Inexhaustible New World (Part II)

Inexhaustible New World

Part II

And then suddenly
from that amorphous, colorful surface
reliefs, shadows carving them selves deeply

rise up, recreating a
3d reality, superimposed
to the underlying one

Another day, in the middle
of such contemplations, I met with
a lady who was hanging out
washing on a line sustained
by two sticks

She was wearing a robe, ugly
golden hue, familiarly
gray with a pattern
suggesting vertexes and angular

forms

Clothing shook it self in the morning
breeze and the sun
that cosmic eye-mother
dazzled her and me
nearly

© José Coelho, 2015

Inexaurível Mundo Novo (Parte II)

Inexaurível Mundo Novo

 

Parte II

E então de repente

daquela superfície amorfa, colorida

surgem relevos, sombreados que

se acentuam, recriando uma

realidade a 3d, sobreposta

à que a subjaz

Noutro dia, no meio

de tais contemplações, deparei-me

com uma senhora que estendia

a roupa numa corda levantada

por dois paus

Ela vestia uma bata, feia

de matiz dourado, familiarmente

cinzento com um padrão

a lembrar vértices e formas

angulares

A roupa sacudia-se ao vento

da manhã e o sol

esse olho-mãe cósmico

ofuscava-a e a mim

quase

© José Coelho, 2015

Unlikely Rendezvous

Unlikely Rendezvous

(or True Love Story – Part II)

Two minutes before time I had emptied my cup of coffee and sipped every drop of morning illusions charged with night's beast-like energy - Imagine how she would look like, now, 25 years after our last rendezvous?!

The idea of meeting her again, had been whirling down my spine since last Sunday – no reason why - and though it was absolutely nuts to think of she, actually making it, there was no way to avoid this crazy chance. So I called my friend Carlos, told him I would be moving - Beginning of next week, just for a few days or who knows maybe I'll be back after a few beers and chatter.

There's no reason to be downbeat!

So there I was, in the agreed spot – a small coffee shop with a couple of tables on the pathway – right across the house and square where love and fights happened, flesh and soul craving for mirthfulness. Holding a book in one hand and scanning the sky for a little dragon or something alike, I was doing my best to ignore the background freaking sensation, ruminating with each beat of the clock – what the fuck am I doing here!?

And now the time had come: it was 8 am – no kidding she had always been thrilled by the morning light; – people rushed in and out of buses. Some walked straight to the inside for a quick breakfast or just passed by. At the table next to mine, a man looking like a pimp savored his morning liquor while two ladies slurped more essential drinks. All looked well! And for a moment I even forgot the reason I Was there. The city was beautiful. Worth the journey!

Ten minutes later, she was not coming, I just knew. So I stood up and headed inside to pay at the counter. I walked through the 'pimp', had a glimpse at the ladies. They were dressed to kill - not my style! At the counter, while waiting for the change, loose words reach to me: “fuck it Silvia! You can sleep at my place if you want to...anytime”. These stirred me up! Wicked coincidence... That's her name!! I move out taking another look at the girl with her name – the hair matches hers', the face... too much makeup and I'm already walking down the street, loose thoughts boiling in my mind.

We didn't plan further meetings.

© José Coelho, 2015

Inexhaustible New World (Part I)

Inexhaustible New World

Part I

There are afternoons
where I sit, fixed
sight beyond the
window
and nothing occurs to me besides
thinning out among the colors that fill
the retina

Forms lose
a meaning, then;
gradually cease to be
useful or convinced
falling to the ground as forgotten

origami

pieces

At such times
the world is a diffuse
thing, intensely oneiric
and everything follows
a liquid sweetness of infant-juvenile

evocations

© José Coelho, 2015

Inexaurível Mundo Novo (Parte I)

Inexaurível Mundo Novo

Parte I

Há tardes

em que me sento, de olhar

fixo para lá da

janela

e nada me ocorre senão

diluir-me nas cores que enchem

a retina

Então as formas perdem

um significado;

gradualmente, deixam de ser

úteis ou convictas

caindo por terra como pedaços

de origami

esquecidos

Nesses momentos

o mundo é uma coisa

difusa, intensamente onírica

e tudo decorre

numa doçura líquida de evocações

infanto-juvenis

© José Coelho, 2015

True Love Story

True Love Story

We met each other one drizzly day, end of summer, under a squatted

sun.

It smelled like fresh

relief, due to the rain, patiently nibbling

the ground as if thirsty;

for love

and trust - eyes' trust, mouth's love and maybe

tenderness, hands' tenderness.

Sex came, not

from the flesh but from the soul. The soul

is the inner inhabitant of the flesh and once touched

can irrigate the moon, soak

the desert in verdigris or whatever color

you dream of, believe

and so it happens we believed, blindly, in an endless

hued summer.

By the end of September, the city

dressed in gray water like suits –

tarry streets sunk

under introverted buses, building's frontages

decayed, trees

whimpered in their loneliness, doves..

no doves were ok and people

were getting closed

as old cellars ready for renewal.

I still keep her letters, in a box

she gave me with a small

green dragon – such was her

nickname – inside. The dragon is gone and so is she

diluted with time and tears.

Before breaking apart we agreed

to meet

unconditionally

in a specific date, of the future.

That day will be

tomorrow!

© José Coelho, 2015

Small Strengths

Small Strengths

(or Description of a passenger while loose thoughts go)

I ignore if

he realizes time is a small

box delivering sound into space

he keeps on walking, head up, surveying the periphery

far above the ground, like

scanning for length and color;

on a close scale his left index finger

is pressing

his mobile's jack plug softly

to the inner side, but that

is irrelevant, maybe

the fields are a sea of haulm, waiting

I ignore if

he realizes he is being observed

or whether he has noticed the continuum

hum that fills the silence

when we stop

making noise, space

can be heard

I've seen it, felt it

more than once, when lying

in my cabin's bed, at night, space talks to me –

that's when I think ideas

cross the threshold of awareness

becoming – about form and time explores its utility

halting just for a few secs

the fields are a bedding for light, waiting

he's gone!

and I ignore if he's coming back

© José Coelho, 2015