naquele grande livro preto...

desapego                                               

                        pegadas

marcas na areia levam para o mar

pego teu músculo

seguro meu desejo

tudo deságua

através de meus olhos

se o corpo pudesse ser metáfora do desejo que vaga na alma, o amor iluminado pela luz dos teus olhos, absoluto em tal profundidade – incomensurável – que não se traduz em palavras, faz com que até o dedinho do meu pé

te deseje

faz com que cada fio de meu cabelo queira estar banhado em teu cheiro, sentir o avesso de minha carne é tocar tua pele devagar. como se nossos segredos estivessem escondidos naquele leve relevo do teu peito ou na curva da tua orelha. como se meus lábios pudessem ser a benção de minha alma derramo minha alma sobre tua testa devagar...

viver me incomodava tanto que a possibilidade da morte eminente daquela relação – morte de ameaça proporcional à importância que para mim assumia – fazia dela meu vício, meu alento... a sensação de que a vida a seu lado era plena talvez viesse da ideia de que a morte nos rondava permanentemente; como se só houvesse possibilidade de vida plena e absoluta onde morte houvesse. meu devaneio era movimentar-me constantemente – sem um segundo de descanso sequer – entre uma e outra.

era transformar meu cotidiano na afirmação reiterada de minha própria existência. existência que não reconhecia em minha capacidade de respirar – no lento e constante movimento de meu peito – mas na constante alteridade de um universo constituído por opostos – a vida e a morte – e a febre que tal movimento provocava expunha meu próprio delírio. delírio de que fosse tão grande quanto ambas e não apenas uma pequena partícula de cada uma delas.

talvez, parte do desespero, da confusão, fosse resultado da percepção do quanto te desejava e de que tal amor não fosse predestinação. eu já não podia mais assinar embaixo de meus beijos – ainda que a cada dia desejasse beijar-te mais – e a dor profunda que sentia era a dor de meu próprio reverso, era tua dor – dor de alma aprisionada – pois me sabia incapaz de apenas segurar tua mão.

no tortuoso processo de tentar entender o que comigo acontecia, um dia percebi que quanto mais me afastava de ti, mais te reconhecia em mim mesma... e a ausência de predestinação confrontou-me com o fato de que não havia segurança alguma em meu próprio querer (eu que sempre tivera tanta certeza)...

nada era preciso

                                                  além do silêncio

                                                 para contar-te

meus segredos 

The Beast in the Jungle - Henry James

“The escape would have been to love her; then, then he would have lived. She had lived – who could say now with what passion? – since she had loved him for himself; whereas he had never thought of her (ah, how it hugely glared at him!) but in the chill of his egotism and the light of her use. Her spoken words came back to him, and the chain stretched and stretched. The beast had lurked indeed, and the beast, at its hour, had sprung; it had sprung in the twilight of the cold April when, pale, ill, wasted, but all beautiful, and perhaps even then recoverable, she had risen from her chair to stand before him and let him imaginably guess. It had sprung as he didn’t guess; it had sprung as she hopelessly turned from him, and the mark, by the time he left her, had fallen where it was to fall. He had justified his fear and achieved his fate; he had failed, with the last exactitude, of all he was to fail of; and a moan now rose to his lips as he remembered she had prayed he mightn’t know. This horror of waking – this was knowledge, knowledge under the breath of which the very tears in his eyes seemed to freeze.”

em frente - forward

infinitude VII

E. E. Cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are better fate
than wisdom 
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no paranthesis

she soon came to realize

that each time she cried

- for a lost lover, so she thought

it had simply been her own soul

acknowledging that

she still wasn't free

for that was a lack of courage

to simply be me

for letting life be

something she somehow could forsee...

PURITY - by Billy Collins

My favourite time to write is in the late afternoon,

weekdays, particularly Wednesdays.

This is how I go about it: 

I take a fresh pot of tea into my study and close the door.

then I remove my clothes and live them in a pile

as if I had melted to death and my legacy consistet of only

a white shirt, a pair of pants and a pot of cold tea. 

Then I remove my flesh and hang it over a chair.

I slide it off my bones like a silken garment.

I do this so that what I write will be pure,

completely rinsed of the carnal,

uncontaminated by the preocupations of the body. 

Finally I remove each of my organs and arrange them

on a small table near the window.

I do not want to hear their ancient rhythms

when I am trying to tap out my own drumbeat.

Now I sit down at the desk, ready to begin.

I am entirely pure: nothing but a skeleton at a typewritter.

I should mention that sometimes I leave my penis on.

I find it difficult to ignore the temptation.

Then I am a skeleton with a penis at a typewriter.

In this condition I write extraordinary love poems,

most of them exploiting the connection between sex and death.

I am concentration itself: I exist in a universe

where there is nothing but sex, death, and typewriting.

After a spell of this I remove my penis too.

Then I am all skull and bones typing into the afternoon.

Just the absolute essentials, no flounces.

Now I write only about death, most classical of themes

in language light as the air between my ribs.

Afterward, I reward myself by going for a drive at sunset.

I replace my organs and slip back into my flesh

and clothes. Then I back the car out of the garage

and speed through woods on winding country roads,

passing stone walls, farmhouses, and frozen pounds,

all perfectly arranged like words in a famous sonnet. 

End of sight - by David Ringsbee

At first I thought of the leaves:

soon only backlit, except for streetlampsí

ambient blank.  But then I noticed 

cars moving between trees 

and on the next block, porch lights 

and lighted windows half given 

over to blinds.  Finally the last

in the harvest of lightning bugsó

just one or two, really, like tugboats

into some depth (once a regression 

of poppies swallowed by the infinite)ó

went out in time to draw the ear in

to the soughing of the treetops

and a private plane somewhere,

invisible, pulling its weight.

And that pulled the eyes after it, up, 

beyond the darkened green to the smooth, 

featureless presence of the sky, 

until they were finally on their own 

and useless at the same time,

as if the end of sight were 

the point of sight.

More by David Ringsbee at: http://www.theadirondackreview.com/featuredrigsbee.html

Eddy Ilunga Kamuanga

Eddy Ilunga Kamuanga's works at the Exibithion Pagaea II
at the Saatchi Gallery.

Obras de Eddy Ilunga Kamuanga em exibição na exposição Pangaea II 

na Saatchi Gallery.

http://www.saatchigallery.com/artists/pangaea/

Boris Nzebo

Boris Nzebo's works at the Exibithion Pagaea II
at the Saatchi Gallery.

Obras de Boris Nzebo em exibição na exposição Pangaea II 

na Saatchi Gallery.

http://www.saatchigallery.com/artists/pangaea/