Fairy Tale (to H.)

ahermin @DeviantArt

You're taught

that you'll know

when you meet him. 

And do not doubt

that it will happen; 

Fate works in mysterious ways. 

It may not be love at first sight. 

You may find him boring, 

plain, not that smart.

But alcohol will also work its ways

and you'll find yourself drawn to him

to his voice, to his yourness. 

He did not come by horse

and has a hard time finding his car

but you suspect that may be him. 

And if you're still not sure, 

Fate will slap you in the heart

with a random meeting in a busy street.

So you give in to Fate

and say: "Fate, here I am,

do with me as you please."

I was lost, and now I'm found

I was sad, and now am happy

I was me, and now I'm nothing."

And Fate smiles, and holds your hand,

Caresses your hair and whispers in your ear:

"How could you ever doubt me?

Were you not taught

that you would know

when you met him?

Here he is

Ripe for the picking,

The man that will break your heart."

SG, 12.7.14, London

The Birds and the Bees

Villasukka @DeviantArt

Some say

I am old enough to know better

And should not follow the first bird song

Into the river of tears.

I say,

Fuck you.

I don't care for birds, neither for their songs

Because I've learned to whistle for myself.

Some say,

It was about time to get myself a bird

Put him in a cage, be a proud bird owner,

Do what other girls my age do.

I say,

No way.

I spread my wings onto my freedom

My flock flies with me, and no cage can stop us.

Some say,

Metaphors are poetry's beauty

Never say what you feel,

And the world will remember you.

I say,

Too late.

I wear my heart in my sleeve

And the birds keep nibbling on it.

SG, London, 7.14

The Bacon of Sorrow

it's not like I like you like you

but I got so used to you being around

talking about nonsense 

into the no sense hours of the morning

(your name flashing into my locked screen

a smile flashing into my locked face) 

it's not like I like you like you

but life with you around looks

a tiny bit brighter

and I find the most interesting random things

that you don't seem to mind hearing about 

and I can see your smile in your typos

it's not like I like you like you

but you're always so random 

when you talk to me

quick to put me out of my feet, 

make me look and think about things 

I would rather let buried somewhere inside me

with a big heavy tombstone on top. 

it's not like I like you like you

and that's why 

I'm not sure 

what kind of emotional hole

is all this cinnamon cake supposed to fill.

LoftheV, 15.4.14, London 

NIGHTMARES

I'm coming to that time in my life

When my nightmares are more comforting

Than my real life. 

Falling into the abyss or

being naked in public 

are nothing compared to the 

obnoxious monotony of daily life;

of superficial friends, delay fees, 

of the rush and busy that make it impossible to just stop

and look to the stars 

(unless you're on a romantic date, but that's another dread)

In my nightmares I'm powerless, but I can open my eyes, 

make a note on my dream notebook, 

roll over, have another one. 

In life, things remain as they are 

- no psychoanalysis necessary. 

Is this the sign of being a grown up? 

When one longs at night to ride nightmares into oblivion? 

SG, 8.1.13

Happy Birthday Shakespeare!

I was 10, it was my birthday, and was in the middle of a severe case of food poisoning (been in bed for just short of a week), when my godmother offered me a bilingual version of "Romeo and Juliet". I've heard about it, and have seen some japanese animation based on it on some random Saturday morning, but that was the first time I read it. Not in English, but still. My first contact with Shakespeare, the real thing. Weeks after I have a vague recollection of retelling the story, over excited, to some friends at Sunday school. And I was the only 11 year old that could spell correctly the surname. Shakespeare. Shakespeare. William Shakespeare.

I wanted to be a writer then. A few years later, a film director. At high school, a playwright. Saw "Shakespeare in Love" with my best friend, both went obsessing about Renaissance English for the good part of school years. We found the Wordsworth editions of the works in a near bookshop, about 3 euros each, and started buying it. My first one was "Anthony and Cleopatra". Reading it in the original was very, very hard. "Thou", "thee", "says't" are not exactly the kind of things you learn about in English class, but our teacher was kind and took some minutes after class to explain to me and my friend what they meant.

My most magical moment related to Shakespeare is from those times. We found out that "The complete works of William Shakespeare in 97 minutes" was showing at the city theatre, one night only. It was sold out. But we still convinced our parents (we were both 15) that we would get tickets, and off we went, two hours before show, hoping for someone to give up.

Twenty minutes before show, it looked hopeless. Loads of people were around, waiting to enter, and me and my friend sitting in the cold steps leading to the entrance, looking gloomy. We started to consider, what if there was only one ticket spare? Which of us "deserved" it more? People waved tickets in front of our teenage noses, not knowing the temptation they were causing in our usually very honest minds.

Everyone entered. We knew we would have to call someone to pick us up, and go home, defeated. But none of us could gather the strength to do it.

And we heard a voice. 

Someone saying, "we should try to return these two tickets then". 

Apparently a girl fallen sick, and her friend went with her to the hospital. Which meant, me and my friend went in. Saw it. Loved it. And came out true bardolaters. 

I'm in London now, making use of my very own lost years. Almost half the books I have in my room are about Shakespeare, or his times. He feels like home, something to clean up my mind from the bad things of the world. 

And in the corner of my desk, my skull smiles. 

A insustentável leveza do blogger para iPhone

Sim, finalmente um app útil para actualizar este monte de coisas desactualizadas que para aqui andam! It's been too long interspace!!

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...

Love from a Foreign City

'Fulham Broadway' by Feisar @ DeviantArt

Dearest, the cockroaches are having babies.
One fell from the ceiling into my grin
with no ill effects. Mother has been.
I showed her the bitemarks on the cot
and she gave me the name of her rat-catcher.
He was so impressed bu the hole in her u-bend,
he took it home for his personal museum.
i cannot sleep. They are digging up children
on Hackney Marshes. The papers say
when that girl tried to scream for help,
the man cut her tongue out. Not far from here.
There hae been more firebombs,
but only at dawn and out in the suburbs.
And a mortar attack. We heard it from the flat,
a thud like someone dropping a table.
They say the pond life coming out of the taps
is completely harmless. A law has been passed
on dangerous dogs: muzzles, tattoos, castration.
When the labrador over the road jumped up
to say hello to Billie, he wet himself.
The shops at North End Road are all closing.
You can't get your shoes mended anywhere.
The one-way system keeps changing direction,
I get lost a hundred yards from home.
There are parts of the new A to Z marked simply
'under development'. Even street names
have been demolished. There is typhoid in Finchley.
Mother has brought me a lavender tree.

Lavinia Greenlaw

A dificil vida por detrás das câmaras...

"The Director" by BurlakZapa @ DeviantArt

Lembro-me vagamente de estar fascinada com os recém-aparecidos concursos de perguntas na televisão. Quanto mais o candidato subia, mais as perguntas ficavam difícies. Ciência, geografia (o meu ponto fraco no Trivail Pursuit - nota para mim, tenho de viajar mais), história, literatura...

E houve um dia, em que a última pergunta foi sobre cinema. Olha, vai perguntar quem é que realizou o filme, um comentário alheio de um qualquer membro da família. E eu fiquei a observar o suado concorrente, a tentar lembrar quem tinha realizado um filme famosíssimo que eu, com tanta pouca idade, já tinha ouvido falar. Lembro-me de ter pensado que tinha de preencher a lacuna o mais depressa possível.

E as listas de filmes. Visto, não visto, a ver. Queria fazer um inventário de todos os filmes existentes. Queria ver todos os filmes existentes. Estranho entretenimento, podem pensar vocês. Sempre tive um grande fascínio por listas. Daquelas que dá para pôr a cruzinha ao lado quando se faz alguma coisa. Dá-me um sentido de propósito. Se um dia fico sem coisas a fazer na minha lista mais vale não existir de todo. Estava a fazer a minha lista e a ouvir rádio quando o primeiro avião embateu no WTC. Obcecada com a América - e Los Angeles, e Califórnia, e São Francisco - lembro-me de ter ligado a televisão a tempo de ver, segundos depois, o segundo embate.

E as composições para línguas. Métteur en scene. Filmregisseur. Não que o pensasse seriamente. Apenas queria ser diferente. E como não queria ser médica, nem nenhuma profissão o mínimo normal que fosse - e porque queria sempre perguntar à professora pela nova palavra - escrevia sempre que gostava de contar histórias, e os realizadores fazem isso. Ou assim escrevia eu.

Nunca, mas nunca - e têm de acreditar nisto - parei para pensar. Nunca me levei a sério com essas histórias. Achei sempre que alguma coisa ia acontecer, e o futuro ia parar magicamente. Que alguma coisa havia de acontecer. Possivelmente ficar na Universidade a dar aulas. O mais provável. E sim, gostava - e gosto - de histórias. Quero até procurá-las e pô-las por aqui. De viagens no tempo, de camionetas em inundações, de dinossauros, ou outros monstros. Mas isso não ia acontecer. Talvez jornalista. Sim, com uma trança longa e umas jardineiras azuis, óculos de massa (que imagem tão estranha de futuro). E via Besson, e filmes às escondidas dos meus pais (deixaram o VHS antigo no meu quarto e eu aprendi a programá-lo para gravar as sessões depois da meia-noite. Quatro Quartos (quem é o Tarantino?). Solteiros e Tarados. Porky's.

O primeiro dia na secundária, e fui-me registar no clube de vídeo (tentar ao máximo ver todos os filmes existentes). Ilegal, menor - não me pediram BI. Eu não sabia nada de cinema. Nada de nomes. Nada de filmes famosos. Só via o que me apetecia. Muita coisa estranha. Como o "Star 80" de Bob Fosse. Ou "Innocent Blood" de John Landis. Bolas, o meu primo David sabia tanto de cinema (e que é feito dele?). Eu sentia-me uma ignorante (também lhe devo ter-me dado a conhecer Saramago, que nunca leria por iniciativa própria). Ver todos os filmes existentes. Ver todos os filmes existentes.

Faltar à escola para ir ver "Big Fish" no dia de estreia - não sabia quem era Tim Burton na altura. Sabia de cor e salteado todos os membros dos Chamberlain Men - mas de realizadores não conhecia nada. Suada, suada na final do concurso televisivo, "e então diga-me lá quem é que realizaou Grease?"

Suada, suada, ver todos os filmes existentes.

Foi Shakespeare que me trouxe ao cinema? Quero acreditar que sim. Ah, todos os documentários sobre Titanic também tiveram os seus efeitos. Mas um acidente. Um desvio.

(sim, tinha pedido a câmara de presente de natal. Sim, tinha feito o powerpoint do banho. Sim, sim, sim. Peter Greenaway, Tom Stoppard. Sim, sim. Mas eu ia ser uma pessoa taxável e contribuível, acreditem)

E aqui estou. Que raio sou? Métteur, métteur... métteur en scène. Suada, suada. A guardar cavalos à porta do teatro (ou arrumadora de carros À porta do cinema?).

Ver todos os filmes existentes. Visto. Visto. Ahhhh.... mais uma descoberta.

I have eaten your parrot

I have killed your parrot and eaten him.
I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.
How I could maim and scoff such a nice parrot
that would tell me to ‘sod off and die’
whenever I walked in the room? He tasted of chicken.
I’m sorry.

Caroline Bird

Porto Sentido (Oporto Blues)

Há uns anos valentes atrás, quando estava na secundária, houve um dia particularmente mau (em negócios de amor, só para variar um bocadinho), e eu estava com as minhas calças largas, hoodie e sapatilha azul clara debruçada no muro, a olhar os carros a passarem lá em baixo, com o meu ar de caso.
Houve um rapaz do grupo de teatro - ou seria da turma? nem me lembro do nome dele... - que se chegou ao pé de mim, e sem perguntar o que se passava, começou a cantar-me esta canção. Não sei porquê, sempre que estou no mesmo estado que estava naquela tarde, e ouço esta música - tão deprimente, sejamos sinceros - sinto-me melhor. Coisas...

Finalmente sou velha o suficiente para gostar de Jorge Palma...

image credits:Undisclosed Desires by hakanphotography @ DeviantAet

Some more light verse

You have to try.You see a shrink.
You learn a lot. You read. You think.
You struggle to improve your looks.
You meet some men. You write some books.
You eat good food. You give up junk.
You do not smoke. You don't get drunk.
You take up yoga, walk and swim.
And nothing works. The outlook's grim.
You don't know what to do. You cry.
You're running out of things to try.

You blow your nose. You see the shrink.

You walk. You give up food and drink.
You fall in love. You make a plan.
You struggle to improve your man.
And nothing works. The outlook's grim.
You go to yoga, cry and swim.
You eat and drink. You give up looks.
You struggle to improve your books.
You cannot see the point. You sigh.
You do not smoke. You have to try.

Wendy Cope

We'll always have Eyjafjallajokull...

Eu continuo a achar que a culpa é do bruxo do Cristiano Ronaldo...

Sublimação pela Arte, é o que eu digo...

http://www.miauk.com/