foto de Ilkka Keskinem


s u b t i l m e n t e


subtil, subtilmente
oiço-a respirar
subtil, subtilmente
como quem mexe no ar

subtil, subtilmente
vejo-a nanar
subtil, subtilmente
como quem sente outro olhar

vens até mim
ai afago a tua dor
mas mesmo assim
ai a mágoa é maior

subtil, subtilmente
oiço-a respirar
subtil, subtilmente
como quem mexe no ar

subtil, subtilmente
vejo-a cantar
subtil, subtilmente
encanta-me o seu olhar

olhos subtis
palavras subtis
mãos subtis
sentimento subtil

subtilmente....

acabado.


. anabela duarte . adaptações de rui malheiro Cais de Veludo

para o etéreo visitante desta noite...





é no movimento incessante de quem viaja que encontrarás a imobilidade que desejas.

sida

aqueles que têm nome e nos telefonam
um dia emagrecem - partem
deixam-nos dobrados ao abandono
no interior duma dor inútil muda
e voraz

arquivamos o amor no abismo do tempo
e para lá da pele negra do desgosto
pressentimos vivo
o passageiro ardente das areias - o viajante
que irradia um cheiro a violetas nocturnas

acendemos então uma labareda nos dedos
acordamos trémulos confusos - a mão queimada
junto ao coração

e mais nada se move na centrifugação
dos segundos - tudo nos falta

nem a vida nem o que dela resta nos consola
a ausência fulgura na aurora das manhãs
e com o rosto ainda sujo de sono ouvimos
o rumor do corpo a encher-se de mágoa

assim guardamos as nuvens breves os gestos
os invernos o repouso a sonolência
o vento
arrastando para longe as imagens difusas
daqueles que amámos e não voltaram
a telefonar


Al Berto

finalmente consigo pôr fotos tiradas por mim online.. merci étoille

from photorealistica.net





o sublime contraste de luz... Twin Falls Idaho de Michael Polish.

Lena Olin in The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1988) by Philip Kaufman

Beth Orton Paris Train

Now your sitting on a Paris train laughing at your own jokes a g a i n
Sun splits the trees into beautiful broken light
Never cry more tears than you could hold in your hands
When all the world's airbrushed it's a sacred bond of trust
Sometimes, sometimes I see right through the scenery
The first place that's on my mind the last place I find each time
Sometimes, I swim beyond the scenery
The last place that's on my mind
The first place I find each time

Now I'm sitting on a Paris train molten ash falls like rain
Fire b u r n s the trees it's a beautiful fatality
Love the way you stand your ground sea moves as mercury
To break its perfect skin to dare to dive within

Sometimes, sometimes I see much more than is good for me
The first thing that's on my mind the last place I'd look each time
Sometimes, I slip inside the i m a g e r y and
The last thing that's on my mind's
The first thing I'll do each time

Stars racing to burn out
Just stars racing to burn out
A storm waiting to break
Like trees standing black against the sky
This was inevitable, i n e v i t a b l e
Sometimes, sometimes we can see beyond our history
The last place you hope to find the one that's been there all the time
Sometimes, sometimes we can swim beyond the scenery
And the first place that's on your mind
The first place you'd find each time

A Insustentável L e v e z a do Ser.






Ouvir Air pela noite fora...


uma S u b t i L brisa nocturna transcende a janela,


delineia almas translúcidas, o n d u l a n t e s . . .


murmúrios de vento... apanha.

Calisto...

U L a L u m e


The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere-
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir-
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul-
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll-
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole-
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere-
Our memories were treacherous and sere-
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year-
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber-
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn-
As the star-dials hinted of morn-
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn-
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said- "She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs-
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies-
To the Lethean peace of the skies-
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes-
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said- "Sadly this star I mistrust-
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-
Oh, hasten!- oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust-
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust-
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied- "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:-
See!- it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright-
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom-
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb-
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said- "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied- "Ulalume- Ulalume-
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere-
As the leaves that were withering and sere-
And I cried- "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed- I journeyed down here-
That I brought a dread burden down here-
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-
This misty mid region of Weir- :
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."


Edgar Allan Poe

fases da Lua, Magritte, voyeurismo e outras deambulações... espreita.





"and in the half-light where we both stand.
this is the half-light, see me as i am. "

I n c ê n d i o


...Sentas-te e debruças-te para o caderno de capa preta. O silêncio arde por toda a casa. Abres o caderno onde sepultaste, há dias, umas quantas palavras. E ao abri-lo caem as imagens sobre a mesa. O caderno volta a ficar branco - o caderno, a nocturna memória do mundo, a vida. Tudo branco como a morte.
Nenhum corpo cresce, nenhuma sílaba ficou esquecida no papel, nenhum eco do coração.
Sentado, como se estivesses sentado sobre o mar, escutas o lento bater nos confins dos ossos. Mas já nada tremula na luminusidade plúmbea do dia. Nada se acende, ou apaga, nos céus.

O dia afoga-se, lentamente, na treva do mar.
Deitas-te, então, ao lado do morto que ainda não és. E dele se liberta um anjo mudo que vem habitar o teu corpo.
A vida, como sabes, tem o tempo da areia que se escapa por entre os dedos. Areia rápida e branca. Esvoaçante.
Agora, a ausência - a tua - é um rosto silencioso. E a tua mão está enterrada no tesouro das horas.
Finges dormir para que a dor não deixe rastro no sangue. Nada se move dentro ou fora de ti, excepto o vento no interior dos ossos...
Corpo aéreo, azulínea música rente à claridade da pele...

(...)

AL Berto

deambulações insones numa madrugada tórrida, ao som de Tristeza e Alla Polacca..

foto de Ilkka keskinem.





"e se a laranja se iluminar a partir do seu centro, do seu gomo mais secreto, e álguem a esquecer no meio da noite, servirá o brilho da laranja para iluminar as cidades à muito mortas?.."

para os etéreos visitantes desta noite...
que a cassiopeia vos guarde a alma de retalhos.