Adorable Ruin Flourishing

Adorable Ruin Flourishing

Between dances

I trim her nails to the gut

he

is an asshole

we should be proud of

the trees, our trees

do they have a name, can they be named

is that allowed

without taking too much space

or shrinking another mushroom

cutting one more finger

    Don't, please!

he will need it

up his ass – adorable monument

decaying

We should be proud of

the water, the bread, the sun

and name it

can we, without prejudice, without

blame

say, we have streets and squares

where we like to dance

sing, read, walk, sip

muted thoughts

under a burning sky

and maybe

     d i e

if we want to

Nevertheless

I scathe her not with the pincer

he

would faint

instead I rub that old liniment against

their skin, aching

between showers

of happiness or maybe just joy

lest language becomes

mere words, shadow

of that which fell

ruined.

© 2015, José Coelho

Assuntos Privados / Private Matters

Assuntos Privados

seguindo as estrias

no teu corpo desenhei o mapa

do meu novo idioma

minha casa

meu país

universal

Private Matters

following the striae
in your body I drew the map
of my new language
my home
my universal

country

© 2015, José Coelho

The Phonetics of Communication

The Phonetics of Communication

The man with a bicycle

wears a cobalt blue jumpsuit

pairing the boots. Guides his vehicle with gentleness - his right hand gripping

handlebars, firmly, while walking

The two old ladies

never recognize me, unless

I'm doing what I'm supposed to

do in the place I'm expected

I've quit offering them a lift -

they always refuse

The weatherman

can be told he's nuts – he will

only understand the intoning.

Shouting not required – though

a bit of puissance, can sometimes

help. Collects hard plastic objects

under the fig tree

For what?

The vet's Doberman

barks not with his killing eyes. Teeth

will shine

The retired chief policeman

now thinks he's the cabbage expert

A very self-contained man until

he speaks

The English teacher

comes along in her therapeutic stroll

Obviously we need words, semantics

before a smile breaks

She's curious about the plants

The young girl

dresses black tight

Listens to music; steps moving

her swiftly forward

The weatherman's daughter & son

are not innocent to their lies

The herdsman

speaks a lot, attracting zillions of flies. He has a gorgeous daughter. His

wife lives in another village, on the

eastern slope. She rides a jeep and collects

wild watercress.

The man with the book

seems to be reading, his nose pointing to the line in the page. Two dogs manoeuvre upfront his path. He and the bicycle man

always meet about the same crossroads

They raise an engaging salute.

© 2015, José Coelho

Intrisic Places

Intrinsic Places

In this recurrent memory, the lagoon – of a pale umber-like dark, mysteriously lapping against the old wood rotten walls - is my bed, my comfort, my immaterial frame where my body unknowingly rests and tides.

It is past now, years after departing, I realize how omniactive she is. Her brackish waters flowing underground, disseminate the river and the sea, the mountain and Moon's arms, delivering an addicted imprint to walls, books, clothes, faience and to the people.

As a child, I watched often, other bigger boys jumping from the bridge into her depths, thinking why would they do it if the bottom was a meter thick layer of sludge. I used to dream of walking on that viscous mixture, burring my self to the waist or just swimming during the flow.

Nothing came about - there was always the sea.

Some say the lagoon immures the city, but I think she teases us to become one and the same.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

A Natureza Estranha do Espaço

A Natureza Estranha do Espaço

antes.

Manifesta-se desde que o dedo

pueril beija a superfície lisa do papel

e neste desenha, um traço – sequência irreversível – melódico, arguto, fugitivo esbatendo-se desde o interior da mão que o guia, até

à exaustão

da apara, invisível.

agora.

Subtil, como o romper

do bago

a boca molda-se

a mão, quente, encaixa-se

e o corpo

urde um grito longo como o espaço

oco–vivo–sedento

vibrando até ao mais ínfimo dos

capilares

tudo sucedendo, algures

depois.

Respiraremos de alívio

enchendo pulmões de ar – resquícios da matéria universal -

e à beira de um abismo daremos

passos firmes

de uma beleza sintética

reunindo na gota as notas

da criação inicial

seremos essência, hábil

nas mãos das nossas

utopias

e como a seiva faremos

renascer, ano após ano

a crescente primavera nas

bocas e nos peitos

adormecidos.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Cheap Math em Ethics

Cheap Math em Ethics

The point starts the line - not knowing where

does it go, it goes.

Each point belongs to an infinity

of lines. Each going.

Each line holds an infinity of points

going nowhere. Just being.

That infinite number of points, being

become in their non finite nature

as a whole

something going

going

Straight lines are uncurving

Earth's surface not

There is thought for unlimited straight

lines existing in the universe

which itself is

bent

and whether finite or infinite

keeps expanding

after the lines

the point being -

could lines be

the link to God

the one

space & timeless entity, embracing

the universe?

© 2015, José Coelho

Journey to Andorra

*Journey to Andorra*

Memory tells me

it was short while ago

we were siting

in the car's backseat

while father was driving

absent, I would spend hours

emerged in clouds, foreign orogeny

earth, exotic colored earth

dusting the windshields

inhaling speed as if light

to future

memory

killing

the past

cutting the weight of

sensations

blown into caves

vanishing, cursed, from one's

understanding

drawing a void

as beautiful and unique

as the landscape

once

there was road stretching to east

confining the end

of nature, below

there was plenty of nothing

waiting along

             while we slept

the coziness of train whistles

escaping rails

road engines crying rubber

tears

trees converging their underground

happiness

women merging dreams

hoping

to become water

river, seas

the perpetual

flowing of birds in the skies

or under-skin sadness perched

on the edge of

cliffs

           one day

 

Each day

the vast hollow cirque

bemused thoughts

impressions

engaged anonymously further

from within – a dispute, a desired

conquest -

as we imagined new

dawns

whiling hours away

and hikers

crossed the depth of sienna fields

like ants

dreaming.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Nocturnal by Day

Nocturnal by Day

The pitch-black awakens

recondite senses

New nexus between old

entities

extrapolating concise, pure

meanings, relations

objects

In a benighted state

we suck precisions dry – the flesh

lightens borders, thins itself in the surroundings

impregnates itself

of outsides -

astounded

we delight ourselves in this small

piecing together

of the suns and moons

orbiting us.

© 2015, José Coelho

Nocturno de Dia

Nocturno de Dia

O breu desperta

sentidos recônditos

Novos nexos unem velhas

entidades

extrapolando significados, relações, objectos

concisos, puros

Num estado ignaro

haurimos precisões – a carne

alivia fronteiras, dilui-se no meio, impregna-se

de exteriores -

espantados

deleitamo-nos nessa pequena

reconstrução

dos sóis e luas

que nos orbitam.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Quando Fores Velho

Quando Fores Velho

Esqueci-me da tua voz -

lembro-me agora, porque

deixei de falar contigo

em sonhos

e no entanto, habitas-me.

Quando te esqueceres da minha cara?

Continuarás

algures

num cantinho

em mim

Quando te esqueceres das minhas mãos?

Essas, não esquecerei

são minhas

Mas, e quando fores velho?

Ser velho é ir perdendo

os outros.

------------------------------------------------

When You Get Old

I forgot your voice -
I remember now, because
I stopped talking to you
in dreams

nonetheless, you inhabit me.

When you forget my face?
You'll be kept
somewhere
within a little nook
in me

When you forget my hands? 
Those, I will not forget
they are mine

But, and when you're old?
To be old is to start losing
the others.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Um Pequenino Caos

Um Pequenino Caos

insisto:

O plano era tornar a cena tão irreal

que o lábio inferior

descaísse

permitindo um deslize, uma fraqueza

um pequenino

caos

durante o ocaso

e com isso, ludibriar

as leis da física

domar o espaço

No entanto, as mãos procuraram

apenas

o conforto

no interior fresco dos bolsos

acetinados

na rugosidade imperfeita

da bainha interior

escura

e a luminosidade húmida do declínio

demorou-se, esquecida

e adocicada

© 2015, José Coelho

Short East Side Trip

Short East Side Trip

The plan was to leave

walking as silently as a hum

Instead we drove

a thousand years chasing

thrones, castles

vain glory

© 2015, José Coelho

Valquíria

Valquíria

Na cúspide da insónia

tragaste-me. nas mãos

o rasto

das últimas 420480 horas

aspirou, férvido

- qual ser alado - ao azul

em V.

© 2015, José Coelho

Quatro Curtas, Porque É Tarde!

      I

A rotina desnutre

pensamentos

                   Imberbes

anafamos

--------------------

Routine emaciates

thoughts

              Beardless

we fatten up

~~~~~~~~~~

       II

Insensíveis!

Nunca menosprezes a eloquência

de um louco

Poder-te-á ser útil

--------------------

You heartless!

Never despise a madman's

eloquence

It might turn useful

~~~~~~~~~~

     III   

 

moldadas

esculpidas

edificadas

destruídas

as pedras

renascem sempre

-----------------

molded
carved
built
destroyed

stones

always reborn

~~~~~~~~~~

                    IV

A alvura do meio-dia

Pomos

nos antípodas

ou então

olhos

--------------------------------

The whiteness of high noon

Pomos^*
in the antipodes

or else
eyes

© 2015, José Coelho

^*Pomos, can be any of the following:

a) we put, we place

b) fleshy fruit of almost spherical shape

c) a woman's breast

Nem Só As Folhas Caem

Nem Só As Folhas Caem

Caminhando absorto

nas memórias

d'outrem

um mosquito vem poisar

sobre a página

aberta

finando-se.

© 2015, José E.T.M. Coelho

Whenever The House Is Dark

Whenever The House Is Dark

Of her loss and how sadly nature fell

I realize now, the dimension, eagle-like
plummeting into mother's crevice

just once

that ever lasting

once

when honed edges cut

the word   draining away   breath

skin, flesh, bones

memories like fall trees

walls, ground, horizon

S O U N D

- look

straight ahead: the house, existing

simply covers the night. The sweet bay

tree, behind, hints at  the stars  and rhymes

alone, all by it self

against the freshness of wet

mint   and breeze

the silver light hums

no answers, no questions

nothing bears nothing, within a certain

interval    because

shadows

evaporate with warmth – earth's

warmth -

hers'

Whenever the house is dark, the moon

is lit

and I go out

© 2015, José E.T.M. Coelho