11 dezembro, 2017

Letters to Major

Dear Major,
My love, I miss you so. It’s been 3 weeks since you left for war and my heart aches for you. I know you write back to me and are well, but I just want you back here.
Some of my friends, who also write to their boyfriends and husbands, have been preparing to move on in case they don’t come back. They go dancing with strange men and drink. They say it’s healthier… they say the heart won’t forget who they love but it helps dull the pain. At least they have a warm body next to them and someone to have fun with. I… can’t.
Men buy me drinks and talk to me. Oh, but Major, they don’t have your spark. They just don’t make me laugh like you do. They try to kiss me and I… just can’t bear their touch, because it’s not your rugged hands across my cheek or your soft lips on mine. They don’t have your adorable smile or your patient eyes; above all, they are not you.
I know you would understand if I did what they do… But I don’t want anyone else but you. Even the idea of it feels dirty and wrong. Like I am disrespecting our memories and our love. Remember when we first called each other boyfriend and girlfriend? We were going to Oxford for the day and I said “How should I introduce you?”, shyly, and you suggested “Well, I don’t know. I know I am not seeing anyone else, so how about boyfriend?”. I liked how certain you were about me… and how your “I love you” surprised me later that day. I wasn’t expecting that.
War is a terrible mistress because she doesn’t share; darling, just come back to me. My bed asks about you, about when you’ll be back to caress my back or when she can listen to your heartbeat again. I want your body next to mine. I want to make love to you. I love how when we make love, you look me in the eye and fervently whisper “Mine”. I am yours and you are mine in that moment, and I am home, safe and warm and loved.
I am certain about you still, even when you are miles away, that I love you too and don’t want to see anyone else. Desert war for me, let’s run away?

Yours, always,

Ps. I’m sorry about all the tear stains. But I am not sorry to feel the way I feel. See you soon?

27 abril, 2017

There it is, the silence
Of a windless cloudy night
Where everything is pitch-black
And full of scary things.

There is it, the silence
Of an extinguished fire
It knows it won’t ignite Itself, 

There it is, the silence
In rooms in Hampshire
Of people sleeping in the dark
But awake in their nightmares.

There is it, the silence
Of a broken heart.
Wanting to take back time

Wishing to be anywhere.

[let's count this as incomplete. I don't know what to make of it]

07 janeiro, 2017


Hello, old acquaintace
Fancy seeing you here
We both went through change
So much of me has disappeared

Isn’t this strange?
I am not who you remember
(And you’re not a friend)
No, I now am different
I am a woman, old and frail.
Only memories of youth,
Memories of an intact mirror…
Yes, only they prevail.

Yes, turn your back
Forget you ever knew me and sneer
I break mirrors, I don’t recognise myself
Why should you?
See in the shards of glass
My naked skin shine
Let it, let it
This is me now.

They say “this too shall pass”
They don’t understand
Being old sticks with you.
It’s like Death: Crude and bold.

You don’t worry, but I am fine.

14 fevereiro, 2014

To a Russian heart, not with love but with friendship (all that's left, in the end). Happy V's day

If You Forget Me - by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

10 novembro, 2013


I’m blind, I’m blind, he often reckons. But no. It is just a very, very dark cave. What to do with a cave this dark? Nothing, except to try and find light. How? Now, that is tricky part.
The floor is very slippery; remember that feeling of fear in your stomach you have when you ice skate and try to slide instead of falling? It’s that kind of floor, but he has no skates and sliding is not an option. Too bad he has always been the clumsy-two-left-feet kind of person, completely incapable of being coordinate enough to slide like a regular human being. The only viable solution is to walk, and walk ever so slowly. This would be easier if he had something to hold on to… even though he stretches out his arms to try and find some equilibrium, as well as a “grabable” thing; it just is not going to happen. There are no rails, no walls, no friendly arms to help him find the way out. No nothing. And he must go on.
From time to time, he finds some stalagmites and stalactites. They are sharp and weird, but they are full of salty water, the only kind of water he can find in this godforsaken place. It does not quench his thirst, but what else can he do but drink it all the same? If only he could find something to help with his raving hunger as well...
He often asks himself these same old questions “How long have I been here? Will I ever find a way out? Will someone come for me? Can I keep on fighting?”. He is terrified of asking the questions as much as he is of finding the matching answers. He knows that being lost for so long will only decrease the chances of being found; but he just cannot help himself. His surviving instincts are working overtime to make sure he keeps on breathing, to make sure he finds salvation. Nature just is not working in his favor; oh, what else can he do but fight?
Is that… is that light I see? A tiny line of light, ever so small and thin, shines on the floor. He begins to hope, beings to feel safe, beings to dream again. As if right on cue, the same nature, that seems to be working against him, kicks in: he steps on the wrong place, loses his balance and is sent sliding down the same hard path he had climbed with such effort.
Somehow he still lives. He is bruised and bloody, but alive. He is, once again, hopeless. It hurts a bit to breathe as he realizes that being alive is a curse, not a miracle. Praying is useless because only an inexistent God would let him rot in this hell, when he had always been good and kind to others, often forgetting about himself. He desperately wants to be found, but is now certain it is only a silly dream. So he lets himself lie on the floor. He is tired, oh, so tired. Please, please, let me sleep.

Café Inglês

Clack. A mala está no chão. O ar húmido inglês entra-lhe nas narinas. Não chove, por enquanto, mas um pequeno chapéu-de-chuva verde está por perto, pronto a ser usado. Os ring-ring das bicicletas são inesperados – é uma cidade, não era suposto haverem imensos autocarros e carros e fumo? E agora?
A pesada bagagem rola facilmente pelo chão, que é despido de calçada. Um imenso parque verde surge depois das árvores. É suposto atravessá-lo? O mapa não é tão útil como perguntar a um desconhecido, que lhe diz “direita, direita, frente, esquerda.”. Obrigado. E lá vai a bagagem, atrás de quem a possui.
Procura um café, ou algo parecido com um café; é mais que isso. Pequenas mesas ao lado de estantes carregadas de histórias estão cheias; um quadro de memórias situa-se ao lado de quadros inacreditavelmente cheios de vida, criados por artistas de rua. Alguém toca-lhe no ombro: “Desculpe, posso levar a sua mala? Quer um café?”. Sim, obrigado. É impressionante o alívio deixar tudo o que nos pesa para trás, num sítio, enquanto se bebe um café.
 Lê-se, também, um livro. Toca, à distância, uma música suave. Fala sobre seguir em frente e deixar o passado no passado, fala sobre conduzir, fala sobre um sítio chamado Idaho. É curioso que seja tão perfeita para este momento…
“Bom dia, caro ouvinte, está a ouvir-nos de Lisboa…” diz o despertador. Começa mais um dia de insatisfações. O sonho, fresco na memória, não passa disso: de um sonho. Sonhar é fácil, realizar o sonho é que é o desafio.


Trocámos aquele último beijo. Dissemos adeus. O segredo deixou de existir. Foi feito o que era correcto, mesmo que o que fosse correcto não fosse a verdadeira vontade.
Manter uma conversa tornou-se desnecessário, e o teu interesse, ainda que já há muito reduzido, morreu. Amizade? Há quem não tenha direito a isso. Há quem não o queira. Eu não tenho direito, tu não queres. Lentamente, (in)desejadamente, o adeus tornou-se real e frequente – pensamentos tornaram-se obsoletos.
Força de circunstância (porque é ridículo pensar na existência, quanto mais interferência, do Fado), reuniram-nos brevemente. Eu, de batom vermelho, tu, de camisola negra. Viste-me, cumprimentaste-me com um “Olá, estás boa?” e eu disse-te “Olá, está tudo, e contigo?”. Eu, tal boneca de batom vermelho e coração a bater (como já não batia há muito. Explica-me?), vi-te, indefesa, a ser uma qualquer outra coisa magnífica, brilhante. Vi-te quando me permiti a mim mesma olhar para ti, porque mais cedo me obrigava a ignorar-te – reconhecer a tua presença e não desviar o olhar era sinal de fraqueza.
Todo o desejo que me obriguei a recusar, voltou. É impossível ser algo mais emocional, não me deixo a mim mesma senti-lo. Ah, mas talvez minta a mim mesma. Talvez haja ali algo. Perdoa-me, sei que acordámos a inexistência de sentimentos, mas eu sou fraca. Eu sou uma traça, tu és uma chama – perdoa-me, está na minha natureza.
É isto que eu não quero: coisas fora do meu alcance, fora da minha teimosia, fora de mim mesma. Não quero suprimir o teu livre-arbítrio, isso seria algo digno de Deus, e eu sou uma simples Pandora. É por isto que todos os dias me obrigo a recusar a tua existência.
Não é isso que quero… quero idas ao cinema e conversas de café; quero saber o que te faz arder; quero normalidade e não uma relação, não… isto. Não te quero prender, mas porque é que não queres voar para mim? Porque é que paraste o teu entusiasmo em relação a mim? Porque paraste as perguntas e desculpas para te exibires, tamanho miúdo que quer impressionar uma outra miúda?  Porque é que paraste de ser tão diferente apenas para seres igual? Quase que te prefiro confuso a frio… confusão tem temperatura, sabes?
Não quero escrever para ti ou sobre ti. Não quero que as memórias dos teus beijos sejam apenas memórias. Não quero mesmo toda e qualquer distância. Não precisas de sentir algo, mas gostava que quisesses beber café comigo. Gostava daqueles momentos em que conversávamos, em que te tornavas humano. E eu também.

(madrugada 20 Outubro 2013)


Ouvi a tua voz
Como já não ouvia
Há meses, e meses.

Ouvi e soube logo
Eras tu.
Só tu tinhas essa cadência
Só tinha tinhas essa força
Na tua linha de pensamento
No teu discurso.
Sempre, eternamente

Ouvi, indirectamente.
Isto porque
Recusas-te a ser directo.
Não escreves, não ligas
Não olhas, não abres a boca.
Eu não existo
Na tua presença.

Mas soube que eras tu.
Soube que algures,
Ainda existias.
Ainda eras tu.

(Finais de Setembro 2013)