Shakespeare & Co.

Sempre que me dedicava a pesquisá-la, desconfiava que o sonho espreitava ali. Hoje foi dia do realizar.
Chovia e havia fila para entrar. Cá fora há luzes, ainda que apagadas, livros usados e frases de encantar. Um caricatura de Wolf espreita do primeiro andar, um dos seus livros regala os olhos dos que esperam na montra do rés-de-chão. Pela primeira vez antes de entrar numa livraria. Não sei o que esperar. Na internet não há fotos do seu interior e pelos vidros de fora pouco se vê.
Assim que entro, deparo-me com o que mais adoro. Hemingway e o resto da Lost Generation na sua primeira parede. E não poderia deixar de ser assim, sendo Hemingway um amante dedicado a Paris.

Livros novos de ficção preenchem todo o espaço por onde toda a gente quer navegar, e através dos escadotes usados alcançar. Há salas e mais salinhas sem parar. Algumas estantes ameaçam cair, mas ali permanecem, paradas no seu tempo. A madeira das estantes é velha e quase que a oiço ranger. Mas são apenas as escadas, espelhadas num espelho que nos chama para o andar da poesia.
Tento esquecer o peito palpitante e a respiração ofegante que o pensamento traz, “Quero ficar aqui.” E fotografar o que não pode ser fotografado. Decorar o que sei que nunca poderia ser decorado, sem ser explorado mais do que uma vez.
Há chegada do primeiro andar, há pessoas nas almofadas velhas e a janela branca aberta, deixa entrar a luz que revela o pó no ar. E com ele um silêncio de maravilha que não se deixa assentar. Avisto outro espelho, e quero-me fotografar. Como fundo ficariam todos os livros usados, rasgados, com capas duras ou de cabedal. E eu quero. Ficar aqui.
Perdida no meu próprio fascínio, penso em como será difícil manter todos aqueles livros imaculados ou usados em perfeita condição num local como aquele. Que parece húmido e é cavernoso.
Os meus pais esperam-me. Ainda à chuva. E por isso, olho-me uma última vez ao espelho e deparo-me com um sorriso genuíno. Acabaram-se as desconfianças, o sonho mora aqui.

London Lit Fest III

It was the last talk of the first day. I had an headache and reddish eyes. But the theme was interesting enough: ‘Home is the Mouth of a Shark’. And yes, it was about refugees.

Roughly an hour before I had listened poetry from women who had arrived to this country without their children, their parents, their lovers. People who had their family killed, who can not cook dishes from their countries. People who preferred to die trying to save themselves than to fear their last days alive. And these people dream awake more than we do asleep. ‘I dream’ became the motto to launch a wall of dreams in Southbank. I have them all in a newspaper. More than six hundred. I cherish them and touch the paper carefully, every sentence is meaningful. It belongs to someone. And I know that like Patti Smith I will use this in my art.

Before we enter this next session, a lady is sitting on the floor, the newspaper largely opened before her crossed legs. I can not help but smile towards the match. As if her posture was as rough and primal as the dreams before her and their poetry.

My neck is sore and I do not seem able to focus. I suddenly forget it when we listen poetry in my favourite way, in the poet’s mother language. No translation. It finishes in a strong and familiar way: ‘I want to die in a country where they know how to pronounce my name’ (from what I understood, but the message I got it right).

One more time I find it interesting how the real life assembles the metaphorical meaning of poetry. The poet Hardy could not be present, due to political reasons no one was allowed to leave the country. Still, there she is. Trespassing the physical borders of her country with her poetry and her fears and dreams being read by the rest of the panel. What a magical moment, hearing those voices taking ownership of this meaning with no credits.

Once again, the theme was hard to discuss. ‘Everything written is political’ since it is written in a certain time. Poets were expressing how happy they were now that poetry was not as reviewed as before. However, people do expect them to say the right thing and talk about those themes. Readers have hope. And they put that hope on the writers and the poets in order to be heard. After all, ‘power structures enable your power’. And at the end of a discussion as intense and in such a tense subject a writer shouldn’t have to say ‘Sorry, I swear I hadn’t anything more than coffee’, as they did.

Just Kids

 

Rating: ★★★★★

I knew before hand this book would have me, it would own me as literally as I would own it. These pages hold something that is also mine, a shared story which I could never live without. A story that sooner or later will eternally live by its own. From my hand to the world, based in a special request.

I also knew that books that have my tears on its foreword or prologue eternally stay. It became personal before it became an assessment, a challenge before a choice. It wasn’t fiction. It wasn’t a romance. But it was for sure a love story. The one I am most keen of.

When I first started the novel, the lighted word in my bedroom’s parapet shone brightness into its pages. Love was between the words both in a physical and literary sense. It was strengthening its meaning, becoming a mark in my own story.

Lost and found in her art, Patti resembles my written self. What I build through these small posts. What I admire and how I get inspiration from it. What I look for. She even compares herself to Wendy and shows her strong belief in Neverland.

When I got closer to the expected end, I knew I had to finish it somewhere special.  I asked for a Caramel Machiatto in my favourite place of the University. Charles Dickens’s words surrounding me. And I cried. Never my sweet sweet latte felt so bitter. I couldn’t help but feel in Patti’s words the painful moment of Robert’s death. I couldn’t help but feel for Patti.

As usual I tried to find a message. But page after page I would find more and more exposed messages, I knew I would not recall them all together in the end. I knew I would read it over and over again. As if it was the first time, an uncanny taste of familiarity. Right now, with tears salting the last bit of my Machiatto, these are the ones I recall. The dreams that walk hand in hand. That make us wave at each other and write prose in our lonely time. And those marvellous paths that cross and certainly will cross again… Later on, I will look for their blue star and remember them. Wishing I had known us in their time, wishing they could see themselves in ours.

 

Lang Leav

Durante dias andei às voltas com um poema. Se aquela mensagem deveria ser expressa em inglês, se em Português. Se deveria sequer ser expressa. Ainda hoje não o sei. Talvez toda esta luta de não o conseguir acabar seja a resposta. Decidi, por isso, procurar inspiração. No dia do meu aniversário, na maior livraria Londrina, lembro-me de ter perdido uma boa hora em apenas três estantes. Na realidade, a minha vontade era a de me sentar naquele mesmo chão e ler toda a poesia do mundo. Não o fiz. Andava há meses à procura daquele que iria ocupar um lugar especial. O de primeiro livro de poesia na minha pequena estante. A escolha não estava fácil. E nesse dia era impossível escolher. Vim de mãos vazias, mas de cabeça cheia de nomes. Há três noites houve uma súbita necessidade de voltar a uma das poetas que tinha lido em Piccadilly. Lang Leav. Lembro-me de como a simplicidade com que escreve me conquistou. Como os assuntos não fogem ao que sente ou sentiu e que tanta, senão mesmo toda, a humanidade vive. Lembro-me de como me fez sentir criança.

Com o seu livro na mão, não consegui resistir a lê-lo todo. Devagar. Como que a saborear. Não consegui também resistir a lê-lo mais duas vezes em poucas horas. É difícil escolher apenas um dos seus poemas.

Ando sempre a reclamar como a literatura do século XXI me preocupa, aqui está a feliz prova de como no campo da poesia não há nada a apontar.

Mas o meu poema, continua por finalizar.

Fortune Teller

One, two, three

You choose

what you want to see

of me.

Pink, red, blue, green

You open

what you know I’ve been.

One, two, three, four

Don’t want to be

either/or anymore.

Red, blue, pink, green

I won’t be

what you want of me.

And in one, two, three

I wait for the moment

I’ll be unfolded,

whole,

and free.

The promise I can’t keep

It was a short necklace

with a golden bird on it.

In a book I found its meaning,

which scared me more

than I could admit.

I saw it at the airport,

Aware I’m not infinite,

I had given you my word,

But even for you

I couldn’t quit.

When you look into my eyes,

And ask me for my finger,

I touch the bird and cheat,

while remembering

the promise

I can’t

keep