Poetry & Arts

Each day has its portion of life

SKETCH

The poem

is one despaired sketch

to say everything

under the sun

and beyond our eyes

the poem

 is strong

if it writes in the sand          

 in time

it is an image that cuts

 in rock

and cloud

but great (exactly!)

it is what we live

and quickly

slides of our hands

done of cleaning and runaway water

(re)done light that shines and runs

(un)done people that are born and silent

the great poem

is the daily breath

   a look on the sea

   and the untied body in the streets

it is bird

   and also multitude

fruit and the seed

pregnant soil

the great poem

is in breathable air

concrete

 reachable

(giving the right)

is to live it.

HSSoares

Praise of light

Hokusai: There is the recent black, the dull black,

the ancient black, the shinning...

Paul Valèry: The blue of the holy distance.

Jaun Ramón Jimenez:... White,

White already of eternity

1.

In the darkness in which every touch is lost

and freeing disarranged figure.

In the cradle of the most nocturnal blindness,

in the black thick coal nucleus.

However the brilliance of the panther step,

the velvet fire from memory

lighted, from inside contradicting

darkness, the numb eclipse.

However the old silver, of distance

pulsating and illuminating your hairs.

2.

The not and the yes, notion of zero and thousand,

from nothing and everything, sudden confrontation.

As a completely white sun

arriving suddenly without notice

and the eyelids were slamming without control

between the lie and the truth of the eye.

But in this play from lime and oil,

salt and ebony, in the jets of lamps

on the inert silence from the ores,

my albums, my grandparents and my strings.

3.

Fine pencil marking the whiteness

of the first exercise book and lesson

hovering in clouds, beaches,

in what in them comes undone:

some foam, collected rain.

Crystal, however. Full moon, empty

working, cotton dawn

and weaving linen. No drawing

in this space that hopes for his time.

White, this is my target and my risk.

4.

In the beginning it was verb, it was the apple.

It was the explosion, fire, blood

producing full life, it was the vastness

embodied fire flags,

it was the central heat of a heart

vibrating. Hear the inaugural song

for the red crests of the morning,

see the ray that gets off the ruby,

celebrate the mystery of red-ruby fountain,

silences the rose brilliance.

5.

Where the wheat field, the established harvest

to a preceded god, friendly god

that always goes and returns for the season

laurels. The wheat, the peach,

the sunflower esplanades in the ancient and clear field,

now square in market for the eyes.

Up to the sounds in this flowered orchards,

dry straw of healthy gold and amber.

Even hunger it is festive and colored

under the summer sun, Van Gogh’s sun.

6.

As seen in top of where we live

and fast we die, from the cold

tip of the gas that surround us and breath.

In gradations of concealed depths

waters. In distant mountains

and in the air sapphire pond,

mirror against reflected mirror.

Cobalt and Prussia of Hokusai in the shattered wave

of beauty,

“metallized” blue Mediterranean.

7.

Sparkling emerald weave, emerges

in mixed oceans camouflages.

Winter tooth in the mint,

invents spring and chlorophyll,

invades the jungle, wood, avenues,

but it is sunk in moss and cuts the copper.

Of Frederick’s universal Grenada,

omnipresent and dense.

Here, in the hand from whom sees it distributed

and new always. Paul Cézanne’s hand.

8.

In hundreds names and shades

they shine, fade, are reborn in clothes,

in walls, urns. Now gentle,

later violent. Because the neuter

purple tones, magenta, violet,

in flower pansy, rainbow,

fig, sleeve, they seem stains,

stoppages of deadened passion.

Secret color, of hidden intimacy.

Or wine that is drunk by the grape.

9.

If the honey surprises, and tea intense, if

rust slowly take over

the wire, the scenery, paper,

if orange saffron and this corn

weaken, if the peach, if obscured topaz and sands, mutants,

like calling them, in these sunsets

any prism permeates another paint,

all wood is converted in clay,

is it petrified in sepia, ochre, bronze?

10.

Consider a symbol the peacock and the dove.

Revise the footbridge in movement:

waviness of flora and fauna, nakedness veils

that is visible and clears up.

Consider the pleasure of museums

in the blind and out corridors.

In the quietness of the park every Sundays.

Plumage, maps, carnivals, twilights.

When the planet grows dark, returns

from darkness the essential white, waiting.

HSSoares

01/23/08

" Of me, I took away piece for piece:

The clothes

wrapped from past

Heart

for not waiting any appeal

The sex

between silent firestones

The love

condemned to passion

The blood

red bird gushing frightened

The words

before they escaped from the  ears

The skin

with already discolored prints

The arms

for not heating more the body

The legs

that did not want  to carries me in this life

The hairs

For a renewal like a light cloud

The eyes

for not darkens to the day brightness

The hands

for not looking the ceased love face

The nose

to forget the smell of images not reminded

The thought

that was injuring me the dawns

The ears

not hearing the sleepless silences

The feet

which, would always be going to look you, as injured bird...

The fingers

that never undid my knots

My singing

that slides sadly before the hidden light

and finally

finally my body

for not  bent gathering the shells of time…”

HSS

Frozen drop

Just a frozen drop

and the window is broken.

Vaguely goes

the lights of my world.

And the crack increases

in the glass of my thought.

Cutting in half

bus, persons,

persons in bus and

their distant hearts.

Another drop

and the countless fragments

from a glance that only can see

a thing each time.

They are the fragments of heart

that only can survive

to life in a only side.

Hss

08/11/07

For you I am gone

For you I am gone from stations

when daring summer was  already decorated

and heat was penetrating in each being.

Not even my mood make shadows

hurried mornings rays 

with his splendorous tones in gold-yellow flowers,

while dawns were opening.

Of his arrogant and meditating look:

what would be purported?

of  rose more daring ruby-red?

They touch the bird , I look for the image

drawn in the shadow in my vacant being.

While so icy your step burns

and your figure crushes me in this afternoon.

HSS

08/11/07