Poetry & Arts
Welcome to Poetry & Arts
Simple Thoughts (HSSoares)
In the Land and in the Sky
I
I have no idea
If I undress or remain dressed
when at night I undo each
pieces that give me color
I have no idea
if my arms get the perimeter of your body
or if my fingers are hurled and stayed
as always in another side of the slope
II
I have no idea
If I wash myself in the waters in which I wash
or if my spots go through the rain
simply with me
I have no idea
if I deserve the paradise …
… or if I deserve the hell
tattoo
tattoo a tiny
verse
in my back
ethereal
reverse
tattoo kisses
extensive hairs
his
face
tattoo senses
discreet lips
explicit texts
risky fire
star
without effort tattoo
one
Immortal Dionysian
tattoo my body
completely
whole poem
HSS
The Cursed Poet
In the world streets he was wandering
Without measuring steps and words.
In the world streets he was dreaming
And was beyond all frontiers.
blessed was the result
Of your quill
blessed was the result
Of your insanity.
Oh you that celebrated
The abysses star
Oh you that adored
The flower and his specter.
In the world streets he was singing
here he is now closed in his silence
Rimbaud escaping of the past shadows.
For a Soccer Synthesis
Attempt like a cat hunting,
His duty: been in front of mark.
If by chance foresee what threatens
the bars some kick, without hesitate,
in the jump, must tie all danger
in a noble and arrogant aesthete flight.
II. The full-back
Of all, he must be more an ascetic:
his touch must be precise and dry,
never in curve: always in straight line–
because this is the shortest of the ways
that leads for the enemy field:
more simple is the most perfect full-back.
III. The midfielder
In the mind must have the field whole
map, and to know all the roads
and short cuts – because battles are born
where he launches the ball. Which conductor,
drives this concert, wide or swift,
drawing melodies with his feet.
IV. The attacker
His virtue is to be unpredictable,
able to open way enclose between
the brigades; does not know the impossible,
suits him to make the ball into goal
where ever will be: any moment
matter to convert in an ambush.
All the pure, conquests
of the Athletes, Wise men, Artists,
all the flights for Perfection,
all the immortal Land struggles
- naive effort! vain sacrifice!-
between the War ruby-red tentacles
generations will disappear.
Icarus put his Wing toDeath service;
to the Death service, the Jason candle
from east to west,
south to north,
strength in exceeds the celestial passion
equal to the Flash of lightning and Thunder:
last painful Land anathema!
last crime, the War!
last eclipse of Soul and Reason!
It kills, in days, the Hunger;
the "Plague" kills, in hours
But, war, at moments,
undoes cities, devastates floras,
consumes thousands of valid men,
insult the skies, monuments,
and it goes, from village to village, to all countries,
fill the Land and Sky with it's impure breath,
turn over the crust, goes down to the Ocean abysses
and the ash of the heroes and the pain of the wretches
spreads in the Future horizon,
for hatred incentive to humanize Heart,
black seed to future wars
that will pulverize sheepfolds and fields,
temples in splendor, blooming valleys:
last painful Land anathema!
last crime - the War!
last eclipse of Soul and Reason!
Nonconformism (resived)
I fell in your arms, Poetry,
like an unreconciled angel,
in night dream and day idleness,
for sin sweet torture.
Who saw me in fields would not say
that child destiny was drawn
I would mold pain and fantasy,
being tortured for them.
I did not think about these infinity thirst
and today, believer that nobody listens,
I ignore distressing causes.
Sceptically I become attached of everything,
less than faith, which drives me to struggle,
though I am hesitant and blind.
Only Van Gogh paints the wind
fixes movements
of each passing wind
green-blue and green blue
green blue
or blue-green
and solves
portrays of persons thoughts
everything is curved not twisted
in desertion or pose
in winding faces
of wheat fields
glutinous acidity acid
activates
from poppies
(the opium that we do not prove)
and does an artist need?
no...
he auto-manufactures, expands
embarrasses
scandalizes
not even everything that is twisted...
it is curved
hardly can be broken
to do a mosaic
where
the wind does not concentrate
(straight elements)
the movements
are done
from red or ochre powder
green blue blue green
yellow + blues=green
from Van Gogh's
paleness
face
Badly the day slips and escapes between twilight trees,
insinuated ends between doubts of the born night.
The river stop it's travel. Waters cease his voice.
Birds songs are interrupted and fallen down in solitude ears.
Posthumous oxen fall asleep in their shadows lawn,
and a final gesture of the sunset drives the last sheep.
Between the collected flocks the afternoon was gathered
and, while distances stretches the whiteness,
land gets drunk with lucid wine:
the ground is a clear dream and firmament.
His blue antiquity pours the sky
on the forms, the absences, men hearts
and the moon opens, in light ground in the heights
imaginative silence streets, ancient,
of white sadness and loving thought.
GLASS GALLERY
My most deep being is beauty...
And with that I vaporize myself,
centuries vacant
In a precise choice
Of gestures, angles and colors.
My harmonized rhythms
Forever.
The galactic diamond
can be simplified
In a Botticelli picture
Or in a Rimbaud verse
The intangible beauty
Came out from God's right hand and Genesis is contemporary of.
His curved arms, done to be closed,
they are still motionless, in gulf opened,
coldly, before all the waters,
with his fishes, waves, salt full of music.
Only a rhythmic escape shakes them, sometimes, before the splendor of the near fire.
They compose curves of infinity and light,
live in his May eyes and of distance
the hidden country words, green, svelte and evasive.
The breaking day waits the dawning from his feet in the ground,
falling the nights and the heart wither while flagging of his eyelids,
and the afternoons take refuge in his twilight hairs.
His inner and physical being is the lymph of an absent fountain:
to think is to scale the apex, to return to the origins,
to see poetry being born and projecting in the world his mystery.
Which gesture will separate the columns and will separate lands and waters?
What touch if looked in the white stars?
Which lip will set the amphora alight in the abyss?
(Of the nest of his hands obscure birds sing:
his beauty is an island of no sea.)
If I repeat myself
forgive me
If I repeat myself
If I repeat myself
forgive me
If I repeat myself
It is the subject that happens again
If I repeat myself
forgive me
If I repeat myself
The same poem is written
Poem
whose first letter
started the world
It was born with me
the first verse
If I repeat myself
forgive me
If I repeat myself
It is a poem
just like that
my hands size
If I repeat myself
forgive me
If I repeat myself
If I repeat myself
forgive me
If I repeat myself
I repeat in search of being different
If I repeat myself
forgive me
If I repeat myself
Outside the desert
here, inside, Men results
The Word
Simple and naked
A Palavra
Lá fora o deserto
cá dentro os frutos do Homem
A Palavra
nua e singela
It is Here ( É aqui) ( English\Portuguese)
It is here
the Light I was looking for ...
I found her distant,
far from the crowds.
Where Roses are perfect brightness.
and the blue is where it must be...
In the infinity.
above the men.
At His home.
É aqui
era esta a Luz que eu pocurava...
encontrei-a longe,
longe das multidões.
onde as Rosas são a claridade perfeita.
e o azul está onde deve estar...
no infinito.
acima dos homens.
Preto no Branco ( Portuguese)
ontem
parei de um lado da rua e vi-me no outro
e de ambos os lados fiquei
na esperança que a esperança caísse
eu sei que nem sempre me vejo assim
de cá e de lá separado pelo mundo
nos dois lados do mundo e separado por ele
sei que nem sempre me reparto como escrevo
porque nem sempre a tinta é negra e o papel assim
porque o preto no branco e o branco no preto
podem ser o caminho das metades
mas não do meio
Mundi Harmonies
Run melody run
in search of the lost harmony.
Search for
in clouded waters the sweet ballad,
the glass dance,
the limpid water spin.
Run, search...
Search for, search
the air, the sea and life.
The hammering, sounds, the green tones of ancient color.
Run melody search,
for the lost harmony.
For which search does it look
in clouded waters dance, to glass sweet ballad
of spinning water, limpid.
For which search does it look,
life color runs,
the sweet rose tone
when blossom.
09/02/2008
HSSoares
and I wave from here
on this side
from the east edge of a wide sea
and you ask
because castles are made of stone
fragile
re radiant roses printed in stained glass windows
they would be
of sand the castles
and roses always mothers
if homelands were beaches and History just
lullabies stories
09/02/2008
HSSoares
