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