10 de dezembro de 2013

“No lists of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes.”

― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

12 de novembro de 2013

The look of love
The rush of blood
The "she's with me"
The Gallic shrug
The shutterbugs
The camera plus
The black and white 
and the colour dodge

| No1 Party Anthem, Arctic Monkeys |

28 de outubro de 2013

(…) Não há guarda-chuva
contra o amor
que mastiga e cospe como qualquer boca,
que tritura como um desastre.

Não há guarda-chuva
contra o tédio:
o tédio das quatro paredes, das quatro
estações, dos quatro pontos cardeais.

Não há guarda-chuva
contra o mundo
cada dia devorado nos jornais
sob as espécies de papel e tinta.

Não há guarda-chuva
contra o tempo,
rio fluindo sob a casa, correnteza
carregando os dias, os cabelos.

| João Cabral de Melo Neto - A Carlos Drummond de Andrade |

23 de outubro de 2013

don't say hi if you don't have time for a nice goodbye

it's when you walk in, it's when you beat my ghosts that something surprises and you're feeling down. And it's when you talk with, with a friend so sad that seven eighty nine fears going down. When you're walking down the road with saddest signs, there're no green lights and only stars and no one to drive me home, alone I can't say goodbye.  I was feeling doubts and so who am I, wake up and no supplies and there's something inside my head alone I can't say goodbye.

2 de outubro de 2013

love and barbed wire (lovers in the jardin des tuileries during the occupation), paris 1er, 1944

© robert doisneau, from doisneau [the war 1939-1944]

23 de setembro de 2013

a festa do silêncio

Escuto na palavra a festa do silêncio. 
Tudo está no seu sítio. As aparências apagaram-se. 
As coisas vacilam tão próximas de si mesmas. 
Concentram-se, dilatam-se as ondas silenciosas. 
É o vazio ou o cimo? É um pomar de espuma.

Uma criança brinca nas dunas, o tempo acaricia, 
o ar prolonga. A brancura é o caminho. 
Surpresa e não surpresa: a simples respiração. 
Relações, variações, nada mais. Nada se cria. 
Vamos e vimos. Algo inunda, incendeia, recomeça. 

Nada é inacessível no silêncio ou no poema. 
É aqui a abóbada transparente, o vento principia. 
No centro do dia há uma fonte de água clara. 
Se digo árvore a árvore em mim respira. 
Vivo na delícia nua da inocência aberta. 

| António Ramos Rosa, in "Volante Verde" |

5 de setembro de 2013


The first time I saw her..
Everything in my head went quiet.

All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.

When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.

Even in bed, I’m thinking:

Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.

But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..
Or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.

I knew I had to talk to her.

I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.

She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.

On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or talking to her..
But she loved it.

She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times at different times of the day.

She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.

When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely lock the door eighteen times.

I’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.

At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

But then.. She said I was taking up too much of her time.

That I couldn’t kiss her goodbye so much because I was making her late for work..

When she said she loved me, her mouth was a straight line..

When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking..

And last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.

She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but..

How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touch her?

Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.

I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.

Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed my an endless succession of cars..
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.

I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she opening a safe.

How she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out—….

Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.

I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once—he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!

I want her back so bad..

I leave the door unlocked.

I leave the lights on.

| Neil Hilborn |

26 de agosto de 2013

In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out.

| Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena |

11 de agosto de 2013


You know like the back of your hand
Who let em in.
You got me into this mess so
You get me out.

You know like the back of your hand.
Your bell jar.
Your collection.

You get me into this mess.
Fools rushing in, yeah,
And they know it.

The seeds of the dandelion you know blow away.
In good time, i hope, i pray.
If i’m not there now physically,
I’m always before you
Come what may.

And you know it.
Fools rushing in
Well you know it.
Who let them in?

Well you know it
Gone with a touch of your hand
Gone with a touch of your hand
Move through the moment
Though it betrays
Jackals and flames
If i knew now
What i knew then
Just give me more time
I hope and pray
I mistake all you say
The seeds of the dandelion you blow away

why'd you only call me when you're high?

10 de agosto de 2013

Catch my hands, my darling, between your breasts.
Take them away from their venture, before fate wrests
The meaning out of them.

| D.H. Lawrence, Sickness |

8 de agosto de 2013

they made us believe

They made us believe that real love, the one that’s strong, only happens once, more likely before your 30ths. They never told us that love is not something that you can put in motion, neither has time schedule.

They made us believe that each one of us is the half of an orange, and that life only makes sense when u find that other half. They did not tell us that we were born as whole, and that no-one in our lives deserve to carry on his back such responsibility of completing what is missing on us: we grow through life by ourselves. If we have a good company it’s just more pleasant.

They made us believe in a formula “two in one”: two people sharing the same line of thinking, same ideas, and that it is what works. It’s never been told that it has another name: invalidation, that only two individuals with their own personality is how you can have a healthy relationship. It has been made to believe that marriage is an obliged institution and that fantasies out of hour should be repressed.

They made us believe that the thin and beautiful are the ones who is more loved, that the ones that have little sex are boring, and the ones that has a lot of it are not trustful, and that will always have a old shoes to a crooked foot; what they forgot to tell us is that there are more crooked minds than feet.

They made us believe that there’s one way formula to be happy, the same one to everybody, and the ones that escape from that are condemned to be delinquents. We have never been told that those formulas go wrong, they get people frustrated, they are alienating, and that we can try other alternatives.

Oh! Also they did not tell us that no one will tell those things to us. Each and everyone of us will have to learn by ourselves.

And, when we get to the point that you are in love with yourself first, that’s when you can fall in love with somebody.

| Jonh Lennon |

3 de agosto de 2013

love is a place

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

| e.e.cummings |

31 de julho de 2013

28 de julho de 2013

bea says...

that the art of reading is slowly dying,
that it is an intimate ritual,
that a book is a mirror
that offers us only
what we already carry inside us,
that when we read
we do it with all our heart and mind,
and great readers
are becoming more scarce by the day.

build your tether rain-out from your fragments

15 de julho de 2013

Nothing you can make that can't be made.
No one you can save that can't be saved.
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time.
It's easy.

10 de julho de 2013

bygone days

I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.

| Charles Bukowski |

5 de julho de 2013

Yet she likes complications. She wishes she could turn and say: I like people who unbalance me.

| Let the Great World Spin, Colum McCann |

28 de junho de 2013

who are you to me? 
who am I suppossed to be? 
not exactly sure anymore 
where's this going to? 
can I follow through? 
or just follow you, for a while 

"the vampyre of time and memory"

24 de junho de 2013

there are so many fragile things, after all. 

people break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.

21 de junho de 2013

spin-off da teoria geral das panelas

há escolhas que desenham vidas que desejamos paralelas. repetidamente, os milésimos de segundo que queres mudar desdobram-se em horas e arrastam-se com a tua sombra. andas para a frente com o peso de teres sido invisível. quero gritar-te - és muito mais e a perfeição é um mito. mas continuas sem ouvir. há frases em que te sinto despedaçado. entre um cigarro embriagado e outro (é sempre de noite, já reparaste?), não consigo que as palavras tenham significado. queria dizer-te tanto e o meu discurso é incompetente. dar-te-ia uma fogueira para deixares arder aquele momento e voltares a estar mais perto de ti. acreditas quando te digo que ainda é cedo? o tempo vai fazer com que a mágoa comece a acabar. ainda é cedo. a vida vai acontecer e eu descanso, porque percebi que tu o sabes. e mais tarde vais dizer-me que há alguém com aquela exacta dimensão que te cabe e que tem estado à espera de te encontrar.

how many secrets can you keep?

6 de junho de 2013

nenhuma palavra tem peso suficiente para te tornar leve. ainda assim, pressiono os caracteres na esperança de que encontres algum conforto. há momentos que se prolongam no infinito e teimam ficar colados à pele. pós de ponto final que tentas sacudir (eu não conto a ninguém que precisas de continuar a transportá-los na tua bagagem). queres arranjar força e dispersar pensamentos. anseias por pousar a cabeça na almofada sem sentir. apenas preciso que não esqueças quem tu és por inteiro. desejo que uma manhã te acorde com a certeza de que há murmúrios de bom dia à tua espera.

ao amanhecer e ao anoitecer fomos mais felizes.

14 de janeiro de 2013

so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.

| Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets |

13 de janeiro de 2013

Regresso devagar ao teu sorriso
como quem volta a casa. Faço de conta que
não é nada comigo. Distraído percorro
o caminho familiar da saudade,
pequeninas coisas me prendem,
uma tarde num café, um livro.Devagar
te amo e às vezes depressa,
meu amor, e às vezes faço coisas que não devo,
regresso devagar a tua casa,
compro um livro, entro no
amor como em casa.

| Manuel António Pina |