Sunday, February 28, 2016
morning coffee with three portions of sugar
sweet, my late coffee.
my cat has not turned up.
this night the moon
moved me in sleep.
the tides of me,
my gravity,
they reached my soul
and now the morning
no sun to see
which will feed me energy
but there is light
and i am conscious of it.
and i will rise
in this,
through the milky sky
and over the spots of white,
the cold snow
which still is there,
unwilling to melt
but already losing
in the face of spring.
and i will turn into a bud
risking to freeze
and very much alive,
so sensitive to the frost
i must grow and come out.
my cat has not turned up.
this night the moon
moved me in sleep.
the tides of me,
my gravity,
they reached my soul
and now the morning
no sun to see
which will feed me energy
but there is light
and i am conscious of it.
and i will rise
in this,
through the milky sky
and over the spots of white,
the cold snow
which still is there,
unwilling to melt
but already losing
in the face of spring.
and i will turn into a bud
risking to freeze
and very much alive,
so sensitive to the frost
i must grow and come out.
Trovante - "Despertar" do disco "Cais das Colinas" (LP 1983)
É um pássaro, é uma rosa,
é o mar que me acorda?
Pássaro ou rosa ou mar,
tudo é ardor, tudo é amor.
Acordar é ser rosa na rosa,
canto na ave, água no mar.
Poema: Eugénio de Andrade , in "Coração do Dia"
Philip Glass - Songs and Poems for Solo Cello - SONG III, & my tonight's associations
music stirring leaves up from the riverbed, dead and alive ones.
beauty, love, death, there is nothing to be generalized about these,
they are all very personal affairs. and they are inseparable from life as a soul.
beauty...is not there when i am not flowing with life,
when there is no hope but only mere courage to cross
the borders of sadness and estrangement.
then all beauty appears constructed, far away and foreign,
what shimmers alive in the morning light is by now
like dead matter,and, mind you, i don't believe in matter,
it may look like rotting flesh brought out to attract the birds of prey,
to wear down my energy, to weigh upon my soul
like a stone.
and now i am this stone, i can be touched, smooth,
rough, cold or warm, round or with cracks and fissures and edges and scars.
but i feel not more than a stone can feel.
and still i hurt inside. i hurt, separated from my volcanic origin
i am heavy but weak, lonely among rocks and snakes and rain
and in the merciless heat of the sun.
i live in a desert. and now i am this desert.
i am a deserted place,
deprived,
but still alive another way
under the ashes of memory.
and i spread the scent of thyme, of autumn fires
and of a human who lived here.
somebody said i could leave this place
and go for a swim.
only i just don't know why.
I'd need a true call, a push, a pull,
but who can move stones and deserts?
is it love or is it pain or will it be this 'you'
who just needs to ask me, not more, not less.
beauty, love, death, there is nothing to be generalized about these,
they are all very personal affairs. and they are inseparable from life as a soul.
all communication in which no tear flows are insubstantial.
i can listen to laughs and to tears, and i can feel the breath and
the essence of beauty, love, death.
when beauty becomes too important per se, barbarism begins with
selection, this is the decadence of aestheticism, a sometimes deadly intellectual game
as history shows.
and when self-observation is asked to bring joy to life,
the end is living in the past and a vague idea of freedom.
when there is no hope but only mere courage to cross
the borders of sadness and estrangement.
then all beauty appears constructed, far away and foreign,
what shimmers alive in the morning light is by now
like dead matter,and, mind you, i don't believe in matter,
it may look like rotting flesh brought out to attract the birds of prey,
to wear down my energy, to weigh upon my soul
like a stone.
and now i am this stone, i can be touched, smooth,
rough, cold or warm, round or with cracks and fissures and edges and scars.
but i feel not more than a stone can feel.
and still i hurt inside. i hurt, separated from my volcanic origin
i am heavy but weak, lonely among rocks and snakes and rain
and in the merciless heat of the sun.
i live in a desert. and now i am this desert.
i am a deserted place,
deprived,
but still alive another way
under the ashes of memory.
and i spread the scent of thyme, of autumn fires
and of a human who lived here.
somebody said i could leave this place
and go for a swim.
only i just don't know why.
I'd need a true call, a push, a pull,
but who can move stones and deserts?
is it love or is it pain or will it be this 'you'
who just needs to ask me, not more, not less.
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