Irregular Poem

Irregular Poem

She writes poems

under the full

moonlight

each, a tear drop rolling

down her cheeks

a landscape moving its borders

claiming for self

existence

self

coherence in

self sufficiency within

their irregular size

she writes dark

singularities -

not so dark, due to

the moon -

about time and the time

she was a flower

dressed in coral

Alice-blue

for whom

the moon fell

Now

that her colors die

in the ground

and her beauty is locked

clockwise

somewhere it's love

that brings them together

though tears flow

and glitter.

© 2016, José Eduardo Coelho

Guarda-chuva Azul

Na essência, tudo acabou

hoje. Percebi-o

depois de executadas as tarefas matinais – passear os cães, tomar o pequeno almoço e dar água às plantas. Sentei-me

em frente ao computador

e o vazio era

do tamanho do vale e da montanha

e do céu em guarda-chuva azul, tudo prodigiosamente escancarado do outro lado da janela.

O movimento dos carros, as pessoas, o verde dos campos, à sua distancia

não táctil

trouxeram-me – nem sei

bem porquê - à memória a quinta de brincar da minha infância – cercas, vacas

cavalos, tractores, alfaias. Enquanto eu

metodicamente

definhava, tudo crescia

reguladamente – a estrada, as árvores, os filhos, a casa; menos eu, oco, louco, leve, estreito, cada vez mais

embrenhado em pensamentos

e menos carne. Lembrei-me

nitidamente de metas e projectos que seriam os meus; porém

alheios, sem dono, dissiparam-se e

instalou-se em mim uma certeza de abandono e queda.

Blue Umbrella

In essence, everything ended

today. I realized it

after carrying out the morning tasks – walk the dogs

have breakfast and feed the plants some

water. I sat in front of the computer

and the void was

the size of the valley and of the mountain

and of the blue-umbrella sky, all so

prodigiously wide open

just behind the window.

The movement of cars, the people, fields greenery, at their

non-tactile

distance

brought to me – I really don't

know why – the memory of my childhood make-believe farm –

fences, cows

horses, tractors, implements. While I

methodically

fell off, everything grew

neatly – the road, trees, the children, home; besides me

hollow, insane, weightless, tapered, ever more

thrust in thoughts

and less flesh. I recalled

clearly of goals and projects, supposedly mine; although

absent-minded, unowned, became fuzzy and

in me a certainty of desertion and fall got settled.

© 2016, José Eduardo Coelho

The Readers

The Readers

Walking into bookshops has been an occasional pastime and surely a sideline diversion each time I get the chance to walk into a city.

Observing people, the way they stand facing shelves, pick books, how they hold them, turn the pages and move between sections, can be as enticing as reading a novel's 1^st page.

On one such recent event, however, and while I was reading some randomly selected foreign author, I noticed, this time, the one being scrutinized was me. Without much thinking I did what was expected, kept reading

water swirling among seaweed and rocks

light crashing the horizon, desperate to put

an end to something, he turns his back to the scene

and runs

away

the streets are narrow, the night is closing her arms

around him neither past nor future

perhaps

only the dimmed foggy glare of the

night drizzle. Water

washing the streets

swiftly balancing my eyes about, I could see and feel another reader's breath oscillating from my neck to my upper arm, which made me turn and look around as if just checking – female, around forties; and eventually the sound of wristlets jingling against each other got me back into my read

privately you hum

our hands in happiness

a perpetual sense of now

shelters the wake of any

transgression:

we hug or kiss or both – its intensity

is hard to describe, though

darkness could be of sweet taste and

unexpected

I'm left with

the touch of your head

hands

mooring in my chest

counting whatever there is

to count – stars, hearts, ribs

fresh passion seeds – and

the sound of warm water flowing

into the sea.

© 2016, José Eduardo Coelho

Segunda-feira

Segunda-feira

Passou a chuva

regressam a luz e o espaço

desnuda-nos – se por ventura

o quiséssemos

tomaríamos esse bote

à deriva

até à foz de um rio

manso e caudaloso; aí

ergueríamos na crista das ondas

uma ilha-flor de espuma

quase

deserta – cuidando que

rápido

sequemos.

Monday

The rain is gone

light and space return

baring us – if by chance

we wished to

we would take that boat

adrift

till the mouth of a

meek and copious river; there

we should raise on waves' crest

an island-flower

almost

desert – caring for

we should dry

quickly

© 2016, José Coelho

There Are Things I Can't

There Are Things I Can't

Seldom

have I seen one's mind

so deeply trapped within a thin

layer of water

crisp as a wafer – eucharistic, I mean

almost drowning in its

taste of purity – trappist

tears slowly contouring

Satie's Gymnopedies – seldom have I felt

its melodic flavor, touching

my hands, breasts, eyes

with a caress

unknown

to me

as the night withers

it self

in its levity

and nothing but fragments -

faces, lips, the moisture of mouths -

I realize the trap

this time

is me

© 2016, José Eduardo Coelho

Grandes Certezas

A grande certeza da noite: dispo-me antes de entrar

na cama; gostaria de dizer com sabor a vodka negro ou

outra qualquer bebida forte, mas a verdade é que a lingua

saberá a pasta dentífrica e

não me queixo – também ajuda a adormecer quando

casado com o livro certo.

A vizinha mudou-se e com ela foram as horas e os minutos

nocturnos – os outros não, felizmente!

Lá fora, o frio imobilizou as árvores; com a ajuda de todos

transportámo-las para o interior e acolchoámos

as paredes de musgo, o que deu um ar de

caça e pássaros a esvoaçar

Assim que, em vez de ler, pego numa caçadeira

que guardo debaixo da cama e ponho-me aos tiros

imaginários – não há arma, só dedos que cravam

estrias rasgando a pele seca – e a contar mé més que surgem

surgindo a confirmar o silêncio, que se instala

Qual será a próxima questão? O irromper

do cuco, no relógio

talvez.

The night's big certainty: I strip off my clothes before getting

into bed; I would love to say with a black vodka flavor or

any other strong drink, though the truth is the tongue

will taste toothpaste and

I'm not complaining – it helps just as well dozing off when

married with the right book.

The neighbor moved away and with her gone are the nightly

hours and minutes – not the others, luckily!

Outside, trees got frozen; with everybody's help

we've moved them inside and padded

the walls with moss, which made it look like

hunting grounds and birds flitting about.

So, in place of reading I grab a shotgun

kept under the bed and open imaginary

fire – there's no weapon, only fingers spiking

striations tearing dry skin apart – counting baa baas which arise

appearing to confirm the silence that settles.

What will the next question be? Cuckoo's outbreak

in the clock

maybe.

© 2016, José Eduardo Coelho

Camera Obscura

Camera Obscura

A stairway leading nowhere

people

taking them up and down as if

ignoring this fact

A bed of dark purple tulips creates

a disturbing background for those

descending

At a distance the husky sound of a lighthouse suggests

an ocean

dimmed and covered with fog

Sitting by a rugged dune a shape or maybe two seem to be

facing the sea

Meanwhile, the unpleasant touch of an hand

too close, too intimate

becoming super real – I

close my eyes and the pressure blows

sand onto the image

clouding it - just as the people

consuming their time uselessly, not even

noticing

an astounding tunisian

cat – green eyes, half closed

and sleek fur -

lying at the third step

resonates each and every foot

passing by

his life spanning

the realm of those individuals

whose feet

walk their shadow

I stop breathing

to understand one of the shapes

turning its face to me so I can

see - myself

if I want to - the sea

repeating its dying

as the morning brightness

invades this room

the silky touch of curled silence

brings me back

you – milk, rye, gray hair

loose – now

that worms

crawl underneath

stairways, people

fall, decaying over the dark

purple tulips – stoically still beautiful

and the cat

vanishes somewhere between

those two.

© 2016, José Eduardo Coelho