Southern Memos, III – Survival

Southern Memos, III – Survival

“Any love that might exist

here, now

is pure fantasy”

As I was reading her

speech

church bells tolled

and I wasn't sure where

the sound came from – the film

or reality

So I took the camera

and started looking more

carefully, penetrating worlds

in small steps

uncovering possibilities

correcting the spelling in my

thoughts

the angle of my senses

getting familiar with unusual

behaviors – exotic

maybe just detached from

a certain expectation -

which, after all, are a question of

color, keenness of

light and

humidity

“ Are you sure you want to part

forever?”, the voice

went on

There was a long silence

before the room's view was

revealed -

long enough to hear

the shutter button performing

its pragmatic

opening

Then, their bodies came closer

touching, their hands

rubbing between

their legs

tanned from age and always

the sun

burning beyond

bareness

Meanwhile, outside

a noise

of cans and plastic

being raven, made me stand up -

a dog

concentrating on survival.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, II

Southern Memos, II

Reading tankas

under a scorching

heat;

Anything longer could thaw

my grip.

Understanding how people

emerge from the sea

as carob trees, artichokes, sweet potatoes

lurk beneath earth's surface;

all because they have to.

The deepest the drought

the fitter the soil when rain

shall pour;

if and only if both

believe.

In these conditions, happiness remains

a selective property; for only those

blessed

are able to shine

and bloom.

Two old ladies strolling

among almond trees;

their plucking though over

remains a presence worth

living – their silence

a warm mystery.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, I

Southern Memos, I

Night falls

there is no wind, the salt

quiets the body;

as I gather the leftovers

and blow away

the sand between

my fingers

I notice, some grains remain

stubbornly smug -

conversations sticking

to the surface becoming slender

marks in one´s future

There's so much I still must

know!

© 2016, José Coelho

Idea of South

Idea of South

Today, the idea of South rests

near me

like a single-hearted memory

born long before

my time

I wake up to its smell, my ever

lasting lover, teasing me

with purple flowers

on one hand, the size

of the sky

the depth of white walls

on the other

I hasten for a touch

a plumage quivering my wings

as if today

would mean the first -

or the last -

of migrations.

© 2016, José Coelho

Que Fazer Com o Poema?

Que Fazer Com o Poema?

Sendo que a imagem tornou-se mais

forte

que o que nela

se mostrava

E não serão assim todas

as imagens -

mais do que elas

próprias, por direito, em si

encerram

Sugestão de outras

vistas, vividas, imaginadas

monólogos sem rédea

num tropel pegado

Ah! Fiasco!

© 2016, José Coelho

Perversões do Meio-dia

Perversões do Meio-dia

A minha empregada não

percebe nada de poesia e

além disso

desordena-me os livros

todos – vou

despedi-la, já!

disse, entrementes

Depois, fez a cadeira

girar uns 30º e

colocando ciosamente os pés entre

duas edições da História

Trágico-Marítima

virou a página e deleitou-se

com mais umas

nalgas, empinadas

Semanalmente

à sexta-feira

a sua encomenda de revistas

eróticas estrangeiras

chegava

dando-lhe tréguas aos livros

e à escrita

para se dedicar a um momento de

- segundo ele -

infusão vaginal

E enquanto eu vertia chá

ou café – a gosto -

em copos de plástico

não alimentar

a cidadãos despreocupados

ele

literalmente

babava-se.

© 2016, José Coelho

Aseptic Tragedies

Aseptic Tragedies

On occasions I am

reminded of its flavor

and as a bile duct, serving

merely as a vessel

of transmission

I convey

The idea of the blade

surgically

cutting tissues

The touch of hands

against

the rugged wall

The flavor of blood

deluging

from within

and still the feeling

of live flesh -

mesmerizing images

(everywhere)

As I said, only on

occasions – maybe

there's no proper composition

to describe it -

they become so harshly plural

arrogantly sick

standing full of them selves

like waves

engulfing the sea

pretending to believe

their heart – a germ-free

empty room -

will hold the sparkling

truth

But then, I see

the shrinking of human

qualities

into debris like

elements – a sculpture of once

living things

dying

for life

And all that nonsense while

waving at each other

goodbyes; looking ahead

it wouldn't defy any

ethics

to wash my wrath

anew with

blood.

© 2016, José Coelho

Endemic Fugue

Endemic Fugue

All day, as ants

following footsteps

tracing history

Each hour, stupidity

plugs my skin;

the real I tries no defense

A side effect, the size of

past and future;

an eternal missing now

© 2016, José Coelho

Evidence of Water

Evidence of Water

As the stream flows along

that small rivulet

satisfying the dogs

this short sentence pops to my mind:

Evidence of Water -

one of the first words I heard

her say;

evidence of something

beautiful

underneath her soft, unsullied skin

rolling through her tongue

to the world – a gift

of nature

performing its chemistry

Each time, that same conviction

of birds

on their first flight

besides, the awareness of

meaning

I'm sure the meaning was there

cuz that's how words

are given form

but the awareness is an outer

peel, like a defense

an extra concrete layer, made up to

fasten the central structure

preventing it from bouncing

on stormy days.

[ there is no evidence without

awareness

which, in fact, is irrelevant ]

The most crucial thing being

water – not the liquid, but

the idea we make of it - the concept

we are able to speak out

and look at

from a distance.

© 2016, José Coelho

Is Squeezed Tomato a Fruit or a Vegetable?

Is Squeezed Tomato a Fruit or a Vegetable?

Let´s observe

the glass; from this

perspective one can watch how

the inner content

moves, sliding

slowly

creating paths between stronger

cohesive nuclei

as if looser forms always became

weaker, thus less

individual, thus more

unremarkable

Yet, it's the bed in the glass

that is calling me -

my thirsty eyes

begging.

© 2016, José Coelho

Descrição de Um Fim de Dia

*Descrição de Um Fim de Dia*

Descemos a marginal junto à costa

pacientemente

saboreando cada curva, os matizes torrados

de fim de tarde, rebentam

nas pedras, na areia das fachadas

deslizam

sob o calor, emprestam desejos

às formas intimas que

espreitam

das janelas – seios, mãos, faces -

almejam-se outras margens

Dadas as limitações

não paramos

há uma linha de pensamento

a seguir - melhor, ela flui -

e nós enfetiçados

nada fazemos, senão

sermos matéria de

continuidade

nesse estado

de inércia

afloramos à superfície

de fortes, fortalezas, palacetes

requintados

aquários ao abandono sem água

nem peixes

para além de pinturas

exótico-intro-

vertidas

Não há exagero qualquer

na pequenez que somos

qualquer grama adicional seria

fisicamente

móbil destruidor

Há que respeitar

as relações de força

Sucedem-se praças magníficas

monumentos em decadência

mosaicos

duma exuberância jovem – fontes, relvados

grafitis coloridos -

exalam uma desconcertante

paixão

pelo futuro

e as pessoas, essas

sorriem e abraçam a atmosfera

que vaza como um rio

calmo, ordeiro

sedento da sua

foz

larga

acolhedora

depois

voltamos à estrada – o asfalto é

ainda um corpo de mulher

macio, quente

que pede

carícias

sem delongas

do céu

ou talvez das pontes ou

do cristo

pingam sinónimos de

amor, alegria

e outros que tal

porém

noturnos

passam despercebidos

As luzes do automático

acendem-se

e alguém sugere que

continuemos.

© 2016, José Coelho