Fôlego

A espera inominável do talvez
- um, dois, três suspiros - 

percorre pouco o corpo, mas não a alma.
Entrega-me tudo, tão lentamente...

Não há mais o correr.
Não existe impetuosidade.
Mas seus olhos
                        seus olhos

E não dou nome aos espaços
ou aos tempos de respirar.
Os anos longos, longínquos,
que passam sem ansiedade pelo meu corpo.

Tudo me reaprende
sem pressa e sem queda
E seus olhos
                       seus olhos

Aberturas eternizadas.

Aberturas eternizadas.
Flores novas.
Prosa-poética.
Dias, noites, tudo longo.

Peço coisas estranhas do meu texto que é assim, cheio de [respiros,
meu texto que hoje é não é verso, não é nem emulação.

Vejo minhas palavras na chuva no vidro,
percebo sentimentos em rostos no metrô,
troco passos, até tropeço,
sinto as horas passando.
E sou eu parada na fila e sou eu parada no semáforo e sou [eu -
e sou eu parada pensando em você.

Um esboço

foi tempestade, vendaval, foi força repentina.
arrancou raízes e fixações, lavou nódoas daquelas indeléveis.

...trouxe meu lirismo perdido, 
meus olhos longínquos, meu amor ardido...
assim, suspiros há muito esquecidos. 

essas coisinhas que haviam escapado,
escoado entre meus versos, secado minhas palavras. 
límpidos espaços agora verdejam. 

Comentários sobre um poema


Poema: "Things That Could Happen" de Jacob Sam-La Rose

1. She swoons, falls into his arms
 and they live happily ever after.

E tem toda aquela alegria suspense e doçura inacreditável que sufoca. A irrealidade dos sonhos – as crianças que correm e fazem ciranda.

2. She kisses him: the restaurant applauds.

Explosões de momentos inquietos.

3. There’s a pin-drop silence. She turns
 the knife in her hand, slowly.

Respiro.
Um
Dois
Três
…Não há espaço para a hesitação quando se tem no corpo um silêncio estonteante.

4. His heart bursts in his mouth before he can say the words.
 It splatters the table, ruins her dress, and she never forgives him.

São longos espaços vermelhos e ele sabe, mais do que sente, toda a desaprovação – seu corpo está vazio, oco, e por isso mesmo consegue inflar-se com a indignação do outro.

5. He’s interrupted by a handsome man from another table 
who asks if he can cut in. She accepts, of course,
 and waltzes off to an orchestra of cutlery, side-plates,
 strummed napkins and warm bread. He seethes, turns bald
 and tells the story to every man he meets.

Nisso não há nada a não ser a vida que nem sempre tem seus pontos interligados e pessoas com olhos cegos ao que arrepia os braços.

6. She falls in love with the waiter.

E ele espera e olha de longe.

7. She falls in love with the waitress.

Ele afasta-se sem saber direito o porquê.

8. She starts by saying she’s quitting the country,
 that there’s nothing in London to keep her.

Ao invés de pedir silêncio, desnudar a alma que desabrocha, fecha todos os botões e diz que sim, que entende.

9. He loses his voice, has to write it all down.
 She spills a glass of wine, the ink blurs and swims
 across the page. I’m sorry she says, and he nods,
 his eyes turning to crystal.

Comprovação pura de que palavras são inúteis. Lá fora, canta um pássaro.

10. They laugh.

Corta-se abrupto o ar ----- prefere-se não saber. Sim, ignoremos.

11. They have passionate sex in the single toilet.
 Outside, a lengthening queue tuts and frets.
 Someone presses their ear to the door.

Transmuta-se, transfere, despe, desfaz.

12. She doesn’t believe him.

Pensa em dizer de novo e de novo e de novo até a eternidade. Muda de ideia, sente raiva da obstinação, como ela não vê, esquece que nem sempre temos clareza para dentro.

13. They have 3 children. Some night, she tells them
(again) how their father won her heart 
over chicken gyoza and ebi katsu.
 Whenever he hears this, something in him rises 
like a bull-chested spinnaker.

Na verdade, a vida está entre gestos microscópicos, nas pressões das mãos quando se encontram, nos olhos escuros, nos nós dos dedos que embranquecem.

14. Her mobile rings. The moment falls, like a crumb,
to the napkin in her lap. She brushes it away.

Ele pensa em ir embora, esconder-se no escuro e quente, como um animal acuado.

15. He learns a new language—says it in French or Swahili.
 She’s mightily impressed, but doesn’t understand.

Ela disfarça, olha para os lados, tenta captar um som, um rabisco de palavra, e sorri bem lentamente, tentando amá-lo em estrangeirismos.

16. She chokes on a noodle. The tips of her fingers turn blue 
as she fights for breath, and fails. Later, he learns to love 
the bite of alcohol and numbs his tongue with ice.

As noites são mais longas que os dias e a vida é gélida sequência de probabilidades já mortas.

17. She chokes on a noodle. He Heimlichs her. 
She sees him in a different light,
 as he dabs the sparkling sputum 
from her lips.

Sente vergonha de ter corpo humano, não ser pura abstração, quer que ele a desculpe, vê os olhos dele tão atenciosos, continua ofegando.

18. He watches the way she eats 
and thinks better of saying anything.

Porque perdeu-se aquele encanto, não devagar, mas sim como se removem pontos de sutura. Um rasgo só.

19. Before he can speak, she leans across the table,
 fingers barely touching the corners of his mouth,
 and says I know, already. I know.

A poesia infinitesimal da vida. 

An idea for a melodramatic plot

And because she loved him, she could not take the leap - it would ruin his carefully ladden future, it would cripple him. And so she stayed and married another and never sighed and carried herself stoically. And so he went and climbed to heights unthinkable and to sights of glory and to halls of silence. Their eyes met everyday - there was no word exchanged that did not carry the weight of their sacrifice.

Meus íntimos milagres


- Sou a escolhida de grandes borboletas coloridas que pousam em meus cabelos.

- Pego livros de poesia e, nas páginas abertas aleatoriamente, sempre encontro algo que case com a minha alma.

- Frases soltas aparecem na minha mente como se fossem música.

- Sou sensível a humores e a felicidade alheia me aumenta toda nas células. 

Efforts to prevent an unmitigated disaster

When I try to forget you, things fade slowly,
but then explode and thrash my new found silence.

When I force myself to remember, there is nothing
but your once-loving eyes and my breath being wasted.

When I study the subject of us, every single piece is a [formula,
but they cannot fit together and my pain is a riddle.

When I enquire into the metaphysics, there is nothing of [sense
but then I never supposed my love was sensible or wise.

When I stop fighting, you overcome me wholly,
but that is nothing more than drowning slowly.

When I build walls there is no greater silence
but the world is worn and tiresome. 

When I do not try, nor study, nor fight
When I let go, when there is a space in between
You leave me all over again and that is a void my being cannot endure.

For as one says, another answers and I go.

My emotions are barbarious, one would say
and so are my moves, my countenance --
someone who felt less might overcome it,
be calm and gentle, be all property. 

When you said forget-me-not -- I, 
I seconded it most ardently -- woe is me!
One who did not still feel your body close might,
might let go with easiness that it is not mine.

And one would say I am giving too much
because I don't smile anymore, I carry you with me.

Someone who was less sensitive could do
away with all the grieveous feelings you have. 
Someone, then, would not grieve over your grief and your
trials and your - yours which are mine as well.

My lament is unheard, one would say,
for you do not see me, you see yourself --
one who trusted less could believe in it and 
could let go of you and could stop all. 

But when I see you -- one could say many things --
and someone who cared about us less might turn away. 
As for me, I hear that my emotions are altogether too much.
My feelings are barbarious, they say.

But someone who loved you less...

Simmetry

The delicate bones of your neck
and shoulders -- long lines.
I do fit there, against your warmth.
Yes, the long lines in between.

Sillhouettes of bodies, small 
bitemarks against the clean skin.
The spaces of your fingers 
or the long lines of wrists.

A thrill of laughter and expectation.
There are slight curves in your
hips and in your darkening eyes.
And the long lines on our mouths. 

At last, this looks uncloses me.
I see the fluttering of your ribs
wondering if you can feel mine. 
And lean against your long lines. 

If light plays well, you'll see
my re-entrances and bumps -- slow
movements of arms and legs
that are not always long lines.

Your freckles and my paleness,
yours is dusted - mine, solid. 
But the way we lean into each other.
I suddenly am the long lines. 

For there is no parting when, 
slowly, we touch, nor when we let go.
We meet again, delicate, spaciously,
curving and unclosing when
we mould into one long line.