Poems

ODE TO LOVE
 
I wish I hadn’t read
nor studied Vinicius de Moraes
to write something original
about love and the lack of it.
 
But something like that would only be possible
if Vinicius hadn’t read Neruda
with such astonishment and reverence
or if Neruda hadn’t read Rimbaud.
 
I wanted to sing love
in its exquisite essence
as Ricardo Reis to Lídia
like Dante to Beatriz.
Inexorably I was born late
behind all these
but love still inspires me
madness and lucidity
to compose poems
as simple as this.
 
It’s the love that always guides us
at the bottom of the glass and at the heart of life
to the top of the world and the end of the tragedy,
it is love that leads us to the abyss of loss
and the charm of the light of conquest
even if it is not original
it is the love that gives soul to the artist.
We were just sorry
the death of God, believing
that we would survive
now we bury
no tears
shamelessly,
… the hope.
STAYED IN THE PAST
 
Somewhere in the past
you stayed,
or it was the other way around,
I stayed,
in the face of the abyss of no,
maybe we are both
invisible, in that photo
that we took together
in that broken hug
for fear of the consequence
in that rehearsed dance
on the walk at night
under the September moon
on the centuries-old stones
from the dead city
in that irrepressible kiss
Somewhere in the past
we prefer silence
chance chose the inertia of the bodies
and the chill of the hands
the almost yes of the soul in despair,
we prefer calm and comfort
rational cowardice
we flee the world of Dante
Proustian prose remained
without jealousy, without life,
without death, without poetry.
 
SILENCE
 
 
Whenever I find myself alone,
before a cup of coffee
or a glass of wine.
 
Just a minute of reflection
about human struggles
so that half of everything
lose its importance.
 
What we lack is silence
to analyze the first verse
where everything else is implied.
 
Life, like a poem
it’s simple, your language
it is the nature of which we are a part.
 
There is a contradiction in wanting to explain
what is not explained
poetry and life
both just need to be felt!
 
Evan do Carmo

 

Above my head a clock,

Above my head a clock,
upon the table, many books and a cup of absynth
in the center an infinate confusion,
only I dont feel, of what matter solitude of made of.

Tongue of Fire

It was late, really late.
It was night, a shadowy night,
And the south wind was punishing
The tomb where lied
Poets’ vanity.
At the time when your warm tongue
Touched my ear,
Your heavenly breath made
My frozen vanity live again
Then the Tongue of Ice
Was turned into fire
And poetry was reborn
From ivory,
Not ashes.
Evan do Carmo

The idiosyncrasy of love love
is unexplainable Men and women,
that is what they believe:
That they had not loved nor been loved.
Poets have also fooled themselves into describing loving they did
not meet
They credit their archetype of invisible affection to the Muse, even
their unknowable, obtuse erudition, hoping to describe
An impossible love; however, by her they have not ever been kissed.
love is unsteady, thoughtless It has no past, no present
Love does not reveal or hide itself Love is a myth,
it is nothing and everything It is shadow and clarity,
at times darkness. Every so often it is grief, prison, necessity.
Love might be fate Some might call it choice
Unwritten romances , tombs of silence, deceiving door
Love is discreet, it does not speak up when it is not solicited
Although It might be a secret in its plans of chaining gods and

Lake of One Wish

While I was looking at the evening
inside deep darkness
a thought flew away
As a shooting star
and like a burning bolt
lit my whole past –
forgotten and tenebrousI saw myself in another world
in another time
where everything used to look pleasurable
There was a serene lake
and in the riverside
a couple of lovers
was cuddling innocentlyMany people had come to that lake
To see the growing childhood
Then the couples became old
and the joy were lost bit by bitLake of hope, my refuge
and I always come back to see it again
Timeless. This memory
is part of me, of my desire
But not of my existence


The idiosyncrasy of love

love is unexplainable
Men and women, that is what they believe:
That they had not loved nor been loved.
Poets have also fooled themselves into describing loving they did not meet
They credit their archetype of invisible affection to the Muse, even their unknowable, obtuse erudition, hoping to describe
An impossible love; however, by her they have not ever been kissed.
love is unsteady, thoughtless
It has no past, no present
Love does not reveal or hide itself
Love is a myth, it is nothing and everything
It is shadow and clarity, at times darkness. Every so often it is grief, prison, necessity.
Love might be fate
Some might call it choice
Unwritten romances , tombs of silence, deceiving door
Love is discreet, it does not speak up when it is not solicited
Although It might be a secret in its plans of chaining gods and delivering Titans.
Evan do Carmo

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