É aquela altura do ano outra vez...

...e houve muitos filmes que falhei, mas dos que vi, estes ficaram-me na memória este ano...

tada

Second Language

I was born many many miles away

not so long ago.

The sun was shining,

(Winter sun),

And some months after

I said my first word

(Whatever it was)

In my mother’s language.

To fly away, I taught myself different sounds.

Different letters, strange alphabets.

Unreasonable grammar

Spelling holocaust.

I became very good at it.

And I flew my mother,

My mother’s land,

My mother’s language.

And now

My tongue obeys to

A stepmaster.

And I could eat with it

I could drink with it

I could work with it

I could live with it

But my heart skipped a beat

Every time my mother’s tongue

passed me by the street

My soul ached every time

my eyes found my mother’s words

My brain wanted my mother’s

voice melody to fall asleep.

My second language

is not second nature

I can’t I can’t I can’t

My second language

Is not me.

It has a different self

Attached to it

and I don’t like her

one bit.

One day

Our paths crossed

and decided to go parallel

(for the time being, lover,

nothing lasts for long

especially when it feels this good)

You have left your mother’s language

in your mother’s country

Many years ago.

and I closed my mother’s door

behind me

and with her

all the words

that you didn’t understand

and you burned all the books

that I couldn’t read

and now my second language

took over my heart.

SG, 4.06.11

Sympton Recital

I do not like my state of mind;

I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.

I hate my legs, I hate my hands,

I do not yearn for lovelier lands.

I dread the dawn's recurrent light;

I hate to go to bed at night.

I snoot at simple, earnest folk.

I cannot take the gentlest joke.

I find no peace in paint or type.

My world is but a lot of tripe.

I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.

For what I think, I'd be arrested.

I am not sick, I am not well.

My quondam dreams are shot to hell.

My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;

I do not like me any more.

I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.

I ponder on the narrow house.

I shudder at the thought of men...

I'm due to fall in love again.

Dorothy Parker

Asshole

"Couple" by AnotherPiece @ DeviantArt

She looked to the side. It was intrusive, it was intimate, it was wrong. She suddenly realized his skin was very hot. His skin was touching her arm. She moved away a bit. He didn’t seem to notice.

He felt his heart sink when she moved. He didn’t realize he was touching her until that moment. He didn’t want to touch her. But he was hurt she didn’t want his touch. The silence sank and he knew he had to say something. She never did.

‘Anyway, it’s just a matter of time, I guess’, she heard herself say. What was the theme anyway? What were they talking about? She hated when her brain couldn’t focus. She hated emotions because of that. No control. She hated him deeply for that.

‘Yes, it will be fine’, his voice, disguising the surprise. She broke the silence. He felt the uneasiness of unknown territory. Without the adrenaline. He knew he didn’t want to be in that place. He wanted things to be like before. He wanted to be again in the days he was the ice-breaker.

‘Well, I guess we’re done then”. She wanted to end it there. She didn’t want to want to be with him a single more minute. He did her wrong. Why was she still speaking to him? What a lack of self-respect.

‘Yes, I’m off, need to meet someone’. He heard the disgust in her voice. She hated him. He knew why. He knew he deserved it. He was forcing her into a friendship she couldn’t be less interested in.

He was going to meet the whore, she was sure. How could he be such a prick and insinuate that in his tone of voice? He wanted her to be hurt. He didn’t want her to be hurt. Could be anyone. Could be his mother.

‘My friend, he needs someone to help him move some stuff, new flat...’ She was pure hate. Those eyes were burning. He was afraid. That girl was capable of the most intense feelings. That scared the hell out of him. Maybe that was the reason he simply couldn’t. She was too much. Too real.

Why did he thought she needed an explanation? What did it matter, it could be a lie, why would she care? His insistence in telling her mindless facts of his life drove her crazy. As if she cared. She did. He knew her well. Too well.

She looked like she was in a hurry. He couldn’t ask anything from her, but he died inside to know she owed him nothing. She’ll be better off with someone else, he knew that. He knew it better than her. So why did it hurt so much?

‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ Classic. As if he really cared. Stupid small talk. Or maybe he did. And it was intrusive, rude. She owed him nothing. She felt the will to give him an aggressive answer. A true answer. Wasn’t that he told her in the other day, she was too raw? Too much?

‘Oh, nothing interesting. Working in some writing’. She wrote wonderfully. He wondered if she ever wrote about him. Na. Too presumptuous. Or maybe she did and burned everything when he broke her heart. Still presumptuous. He only deserved to be typed about, not the ceremony of ink and paper.

He thinks she’s boring, that’s for sure. She should have lied. Insinuated some hot date. Show him he was out of the equation for her. He was out of the equation, for sure. She had too much self-respect to take sloppy seconds. She liked him as a friend though. She wanted him realizing he made the biggest mistake of his life. That was it. That was the reason she wanted to keep that stupid friendship. Keep an eye and win the war after the lost battle.

She was definitely not enjoying his company. He never noticed her enjoying his company before. He’s always afraid to sound boring to her. She is in another level. The unreachable one. He was taken by surprise by her words, when she told him she did, she did enjoy his company more than he could imagine. She didn’t look him in the eyes though. He was so scared, if she looked him in the eyes he could have died. Fulminated by a true feeling.

Let him go. He got up in such a hurry. The whore was jealous. Psychotic. That gave her great pleasure. Made her feel important. Made some kind of little revenge. You can have his lover’s lies, but I am the one that actually knows him. Even the mindless insignificant facts of his life. He was a mystery. She knew how that can drive a girl crazy. It certainly drove her mad. She was better off like that. The best of two worlds.

They were never alone after... after that day. Not until then. It wasn’t right. He tried though. She made it impossible. She wasn’t keen to see him. He felt that in her voice on the phone. He called every week. He liked her on the phone. She listened to his problems. Not the emotional ones though. He didn’t want to hurt her even more. It wasn’t worth it anyway. He didn’t want to lose her further.

It was a long time since they were alone. There were moments though. He avoided it, ran away. That hurt her but, at the same time, made her respect him. He was being faithful to the whore. He wasn’t an asshole. Everything would be easier if he was one. He would kiss her if he was one.

She was lying. She lied. She could never love him. She was mistaken. She could have any man she wanted. She just didn’t know that many there. He was sure, to have her would be a mistake. She would realize that she did a wrong choice soon enough. She would leave him and break his heart. Forever. That’s what girls like her did. She was probably writing about her new passion. Maybe the right passion. He wished he was right for her.

‘So...’ How can you associate two letters only with one person? She gave him a quick look. She didn’t want to look into his eyes. It were his eyes that got her in the first place. Charmer. Liar. Player.

‘So, if you can send me that tonight, I’ll take care of it. And have a nice week.’ She did not love him anymore. Work work work. He felt used. He felt like a whore.

‘Yeah, I’ll send you that’. Work, of course. The only reason he wanted to have her near. To work with. Stupid friendship. He wouldn’t jump in the front of a bus to save her. Damn, he wouldn’t put the kettle one for her life. She wouldn’t either, for his. Or so she liked to think.

‘Have a nice evening, catch you later!’ No he wouldn’t.

‘Bye’. So cold to him, it hurt. His brain froze. He did not think.

-------------

She couldn’t write. She hated him, deeply. Him and the sweet taste of his lips. Moisty, menty, on hers. Asshole.

Sara Galvão, 3rd August 2010, London

O caminho para a Fama começa agora...

Look at what I found in my inbox...

Dear Sara,

I’m very pleased that you entered the National Poetry Anthology competition this year.

I believe this is the first time you have entered and although we don’t know much about you we really like your poetry.

The good news is that you have been shortlisted for the competition which is an achievement in itself. The standard was higher than ever this year and we received many thousands of entries.(...)

Many thanks,

Peter Quinn

Editor of the National Poetry Anthology

Apontamentos à margem

"Ideal of a Poet" by pirifool @ DeviantArt

No voicemail que pago para consultar, uma voz desconhecida a anunciar que fui shortlisted para a National Poetry Anthology, e que o meu poema "Poetry is for the Weak" era powerful stuff. E que eu não precisava de telefonar de volta, que me ia escrever uma carta... manuscrita, decerto...

Made my day. Um dia, serei poeta das imagens também...