The Art of Survival

The Art of Survival

He chose to live in a small house

in order to minimize the risk

of loneliness

empty spaces bleeding

walls and ceiling spluttering

a kind of silence

that sticks unless

you

are quick, precise and preferably

nimble with using your hands' wide surface

molding, crushing its flatness, cleansing

at once

all noise irregularities

So he was told to face south-east

each morning around ten

and wait or walk

for as long as he could take

the waiting or the walking without

questioning

limbs loose, mind

listening

though, the deaf thump

of flesh hitting

glass as an an absurd conviction

at regular intervals

made him fear

the sound

of humans working

their way upward

a sort of blindness

an irrational faith in things or

their quest for enlargement

Then again

this whiteness, the direction which could

mend

blemished rays'

sonorities

so he strengthened his pace -

waiting or walking -

allowing the wind to blow

peacefully

within oxalis' fields and

gypsy butterfly

queens

© 2016, José Coelho

Mr Masumi's Paperknife

Mr Masumi's Paperknife

One of his dearest and precious objects was a sandalwood paperknife I use to slit all my letters open.

Over the years me and Mr Masumi exchanged an handful of writings, mostly postcards filled with his home town illustrations or reports on his eccentric vacation - some exotic and bizarre experiences and a few mementos. One of these was his special paperknife, sent to me some years ago via mail and carefully wrapped in sandy brown crépon paper. Fastened to itself was a closed envelope begging to be opened with the knife's help. I could not refrain from envisioning his little smile sprouting in his face as he thought it all up and maybe what expectedly could be an explanation about this offering.

This was the message I found inside:

«My friend, please accept this old piece of wood. It was given to me back in my youth, by an irregular visitor traveling from India and I suppose an old family friend. Its sweet, strong scent is a remnant of trees best knowledge and purity. Regarded as a gift by ancient travelers who strove for a piece to bring them luck and confidence. I'm sure you'll find it enticing as much as they and I did. Use it once and their ephemeral cells will remain dwelling long after your memory will care to remember. I've learned to love it as a magical object. It has awaken me to joy, sorrow, hope and wisdom and that's why I'm deeply found of it. Take care. Love. Masumi.»

Nothing was said about the reason why he would be wiling to give away such a personal and estimated belonging. Therefore I had no alternative other than accepting.

I've been using it since that day.

© 2016, José Coelho

Da Salubridade de Nós

Da Salubridade de Nós

Persisto numa dúvida miudinha
se na nossa direcção vemos um feixe
de luz ou a folha
de uma espada

Tinhamos-nos embriagado em cinzas
o pó secáva-nos a língua
nos céus as marcas de colisões
e o esquisso de sextinas destapando a aurora, avançando
entre solilóquios da calçada
nós
junto ao Tejo
persistindo como chuva
habitando búzios onde tudo
se torna íntimo e outonal
vendo os plátanos despidos, a dormir
à luz amanteigada das preces e dos beirais
nós, cheios de inveja da sua
simplicidade e requinte
provavelmente sentados num banco
de jardim
a lodo forjamos as imagens
da folha e da espada - a luz, por enquanto
é somente uma ilusão de promessa
imaginada.

© 2016, José Coelho

Mr Masumi's Thought

Mr Masumi's Thought

«There is something slippery about words, once they're written, their gleam...»

was abruptly interrupted as his feet immersed in the basin's salty water -the warmth eradicating from his toes to his upper legs, reaching just below the pelvic region -

and later while his body adapted to the touch of the masseuse, those vertical feelings, safely distant as ceiling flecks behind mist.

« however sweet, this blindness might kill as gravity »

Her hands gloomed in oil. His body stilled his head under the flat of her hands, became a narrow shadow of him self. There was room for silence, though in between far off noises arrived at him with augmented physical perception.

« parallel water flowing down the walls, slowly filling the landscape »

On the way back home, he sat by the window, engaging in the late afternoon traffic. Buses hurried by, among small cars, dogs and bicycle carts. People cued on sidewalks, waiting upon their turns. His mind felt idle, sweat drops began falling.

« the same about faces, the way we look and bring forth certain lines, measures, relations, ignoring others, inducing deception »

He noticed a young woman and her child had taken the place up his front, the evidence of life making it all so irrelevant – his thoughts against breasts and lips were nothing - a mere record of the journey's log.

© 2016, José Coelho

A Temporary To Be

A Temporary To Be

I am slow, by antithesis

I evoke the senses while observing rivers' fluidity. In the absence of words, I sleep

in the names, I dip my moisty look

inside these Indian hands, worn out hands, where winds and songs bathe and sway

nature is prime and out of tomorrow

the bumps appear, massive: the bony flesh against the glass and in between nothing

but a temporary to be

and blood - wings are left out and fly

The fog condenses

the breath, even that close to the ground and fast, very fast, without friction, almost

and finally the word arises - intention - and with it a small figure takes shape, runs, screams - to me? -

tomorrow It's my birthday!

During the foghorn growl, the sand

stops; the water hesitates between killing and hiding; I feel its sound

dense, infiltrating it self as I breathe – thus I stop as well and wait

anxious, the news is clear: huge depression arriving from the west-south-west, threats to the coast, fallen trees, shards of porcelain, shattered glass, waves taking over the river and climbing roads; vertical floods

on land, in the land we do not own, in the home we do not inhabit, in the bed where 

we do not lie

© 2016, José Coelho

Aparas de Lápis

Aparas de Lápis

A escrita como forma de purificação espiritual, fascina-me enquanto cheiro

das aparas de lápis, das sobras de borracha, da tinta de canetas permanentes; o próprio papel, na sua micro estrutura têxtil, reúne um leque de variados odores – bafio, palha, cola, pigmentos, sândalo e entre muitos mais, tudo o que da água a fibra guarda

Algumas palavras requerem um traço mais cuidado - o ângulo, a grossura, a nitidez ou a sobriedade dos arrebiques – outras pedem para ser usadas até à exaustão do seu significado, numa ameaça grave que nunca se concretiza. Depois há aquelas que nos distraem - egoístas, ciumentas – e nos desviam do único sujeito passível

e porém, a dependência a que me obriga, transporta-me para um universo, aonde sozinho, me enlevo e vicio.

© 2016, José Coelho

Apenas Isso

Apenas Isso

Havia a todoo redor um sabor a bruma e terra fresca

Havia um caminho flanqueado de copas altas, frondosas -

ao fundo, a silhueta de uma serra a negrito, ou talvez nuvens, daquelas que iludem a realidade, ou ainda prédios numa colina distante -

no máximo, uns cem metros que se caminham numa combustão lenta de oxigénio e poesia.

Havia o machucar seco de folhas no chão e o acenar colorido das que nos ramos ficavam, entretidas.

No final, tudo se clarificava e reduzia à funcional geometria do sucesso.

© 2016, José Coelho

Castelos e Masmorras

Castelos e Masmorras

A imaginação expande

os ténues fios que nos ligam

as extremidades proporcionando-nos

o deleite de verdadeiros momentos improváveis ou a angústia visceral e fatídica

de salas escuras e espectros frios.

É ela que regula a lividez destas paredes e a morfologia insatisfeita do declínio outonal

É ela que exala a flor do contentamento para lá dos limites desta cidade e destes corpos

É ela que tece a sintaxe da paixão

e do medo

Os seus passos cativos, ecoam

seus cabelos lustrosos, esgueiram-se

entre ondas e colos impulsivos

seus beijos, deslumbram

na textura seus olhos ostentam

a luxúria de mil cavalos

marinhos

e seus dedos capricham espumas

oceânicas -

mas os castelos e as masmorras, esses

habitamo-los nós.

© 2016, José Coelho

Late Night Split

Late Night Split

For a start

If I let my hands work

on your skin

will I grow to grasp the form

immured

inside you

or maybe trap myself

to blindness

© 2016, José Coelho

Gestos Vãos

Gestos Vãos

Perante a evidência da altura, há pouco a fazer. Saltar significa voar ou morrer; e porém, a atração é tal que não saltar é definhar atrozmente. Vejo-o e registo as cores fatídicas do medo, arquivo lamelas de secreções glandulares, memorizo as horas e a luz. Simulo, parado, todo o trajecto, numa descrição de gestos vãos. Depois passo os dedos nas tuas pernas e faço o que devo fazer.

© 2016, José Coelho

Sou Lento

Sou Lento

Sou lento, por antítese.

Na escolha das palavras, durmo

nos nomes, mergulho

meu olhar húmido nessas mãos

índicas, despojadas, onde

águas revolvem e marés

embalam o sentido

das coisas

Sou lento, por paixão

Comungo de um sentimento de espaço

livre, inaudito, oracular

onde o tempo aprende a espera

Sou lento, por desígnio

aceito a genética molecular

e as incertezas, por princípio

sei que no fim

só tu.

© 2016, José Coelho

Unruled

Unruled

And while the music played

his closed eyes

danced, for as long as

his imagination

ruled

© 2016, José Coelho

Arquétipos de Fuga

Arquétipos de Fuga

O percurso é linear, estamos

numa planície -

pressinto o efeito da altitude -

aliás a julgar pela neve, dir-se-ia

mesmo, num planalto

A máquina avança, lesta

ao encontro do seu destino

Por detrás do vidro duplo, a paisagem

confirma o movimento em tons

de madeira, vermelho-terra,

por vezes lavanda

O horizonte é amplo, a orografia convida

a parar o pensamento, onde

fios metálicos ondulam

por entre as árvores despidas

uma constância de intentos no céu velado

cinza, afigura-se

Poderiamos imaginar que nesse instante

preciso, a humanidade se condensaria em finíssimos

paus de fósforo, invisíveis e que todos juntos

caberiam num dedal; esse

estaria no centro do meu olhar e congregaria

todos os pensamentos, emoções -

arquétipos de fuga - qual

dádiva a partilhar, de todos

para todos

num intervalo sem

fim.

© 2016, José Coelho

Palavra Oca

Palavra Oca

A natureza do desconhecido, provoca

assusta-nos o vermelho

das suas afirmações engolem-nos

vísceras

entre abraços e carícias

deleitamo-nos nas águas densas

desses pequenos infinitos

quentes

Os passáros morrem de amor

enquanto passamos

as mãos tremem e aninham-se

nas suas sombras

Por ti, penso

moldá-las

filtro a luz, sou vitral

agito-me

no teu regaço, bebo

incansável

e certo dia a morte

deixa de ser uma palavra oca

© 2016, José Coelho

Close To 3AM

Close To 3AM

Sadness is a strange

mother fucker -

knocking as smooth as a priest

leaving you emptied

as a burglar

would

© 2016, José Coelho

S/ Título

A pele memoriza o toque
por vezes mais
que o cérebro -
nervuras capilares.

José Coelho, 2016

Adherent Film

Adherent Film

Thin as bubbles'

surface

People are sitting in rows

of chairs

or standing still

by the walls and bar

On the rear a table

gets to be the spot

to look at

on occasions

the mind bounces through

the bubbles, swaying fringes of

recent episodes - like

indulging in a sleepless life or

love museums cooling off

by the water – I urge

to take distance

from

Proud as imperial bushes

three women sit by the table

sparrows picking at their

berries

collecting all the rubbish

fixing anecdotal jokes like tears

running down

their cheekbones

ice melting over the floor

fruit and stuff, all juicy

afloat, somewhere

there's a sign -

get lost if you hate me -

so I stay

I feel hungry

and whimsy, I crave

for sex and

kisses

walls thrive between us

as they talk and talk

silently, one by

one

insistently

describing the thickness of their

tongue, the taste of

their words; the sound of plumage

randomly falling

excels

much of everything -

no touching, please

I prefer chaffing and

degusting exotic breakfasts

in bed – feel the blood

delivering food to

cells

while memories come adherent

film free.

© 2016, José Coelho