Nem Rosas Nem Lágrimas

Nem Rosas Nem Lágrimas

I

Dever-me-ia enlevar

pela sua mundanidade, mas

esta cidade desgosta-me;

as suas avenidas novas, largas e

outrora modernas

entristecem à sombra tórrida

dos plátanos

envelhecidos a monóxido de carbono

e a resíduos de incineradoras

hospitalares

Existe algo de marroquino - na sua

vertente francesa - porém pecando por

excesso de organização e

previsibilidade;

nesta cidade, desconheço

o nome das ruas e das

pessoas – todas me parecem

lorpas, mesmo as mais ousadas

no requinte, dúbio e nas vestes simples ou

elaboradas

Das esplanadas, o odor amargo-doce

do café, o burburinho atlântico

da espuma creme, desfazendo-se

nas margens cerâmicas

polidas, das paredes onde

bêbados, loucos e drogados

se encostam e espreitam

ensimesmados

Nas arcadas, vendedores

de rua apalpam o chão enquanto

se vendem com ladainhas ensalivadas

a galôes e bagaço; nos bolsos

as migalhas do pequeno almoço

entre moedas e mortalhas

II

Detesto as donas de casa, os engravatados

e os doutores, só por

serem ou estarem

nesta cidade

onde

me falam de paços, bibliotecas, parques

teatro, cinema, arte;

falam-me de tradição, cultura, conhecimento

mas eu vejo é corredores de macas

incógnitas, pessoas gemendo

incógnitas à espera de (...)

e salas de um branco sujo e

enfermeiras de batas roçadas, sujas

e tudo ligeiramente impregnado em

formaldeído e distância

e as visitas de domingo e as esperas

e a viagem de carro e a pastaleria onde

comprávamos os suspiros e os

compais que escondiamos entre os

cobertores ruços – na esperança;

depois, à saída, as mesmas pessoas mas

ao contrário – os pés direitos, os tubos

de respiração, as faces esquálidas

num bocejo inacabado

e as enfermeiras

indiferentes, passando

sem tocar

na solidão, penso. Depois

desligo até ao próximo

domingo

III

A horas

as colinas fecham

horizontes e o rio, afrouxa

sem saber se há de correr para

jusante ou tornar súbito

às serranas origens

O penedo, esse

lá fica

transpirando saudades

nesta cidade, sem rosas

nem lágrimas, onde 

nem a morte

quis ficar.

© 2016, José Coelho

A Poesia como força criativa

A Poesia como força criativa

escarrei, uma substancia visceralmente

asquerosa; lambeu a minha

garganta

e foi-se

do céu caíram

pássaros que a seca quase

matara

do centro

um ímpeto de luxúria

conjuga verbos

imperativamente

sem nexo, a raposa

caminha

em círculos

decidida a seduzir a pequena galinha

ruiva

com uma força que nos mata

de mansinho

pressiona os seus dedos

com a intenção e a

subtileza de

gueixas

o que, de facto, acabou

por acontecer – a galinha, tonta

fechou os olhos

e caiu nos braços do astuto

animal

No dia seguinte

naquele pedaço de terra

uma flor -linda -

tinha nascido

num vício

sem

motivo.

© 2016, José Coelho

Dos Trovões e dos Grilos

Dos Trovões e dos Grilos

A cada minuto a complacência

das oliveiras, contrasta

com o fulgor

do céu, abrindo-se em ziguezagues

valquíricos

Da minha parte, obedeco

escutando, enquanto me entretenho

com o zunir clássico

dos grilos

e se a sorte ousar, em mim

passar a sua língua

sirva-me cerveja por consolo, que

tarda a chuva em cair e

o mel não saciará esta

derradeira sede.

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

Of Thunders and Crickets

Every minute the olive-trees'

complacence, contrasts

with the sky's

luster, opening itself in valkyric

zigzags

For my part, I obey

listening while I entertain myself

with the classic throb

of crickets

and if luck shall dare to pass

its tongue on me

as comfort, serve me with beer, while

rain hinders its fall and

honey won't quench this

utmost thirst.

© 2016 José Coelho

The Birth

The Birth

It all started long ago -

I can recall the exact

place and light

The room had wide

windows and that particular

day, we sat around

the center

in a slightly oval form

So long I forgot

the face of others

their names, their basic

behaviors

when approaching

me, just sitting and

waiting upon light

or shadow

to erase my name as well as

the present

It all started when I

least expected – landscapes

imploding inside a

growing city, a reduction of

scales

leaving it all fuzzy

unfixed, damn centered

though

negligible

It all started there – the birth of

aesthetic awareness – as a bullet

plugging to my

sternum

it drilled fast and steady

leaving a sense of condensed

metal

pulling everything to

itself

bemusing spatial

orientation

and that's why, the question

I keep asking myself

why?

was I alone

since then on.

© 2016, José Coelho

Regret

Regret

Our veins

once virginal

kept this long cry

safe, inside

now

that amber makes them

harder, I can only

imagine

its sound.

© 2016, José Coelho

Anticipation

On the thinnest earth

scrap, I walked

The sun on one side, the moon

defying day light

on the other

Felt good

           but

was not enough.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, VI - To Be Adaptable

Southern Memos, VI - To Be Adaptable

Her index finger pressed something

dark, with precision, pushing it

gently into the ground

which immediately adjusted it self

to absorb the alien body

with safety and

almost pleasure

one could even think of

mastery within nature's

slowness

much as around ebb

everything felt perfect and dormancy

ruled over

desire

The oval form - metallic blue -

reappeared on the surface, emerging

as a bubble in

water

her index finger

waited

then applying the same

direction and strength

reinforcing her

will

to make the beetle

disappear

from sight

Ideas rolled

unexplored

leaving room for nothing and

I could perfectly see him

cleaning

each drop of water, resting on

the kitchen

sink

again and again

as if a game was

taking place – maybe it was! -

there was a tap

leaking

just above my face -

sweat drops moving

across her fields -

though each single drip

fell on the sink

[ it kept him busy ]

neither the beetle nor

her index finger seemed

frustrated or tired – they both

felt fit for each other

and went on.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, V – Accepting life

Southern Memos, V – Accepting life

There are two sort of people:

the ones were born here and the others

fell in love and stayed

The first are somber, creased

skin and dark eyes, too

The men carry the weight of

seasons through ages of scarcity, believing they

could lower the sun's

trajectory and maybe rise their heads

an instant just enough to watch

Helius curling his hair

Meanwhile

women keep their beauty

in secrecy, not as a matter of shame

but as a sign of distrust only

broken before Selene's veil

The second are blind by the light

or they

wouldn't be in love

Destiny will bring them

together – this is not a question -

and time will sparkle the fuse in their

hearts.

© 2016, José Coelho

Southern Memos, IV - Taking decisions

Southern Memos, IV - Choices

Somewhere in the hills about

the village, heading south

a rock has been growing every morning

for the past 16 years

developing a sense of direction

a notion

of memory and the will to

make irrelevant but regular

decisions

become refined

actions

With

a pit at the center where one

would expect centuries of wind

deposits ending their vulnerable

existence

this rock cages

an elegant womb – inside

which flowers prepare their

birth

and bloom during dreams

So often I walked through

failing to see how

different

this rock was.

© 2016, José Coelho