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POETRY WITHOUT COAUTHOR

Inside me lives a poem.
I do not know how to write, and by not doing,
It lives without form and exists in a stupidity.
It comes, it invades and it dies without being born.

There are no signs that make you aware,
Always insisting, it does not come out of my pen,
Except from soul, and stays in the dark.
I trace nerve lines and rehearse the poem.

It shines, thunders and fades.
It do not sticks on the meat.
In the soul, it is not read.

It lives latent in me, soon forgets.
In her beautiful eyes it delights.
It simply burns, incinerating.

SPRING AND GIRL IN THE AUTUMN OF THE POET 

I do not feel more nor rhyme the loose poetry

Than, hovering, makes me daydream,

Shuffling letters that I barely read,

Making magic feel in my soul.

In the throbbing world of manumission

In which the spirit sees itself, I believe,

But I see different. I am all poetry.

And I'm not a poem, not even half.

I know the breeze that hallucinates,

Without size, not too hot,

Sings a lullaby.

I song dreams, in which you come.

So natural, still a girl,

In a time of blossom, sweetness and grace.

PUERILE POEM




The unwritten poem, that I do not rhyme,
Under an unusual romanticism,
Infantilizes the soul and encouraging
The puerile behavior of the boy that I am.

Inattentive, I do not master your subtlety,
And he stays in me, inarticulate.
I become sober and  rebuke the boy.
And so, repressed, I become arid.

It is essence in the air that I hardly breathe.
I do not pack me in the hot state of emotion.
I hold the boy and alone,

I stay silent. But you pack me anyway.
It's juvenile reason of my sigh,
You, girl, passing with a smile.

Postagem experimental para teste

COMPOSIÇÃO

Verso! Livremente te faço livre.
Não me livro de te limar;
não me livro de te retocar.
Aqui uma vírgula, ali um ponto.
Suprimo, acresço palavra ou verso
dentro do todo, todo dia.
Dou-te forma linear, ando em curva
e faço círculo, não defino geometria,
não me ligo em forçosa harmonia.
Dou-te métrica, rima ou deixo em branco,
recorto ou não dou nada
de estética, mas algo de sangue,
da alma e da mente,
que encontro latente ou que invento.
Tens de mim e tens do outro
elogios, zangas, alegrias e taras,
sonhos, projetos, frustrações
e até alguma doutrinação.
Sem sistemática, com e sem tema
és uma teima no meu dia.
Na busca obsessiva da música
ensaio e me perco no contexto.