{random poetry #108}

[ Coming to This ]

We have done what we wanted.
We have discarded dreams, preferring the heavy industry
of each other, and we have welcomed grief
and called ruin the impossible habit to break.

And now we are here.
The dinner is ready and we cannot eat.
The meat sits in the white lake of its dish.
The wine waits.

Coming to this
has its rewards: nothing is promised, nothing is taken away.
We have no heart or saving grace,
no place to go, no reason to remain.


[ Black Maps ]

Not the attendance of stones,
nor the applauding wind,
shall let you know
you have arrived,

not the sea that celebrates
only departures,
nor the mountains,
nor the dying cities.

Nothing will tell you
where you are.
Each moment is a place
you’ve never been.

You can walk
believing you cast
a light around you.
But how will you know?

The present is always dark.
Its maps are black,
rising from nothing,

in their slow ascent
into themselves,
their own voyage,
its emptiness,

the bleak, temperate
necessity of its completion.
As they rise into being
they are like breath.

And if they are studied at all
it is only to find,
too late, what you thought
were concerns of yours

do not exist.
Your house is not marked
on any of them,
nor are your friends,

waiting for you to appear,
nor are your enemies,
listing your faults.
Only you are there,

saying hello
to what you will be,
and the black grass
is holding up the black stars.


[ The Coming of Light ]

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

Strand, M. (1934-2014)

“let the waters settle and you will see the moon and the stars mirrored in your own being.” 

“i found myself in a sea in which the waves of joy and sorrow were clashing against each other.
Mahfouz, N. (1911-2006)

so many migraines, not good enough pills.

أنا العاشِقُ السيءَ الحَظ
لا أستَطيعَ الذَهَـابَ اليكـِ
ولا أستَطَيعَ الرُجوعَ إليّ

i am the unlucky lover
i cannot give myself to you
and i cannot go back to myself

Darwish, M. (1941-2008)

{random poetry #107}

Esperar ou vir esperar querer ou vir querer-te
vou perdendo a noção desta subtileza.
Aqui chegado até eu venho ver se me apareço
e o fato com que virei preocupa-me, pois chove miudinho

Muita vez vim esperar-te e não houve chegada
De outras, esperei-me eu e não apareci
embora bem procurado entre os mais que passavam.
Se algum de nós vier hoje é já bastante
como comboio e como subtileza
Que dê o nome e espere. Talvez apareça.

Cesariny, M. (1923-2006) in Pena Capital

ofereci-te uma faca, afiada e precisa. nada extraordinário ou encantador, eu sei, mas também não era esse o propósito. era apenas para te dizer que mais vale sangrar de uma vez do que andar a morrer aos poucos.

who the fuck programmed my life holodeck?!

{random poetry #106}

[ do you see the space between? ]

Do you see the space between our bodies?
Barely a hand, hardly a breath,
it is the space mountains and rivers are made of.
It is the beginning of oceans, the space
between either and or, both and neither.
the happiness of forgetting
our names and the happiness of hearing them
for the first time.

[ this room and everything in it ]

Lie still now
while I prepare for my future,
certain hard days ahead,
when I'll need what I know so clearly this moment.

I am making use
of the one thing I learned
of all the things my father tried to teach me:
the art of memory.

I am letting this room
and everything in it
stand for my ideas about love
and its difficulties.

I'll let your love-cries,
those spacious notes
of a moment ago,
stand for distance.

Your scent,
that scent
of spice and a wound,
I'll let stand for mystery.

Your sunken belly
is the daily cup
of milk I drank
as a boy before morning prayer.

The sun on the face
of the wall
is God, the face
I can't see, my soul,

and so on, each thing
standing for a separate idea,
and those ideas forming the constellation
of my greater idea.
And one day, when I need
to tell myself something intelligent
about love,

I'll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I've forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind...
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk...

useless, useless...
your cries are song, my body's not me...
no good ... my idea
has evaporated...your hair is time, your thighs are song...
it had something to do
with death...it had something
to do with love.

Li-Young Lee

"Maria embodies security, safety and permanence. (...) whereever she is, there is Heimat".

Morley, D. (2002). Home territories: Media, mobility and identity. (pp.64)

so, do you keep holding on?

get up one hour earlier, just to live one hour more.


go to bed earlier, just to forget about this world.