unique and therefore, expensive -

hermits know it

and hummingbirds too

I word this now

as I behold the coming storm

from the top

of my mountain – higher clouds

presume and contain

by no planned means

a change of seasons

The wind is blowing hard.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

A Case Of Wine

A Case Of Wine

aloofness

will lap earth

& men wither under

a white layer

of snow

these were the words

in her mouth

lingering

in the warmth

of our kiss -

which we endured

and anything else

were dead

rats.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho