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A pena move-se levada pela mão do que não está bem. E do papel extrai-se o corpo do problema, com os olhos de quem quer a mudança, de quem espera a mudança com cansaço. Crónicas das horas, das noites absurdas. Crónicas do que está à nossa volta e nem sempre nos damos conta.
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O LADO CINZENTO
por João Gramaça
É curioso, não é? A forma como o mundo parece chorar, como o céu parece cobrir-se de luto quando vislumbramos o negrume das nuvens que carregam o horizonte, um horizonte de desespero, de angústia. A amargura de um dia arrastado pelas lágrimas que escorrem vagarosamente, que escorregam como lentos e ininterruptos rios que sulcam a barba que começa a cobrir a pele levemente enrugada pela tristeza que parece inundar uma cara solitária na multidão, tal como a água que cai incessantemente parece inundar as cinzentas ruas de uma cidade que aparenta fechar-se sobre nós, sufocar-nos, apertar-nos os pulmões com as tenazes do fumo que teima em entrar em nós, quer queiramos, quer não...
É interessante, não é? O modo como tudo nos surge diante dos olhos como garantido, como algo que estará lá sempre, como algo que nunca terminará – e nós confiamos cegamente na imutabilidade do nosso pequeno mundo, tão minúsculo... A nossa ingenuidade torna-nos obtusos, não temos consciência do quão efémera é a nossa vida – a noção que temos da realidade acaba por não nos deixar compreender que hoje, amanhã, no próximo mês, podemos ser os próximos a partir, a embarcar numa ida sem volta, na mais longa viagem da nossa existência...
É triste, não é? O mundo chora, e nós, sem dar por nada, choramos com ele, encostamos a cabeça para descansar, cerramos os olhos e abandonamos – nem que seja por um instante – tudo o que o destino insiste em nos atirar... E como o mundo chora a nossa alma, negra como uma noite sem luar, inconformada com tudo o que a afunda cada vez mais num poço sem fundo... e com o mundo chora o nosso coração, acelerado pelo turbilhão de emoções que teima em nos rasgar o interior, em nos rasgar cada traço pessoal, em nos magoar cada centímetro do nosso corpo, em nos toldar o discernmimento, em nos enlouquecer de dor...
É irritante, não é? A maneira como toda a raiva, toda a fúria acaba por se diluir no nosso insignificante mundo materialista, que julgamos girar somente em nosso redor e que exacerba constantemente o nosso desejo irreal de sermos egoístas, de pensarmos apenas em nós e nunca nos outros. O fim aproxima-se de nós, gradualmente, inevitavelmente – e nós caminhamos alegremente para ele, imersos em vidas rotineiras, monótonas, viciosas. Todos nós, de olhos fechados, com a mente preguiçosa e com os hábitos odiosos da nossa sociedade moderna entranhados em nós como o pó que se ergue do chão no dia mais quente do ano, caminhamos para o nosso final, o último capítulo, para o nosso The End particular, que é, e será sempre, ignorado pelo resto do mundo, demasiado concentrado nos seus próprios passos que o leva até ao seu desenlace.
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sexta-feira, 30 de maio de 2008
terça-feira, 20 de maio de 2008
MOVIMENTO CONTRA A OBSTIPAÇÃO DO CÉREBRO
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Há coisas muito injustas: passarem-nos à frente numa fila onde já estamos há hora e meia; chover precisamente no dia em que não trouxemos o guarda-chuva connosco; termos corrido mais que a Vanessa Fernandes e, miraculosamente, termos conseguido apanhar o autocarro para, quando levamos a mão ao bolso, verificarmos que nos esquecemos do passe em casa.
Tudo isto é mesmo chato. Frustrante, vá, sejamos francos. Mas o que é ainda mais injusto e chato e frustrante, é quando uma pessoa tem talento para escrever, tem vontade de o fazer, mas devido à vingança dos céus, não consegue fazê-lo. Porque quando olha para o papel, a única coisa que soa na sua mente é o vento desértico vindo de um filme de cowboys no Texas.
É a pensar nestes casos lamentáveis e contagiosos que foi criado o Movimento Contra a Obstipação do Cérebro, também conhecido como Benuron da Brigada do Desbloqueio Literário. Este é um serviço útil e gratuito para os que não querem inventar mais desculpas para estar parados. Aqui encontram-se comprimidos efeverscentes para ajudar a escrita criativa, juntamente com alguns dos resultados dos pacientes que se curaram através das suas dicas. Se te conseguimos também ajudar, gostávamos que nos enviasses o teu produto literário! Se assim o desejares, envia-o com um pseudónimo!
Como manobras de Heimlich incluem-se o “Lançar a Palavra”, “Banda Sonora”, “Duetos” e “Brinco de Pérola”. Se tiveres mais formas de ajudar estes pobres escritores obstipados, ajuda-nos a enriquecer esta secção com sugestões!
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LANÇA-A-PALAVRA
Este método precisa da intervenção de um ajudante. O paciente terá de pedir a alguém que lhe diga a primeira palavra que lhe vier à cabeça, seja ela um verbo, um substantivo ou mesmo um adjectivo. Dita a palavra, o escritor terá de fazer um texto/poema/reflexão no qual apareça pelo menos uma vez a dita palavra. O texto não precisa de ter como tema central a palavra lançada, mas tem que incluí-la a certa altura do texto.
Sugestão: este método tem resultados muito engraçados se as duas pessoas gostarem de escrever, e se desafiarem simultaneamente com palavras diferentes.
TEXTOS FEITOS COM ESTE MÉTODO:
DESEMBRULHAR
(feito por Sara Varela)
Desembrulhei o passado. Corri alegrias e tristezas em busca do que fui.
Embrenhei-me no desconhecido porque é com pesar que admito que apenas neste “eu” existo.
A melancolia da infância trespassa-me mas sou-lhe imune. Porque são falsas as imagens que me assolam, me molham com a sua frieza aguçada.
Desembrulhei o passado, mas não o encontrei.
ESTOJO
(feito por a.muse)
Suspiro. A voz monocórdica do professor continua a retinir como música de elevador, a cadeira a meu lado continua vazia, o teu caderno continua aberto na lição errada, o teu estojo continua fechado, o meu olhar continua fixo no teu vulto que continuo a não saber se é real.
Voltas o rosto da janela, o sol refulge no teu cabelo, espreguiças-te, reparas em mim e suspiras.
- Nunca mais acaba...
Aceno com a cabeça. Suspiro.
Olho para a cadeira vazia e suspiro.
SOLAS
(feito por Pete Chamber)
Já tenho as solas gastas do Mundo
Tiro os sapatos, ando descalço. O Mundo
Já nada me dá de novo. Tiro os sapatos.
Já tenho as solas gastas de tudo.
DESAFIO DESTA EDIÇÃO:
Faz o teu texto com a palavra que te sugerirmos, e envia-nos o que escreveste para
jornalonlinecamoes@gmail.com
juntamente com o teu nome, turma e pseudónimo, caso prefiras que a tua identidade não seja revelada.
O LANÇA-A-PALAVRA desta semana atira-te:
... PEGADAS.
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Há coisas muito injustas: passarem-nos à frente numa fila onde já estamos há hora e meia; chover precisamente no dia em que não trouxemos o guarda-chuva connosco; termos corrido mais que a Vanessa Fernandes e, miraculosamente, termos conseguido apanhar o autocarro para, quando levamos a mão ao bolso, verificarmos que nos esquecemos do passe em casa.
Tudo isto é mesmo chato. Frustrante, vá, sejamos francos. Mas o que é ainda mais injusto e chato e frustrante, é quando uma pessoa tem talento para escrever, tem vontade de o fazer, mas devido à vingança dos céus, não consegue fazê-lo. Porque quando olha para o papel, a única coisa que soa na sua mente é o vento desértico vindo de um filme de cowboys no Texas.
É a pensar nestes casos lamentáveis e contagiosos que foi criado o Movimento Contra a Obstipação do Cérebro, também conhecido como Benuron da Brigada do Desbloqueio Literário. Este é um serviço útil e gratuito para os que não querem inventar mais desculpas para estar parados. Aqui encontram-se comprimidos efeverscentes para ajudar a escrita criativa, juntamente com alguns dos resultados dos pacientes que se curaram através das suas dicas. Se te conseguimos também ajudar, gostávamos que nos enviasses o teu produto literário! Se assim o desejares, envia-o com um pseudónimo!
Como manobras de Heimlich incluem-se o “Lançar a Palavra”, “Banda Sonora”, “Duetos” e “Brinco de Pérola”. Se tiveres mais formas de ajudar estes pobres escritores obstipados, ajuda-nos a enriquecer esta secção com sugestões!
_______________________________________________________________
LANÇA-A-PALAVRA
Este método precisa da intervenção de um ajudante. O paciente terá de pedir a alguém que lhe diga a primeira palavra que lhe vier à cabeça, seja ela um verbo, um substantivo ou mesmo um adjectivo. Dita a palavra, o escritor terá de fazer um texto/poema/reflexão no qual apareça pelo menos uma vez a dita palavra. O texto não precisa de ter como tema central a palavra lançada, mas tem que incluí-la a certa altura do texto.
Sugestão: este método tem resultados muito engraçados se as duas pessoas gostarem de escrever, e se desafiarem simultaneamente com palavras diferentes.
TEXTOS FEITOS COM ESTE MÉTODO:
DESEMBRULHAR
(feito por Sara Varela)
Desembrulhei o passado. Corri alegrias e tristezas em busca do que fui.
Embrenhei-me no desconhecido porque é com pesar que admito que apenas neste “eu” existo.
A melancolia da infância trespassa-me mas sou-lhe imune. Porque são falsas as imagens que me assolam, me molham com a sua frieza aguçada.
Desembrulhei o passado, mas não o encontrei.
ESTOJO
(feito por a.muse)
Suspiro. A voz monocórdica do professor continua a retinir como música de elevador, a cadeira a meu lado continua vazia, o teu caderno continua aberto na lição errada, o teu estojo continua fechado, o meu olhar continua fixo no teu vulto que continuo a não saber se é real.
Voltas o rosto da janela, o sol refulge no teu cabelo, espreguiças-te, reparas em mim e suspiras.
- Nunca mais acaba...
Aceno com a cabeça. Suspiro.
Olho para a cadeira vazia e suspiro.
SOLAS
(feito por Pete Chamber)
Já tenho as solas gastas do Mundo
Tiro os sapatos, ando descalço. O Mundo
Já nada me dá de novo. Tiro os sapatos.
Já tenho as solas gastas de tudo.
DESAFIO DESTA EDIÇÃO:
Faz o teu texto com a palavra que te sugerirmos, e envia-nos o que escreveste para
jornalonlinecamoes@gmail.com
juntamente com o teu nome, turma e pseudónimo, caso prefiras que a tua identidade não seja revelada.
O LANÇA-A-PALAVRA desta semana atira-te:
... PEGADAS.
Está tudo a postos? Então, diverte-te! Depois, envia-nos o resultado das análises!_______________________________________________________________
BANDA SONORA ORIGINAL
Com o mp3 em modo de “repetir faixa”, escolhe uma música que gostes ou que aches boa para te inspirar um texto. Depois, vai ouvindo e criando imagens, como se estivesses a imaginar um videoclip ou o filme para o qual essa música serviria de banda sonora. Depois, mãos à obra. No fim, se quiseres, dá ao texto o título da música.
Este método resulta para quem gosta de imaginar histórias, e escrevê-las. A música ajuda a fazer uma sequência original que pode vir a originar um texto interessante.
Faz o teu texto com a música que queiras, e envia-nos o que escreveste para
jornalonlinecamoes@gmail.com
juntamente com o teu nome, turma e pseudónimo, caso prefiras que a tua identidade não seja revelada.
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DUETOS
Este é outro método que precisa da intervenção de um ajudante. Aqui, o ajudante escreve uns parágrafos de um texto ou uma história (até pode ser os versos iniciais um poema) e compete ao obstipado que o continue por mais um bocado. Caso seja necessário, o ajudante pode voltar a escrever, e o paciente continuará por sua vez, e assim por diante até ficarem satisfeitos.
DESAFIO DESTA EDIÇÃO:
Faz o teu texto com o início que te damos, e envia-nos o que escreveste para
jornalonlinecamoes@gmail.com
juntamente com o teu nome, turma e pseudónimo, caso prefiras que a tua identidade não seja revelada.
O DUETOS desta semana passa-te o microfone com:
... "Há dias em que andar em frente é a solução, simplesmente caminhar num passo determinado sem olhar para o que deixámos para trás. Sem ceder aos impulsos, com os olhos firmes na berma da estrada."
Está tudo a postos? Então, diverte-te! Depois, envia-nos o resultado das análises!
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BRINCO DE PÉROLA
O nome deste método provém do livro “Rapariga com Brinco de Pérola” de Tracy Chevalier, que depois originou o filme protagonizado por Scarlett Johansson e Colin Firth. A autora escreveu este livro tendo por base o quadro do mesmo nome, feito pelo pintor Johannes Vermeer: estando um dia preocupada com o que haveria de escrever a seguir, deteve-se a observar o poster do quadro que ela tinha no quarto; a certa altura, questionou-se quem seria a rapariga, qual a origem daquela expressão, e qual seria a sua relação com Vermeer. E de tais observações, nasceu o seu livro.
É então que sugerimos que, partindo de uma imagem, fotografia ou quadro, tentes imaginar o contexto daquele momento. Analisando os elementos da imagem, tenta imaginar personagens, situações, diálogos. No fim, dá ao texto o nome do quadro, se quiseres.
DESAFIO DESTA EDIÇÃO:
Faz o teu texto com a imagem que te sugerirmos, e envia-nos o que escreveste para
jornalonlinecamoes@gmail.com
juntamente com o teu nome, turma e pseudónimo, caso prefiras que a tua identidade não seja revelada.
O BRINCO DE PÉROLA desta semana mostra-te:
Miranda - The Tempest, de John William Waterhouse
Está tudo a postos? Então, diverte-te! Depois, envia-nos o resultado das análises
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FOLHAS SOLTAS
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É mesmo por sabermos que existem no Camões muitas mentes privilegiadas que arrumam o seu talento na gaveta que criámos este espaço onde é dado aos alunos um pouco de exposição ao sol. Juntamente com o teu nome e, se quiseres, um pseudónimo, envia-nos os teus poemas e textos para jornalonlinecamoes@gmail.com, para que não sejam apenas folhas soltas de Outono num caderno.
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(DECL)AMAR
secção de poesia
POR TI
(feito por Pete Chamber)
Por caminhos descalços, varridos a pó frio
E terra, paro de viver, de bater por dentro.
Paro de suspirar e sonhar com o sol de amanhã
Pois amanhã vou estar cego.
Por palavras nuas, mortas pelo som abafado
E cruel das carruagens, paro de pensar.
Paro de falar para o vulto disforme
Que é surdo e não me ouve.
Por mãos calejadas e frias, endurecidas
Pelo trabalho vão de amar, paro de sentir.
Paro de suar por entre os dedos de onde fugiste
Para não mais voltares aqui.
Por ti
Paro de ser
De lutar, de sofrer, de chorar.
Por ti paro o tempo na ponta da língua.
E o mundo só volta a girar
Quando disser que te amo.
SIGO A SOMBRA
(feito por Rititi)
Sigo a sombra do teu eu
Corro para a tua escuridão
Até que alcanço
A sombra, onde mergulho sem hesitação.
No meio de ilusões e jogos visuais
Do medo, do pânico
Apercebo-me de que não só a tua sombra é escura.
A sombra soturna que surgia
Era afinal o teu coração
No qual me banhei de sombrios sentimentos
Até à exaustão.
LONGITUDES,
(feito por Pete Chamber)
Um arrepio na nuca, e toda a noite me envolve de suores frios
e de um violeta à volta dos meus punhos ancorados no nevoeiro,
à espera do vapor do comboio
para me levar para longe.
Queria perder-me por entre o oscilar das carruagens e no zumbido
apressado, que assobia por entre a melodia de um sonoro arrastar
de metal e de rodas enferrujadas,
as que me levam para longe.
Com os olhos acocorados,observo a minha pequena bolsa de viagem
que me leva uma fotografia e alguns tostões, pois vale mais a memória
que qualquer comodidade física.
Não me vai servir lá ao longe.
Apodera-se a ansiedade das minhas veias, e palpita-me o sangue
ao parar toda a locomoção que me guiava até ao meu destino.
Ainda na mesma estação.
Foi tudo um sonho, lá ao longe.
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ACRESCENTAR UM PONTO
secção de prosa/conto
A CURSED LOVE
(feito por Renata Dias)
In Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone, stands a… boy. His blue-sky eyes looking through self emptiness to an endless night sky. His blond hair and soft skin are now lifeless. The cheerful and bright boy is no longer there. What made this boy turn into an empty sight was a light. A pure and innocent light that made him feel like he never felt before. He was compelled to leave this light behind and, in that exact moment, she was looking at him.
In Egypt, near Nile’s calm waters, all alone, stands a girl. Her dark-brown-eyes are looking at the river’s quietness. Her dark-night hair falling through her back as she tries to touch the untouchable. In the water she watch’s her soul mate as he stands in the endless night. In the inside she suffers and blames her self for condemning him to an eternal emptiness. But, what could she do? She was also in pain for not being with him and seeing him in that struggle to stay alive as waits for her to come caused her much more suffering that she could handle.
In the opposite of one another they stood, condemn by being so perfect for each other. Their condemnation was severe: she was only able to see him everywhere without the warm of a touch or a complicity of a look; he had only her face in his mind as he tried to warm himself of the cold, waiting for her to come.
“What have I done to deserve this suffering?” she thought,” Why can’t we be together? Why am I only left with an image of you and not yourself? And why don’t you fight this?” .Every day she asked the same questions to a reflection on the water as she was crying, knowing that the answers would never come. This separation made an innocent girl have selfish thoughts and doubts about her self. She wanted to go in search of him but, as the place where the boy was, the land under her feet was endless so she would walk only in circles.
One day, in the moment her tears reached the water, his image disappeared. Desperately, she followed the flow of the river guided by some shining thing in the water. Her own salty tears were leading that girl trough an unknown road. Sadly surprised, she noticed that her tears lead her, not to the sea, but to the river’s own spring. Then, when she was coming back to her condemnation place, she observed that the flow of the river was still on, further and further, until it reached a way where it cut itself in two pieces, each one following its road. First, she followed one small trail of water with her eyes which lead to her own feet. Then, she looked at the other trail and followed it. But, as she was walking, she noticed that the trail was drying until she reached up a point there was no flow.
“Don’t play with me!” she yelled, “Isn’t enough to separate me from him? Now you make me believe that if I follow this trail…this trail will lead me to…” saying it out loud made her open her eyes for the truth. The cruel and cold truth “…a dead end.”.
Every time she cried, rain came out of the sky to warm the boy, making him believe that there was hope.
Every time he show hopeful feeling, his image appeared in the upside-down river to make her believe that one day they would be together.
Hope may be eternal but is not strong enough to fight doubts, guilt, sadness. So the ones who were against this bound of love, those with souls possessed by envy and thirst of power, decided to put an end to this “ridiculous” link, so they vanish the boy’s image from the girl’s sight and enjoyed the view of this condemn couple in suffer.
Without his image the girl couldn’t feel anything but despair. Without her tears the boy couldn’t warm himself and think about her as he was struggling for keeping his own life.
As the ones with dark souls were laughing, the boy and the girl were waiting for death to come. She dying of despair. He dying of cold.
In Egypt, there are all types of gods. And they judge according to what they defend: war, peace, love, hate, life, death. They somehow “help” all living souls of Egypt as other gods do in their own lands. So the gods were not blind to what was happening to this couple, and the first one to react was the goddess of love.
She wanted to help them as she saw them walking through god of death’s line. But the other gods advised her: “You may help them but don’t you forget that the one’s with dark souls that follow them are the destiny and nothing they have already done can be changed.” To what she answered “That doesn´t matter. I am the goddess of the most important thing that keeps this girl and this boy alive. I defend the only thing that they still hope they will find. So I will not let them while there’s still hope!”
The girl laid down on the floor and looked at the sky. It was a beautiful sky, as beautiful as the birds singing, as the plants and threes shaking with the soft breeze and as the calm waters of the river passing by. But all this place’s beauty she didn’t even notice. She knew that that place was a fake, created by someone who didn’t know what life was. “At least, give me on last moment with him. Let me die happy and let me make his death a little softer. At least…” What more could she say? Nothing could change that fated moment. Nothing could make the time go back. But, even if something or someone could make it, wouldn’t it be the same?
One last time she looked into her own eyes in the river’s flow. She was getting thinner and thinner, she hasn’t eaten for a long time and she was not angry but she got weaker and couldn’t stand without fall. Then she closed her eyes and let the dreams and memories fly by. Since she got there she never stop to remember past things. But she couldn’t. Nothing came to her memory, not even when and how she met him. All that came out was the image of a boy with soft skin, pure blond hair along his back and eyes with a blue so pure that was stolen by the sky. Her angel. Her safety. Things that she would never have again. Then she felt something. Something in her belly, like a movement. But what could it be? In that place of fakes and lies it could be just one more of them. Another movement and then his image became stronger and she begun to cry, not tears of sadness but tears of happiness.
One last time he closed his eyes and saw her. He couldn’t think of nothing more but that, because, if he did, the only thing he was keeping of her would disappear. But the girl was still there. Her light skin, her dark hair tied up by one silver ribbon and her grey eyes as the sky above him. That’s how he saw her, face to face, for the last time.
Suddenly, it started to rain. The warmer rain he as ever felt. And, as the water was falling on him, he closed his eyes and thought about her. His light. But that rain didn’t bring him hope. Instead, brought happiness. Something he felt before but he couldn’t remember when and why. And he smiled, “At least, my one last moment is of joy.”
As she was looking to her own womb and asking many questions to herself, a light came out of the sky brighter then the sun, so she could say that was real. A woman appeared, the most beautiful female she has ever seen, wearing the same clothes that Egyptians do but her head was not human. Her head had the form of a lioness so she knew that the woman in front of her was a goddess.
The goddess stared talking with a voice that sounded to her like a melody so pure it was.
“Oh dear! How did you let yourself get to this point?” The girl let her eyes fall to the floor, running into sadness, “Listen, you know your love was strong and pure enough to condemn you and your lover to this suffering and oblivion and, unfortunately, I can not do a thing about your lifes, your destiny has already been written. But, is that fair to let them write the same words to your bound of love?” She was confused. What could that woman been talking about? Another movement. Another heating of heart. Another tear dropped. “You mean I’m…having a child? His seed…in me? But I can’t remember. How can’t I remember such a wonderful moment?” More tears fell from her eyes and a tornado of feelings was passing through her mind. Feeling of sadness, happiness, fear, lost, joy. Without waiting, the goddess started to say “In this moment, the only thing I can…”, and the girl interrupted “I want him to know…that I’m waiting for his child. Our child.” Her determinated look made that woman, a goddess, answer to her request “Very well, he will know, at time. But first, I have a proposal to do to you. As you know, I can’t do anything about your condition and let me finish”, she said when the girl was about to interrupt again, “But your seed may continue his life at gods’ protection, if you accept. In your last moment I will come and take it to Heaven where he will live eternally as gods’ disciple.”
He knew. He suddenly knew. So was his love’s for her power. But, how could he be with her in such a moment? The moment they were supposed to be together to see their prove of love born. He couldn’t, because destiny has already been written, and so, it couldn’t be changed. Could it?
For the first time, since she got there, she smiled, a pure moment of satisfaction and certainty as she answered the goddess “I can’t remember when and how, but we were happy. Moments of true happiness that destiny and you, gods, could only dream about ‘cause it was only ours. Our moments, our memories, our love. Thing that we would like to remember in our last moments but we can’t. And now, that I finally know that the prove of our link is in me you want to come in the moment of my last breath and take my only reason to smile? I’m sorry but if destiny, or who ever it is, is going to take our souls as its written then our child won’t be alone in this world of fakes. Wherever we go, our bound of love will go with us.” And for her surprise the goddess smiled too “The words of your destiny may be written, but the story did not end yet. Write it before they do and I will make sure that you, your lover and your seed will rest in the peace of gods.” The girl thanked. The goddess disappeared.
He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t touch her. But he knew that in the land of dreams nothing was forbidden so there he could hang her tight and whisper her gentle words so she could feel safe and so she could stop crying.
And she felt it. His invisible hug, his voiceless words. Then, she opened up her eyes and she saw him, his image, in the Nile’s calm waters. He was looking at the same place, to that endless desert, but his eyes said more words than his mouth could. Words of strength, words of hope, words of love.
Suddenly, without thinking, she extended up her arm and, with one of her fingers, she touched the image’s face.
And he felt it. Her soft and gentle touch upon his face. A touch he thought he would never feel again. And so, he extended his arm to the air, without even thinking in what he was doing, and waited for a hand that could never come.
She let herself fall in the ground. Her weakness started to take over her and she just laid down, still her sight stuck in the flow.
The cold, for long calm, started his violent movements against the boy. His hand fell with him in the floor, his eyes still stuck in the sky.
“What is going to be our child’s name? Do you have any idea?” with a sad smile in her face she knew that he couldn’t listen to her and so, she cried.
Of the sky only fell one drop, fated to reach that boy’s face bringing a message that only he could understand. And he did. He understood that the last tear just fell and no more he would feel the warmth of her touch. So he stood, in that right place in the middle of nowhere, waiting for death to come.
Far away from one another they’re bodies was, waiting for destiny’s full stop. Closer as the sea to the sand they’re hearts were and so, they could see each other warming and protecting one another from the world out there. And, in their hands, lies a child, their child, the seed of a perfect and cursed love.
That would be their eternal dream. The peace they so much desired. And suddenly, an image came out to both of their minds.
In Egypt’s silence, near Nile´s calm waters, all alone stands a girl. Her blue-sky eyes looking to the clouds passing by and her soft-skinned hand cutting the rivers flow as she was lying on the ground with an untidy blonde hair under her head. She was enjoying that moment. A moment of peace. A moment of freedom.
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É mesmo por sabermos que existem no Camões muitas mentes privilegiadas que arrumam o seu talento na gaveta que criámos este espaço onde é dado aos alunos um pouco de exposição ao sol. Juntamente com o teu nome e, se quiseres, um pseudónimo, envia-nos os teus poemas e textos para jornalonlinecamoes@gmail.com, para que não sejam apenas folhas soltas de Outono num caderno.
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(DECL)AMAR
secção de poesia
POR TI
(feito por Pete Chamber)
Por caminhos descalços, varridos a pó frio
E terra, paro de viver, de bater por dentro.
Paro de suspirar e sonhar com o sol de amanhã
Pois amanhã vou estar cego.
Por palavras nuas, mortas pelo som abafado
E cruel das carruagens, paro de pensar.
Paro de falar para o vulto disforme
Que é surdo e não me ouve.
Por mãos calejadas e frias, endurecidas
Pelo trabalho vão de amar, paro de sentir.
Paro de suar por entre os dedos de onde fugiste
Para não mais voltares aqui.
Por ti
Paro de ser
De lutar, de sofrer, de chorar.
Por ti paro o tempo na ponta da língua.
E o mundo só volta a girar
Quando disser que te amo.
SIGO A SOMBRA
(feito por Rititi)
Sigo a sombra do teu eu
Corro para a tua escuridão
Até que alcanço
A sombra, onde mergulho sem hesitação.
No meio de ilusões e jogos visuais
Do medo, do pânico
Apercebo-me de que não só a tua sombra é escura.
A sombra soturna que surgia
Era afinal o teu coração
No qual me banhei de sombrios sentimentos
Até à exaustão.
LONGITUDES,
(feito por Pete Chamber)
Um arrepio na nuca, e toda a noite me envolve de suores frios
e de um violeta à volta dos meus punhos ancorados no nevoeiro,
à espera do vapor do comboio
para me levar para longe.
Queria perder-me por entre o oscilar das carruagens e no zumbido
apressado, que assobia por entre a melodia de um sonoro arrastar
de metal e de rodas enferrujadas,
as que me levam para longe.
Com os olhos acocorados,observo a minha pequena bolsa de viagem
que me leva uma fotografia e alguns tostões, pois vale mais a memória
que qualquer comodidade física.
Não me vai servir lá ao longe.
Apodera-se a ansiedade das minhas veias, e palpita-me o sangue
ao parar toda a locomoção que me guiava até ao meu destino.
Ainda na mesma estação.
Foi tudo um sonho, lá ao longe.
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ACRESCENTAR UM PONTO
secção de prosa/conto
A CURSED LOVE
(feito por Renata Dias)
In Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone, stands a… boy. His blue-sky eyes looking through self emptiness to an endless night sky. His blond hair and soft skin are now lifeless. The cheerful and bright boy is no longer there. What made this boy turn into an empty sight was a light. A pure and innocent light that made him feel like he never felt before. He was compelled to leave this light behind and, in that exact moment, she was looking at him.
In Egypt, near Nile’s calm waters, all alone, stands a girl. Her dark-brown-eyes are looking at the river’s quietness. Her dark-night hair falling through her back as she tries to touch the untouchable. In the water she watch’s her soul mate as he stands in the endless night. In the inside she suffers and blames her self for condemning him to an eternal emptiness. But, what could she do? She was also in pain for not being with him and seeing him in that struggle to stay alive as waits for her to come caused her much more suffering that she could handle.
In the opposite of one another they stood, condemn by being so perfect for each other. Their condemnation was severe: she was only able to see him everywhere without the warm of a touch or a complicity of a look; he had only her face in his mind as he tried to warm himself of the cold, waiting for her to come.
“What have I done to deserve this suffering?” she thought,” Why can’t we be together? Why am I only left with an image of you and not yourself? And why don’t you fight this?” .Every day she asked the same questions to a reflection on the water as she was crying, knowing that the answers would never come. This separation made an innocent girl have selfish thoughts and doubts about her self. She wanted to go in search of him but, as the place where the boy was, the land under her feet was endless so she would walk only in circles.
One day, in the moment her tears reached the water, his image disappeared. Desperately, she followed the flow of the river guided by some shining thing in the water. Her own salty tears were leading that girl trough an unknown road. Sadly surprised, she noticed that her tears lead her, not to the sea, but to the river’s own spring. Then, when she was coming back to her condemnation place, she observed that the flow of the river was still on, further and further, until it reached a way where it cut itself in two pieces, each one following its road. First, she followed one small trail of water with her eyes which lead to her own feet. Then, she looked at the other trail and followed it. But, as she was walking, she noticed that the trail was drying until she reached up a point there was no flow.
“Don’t play with me!” she yelled, “Isn’t enough to separate me from him? Now you make me believe that if I follow this trail…this trail will lead me to…” saying it out loud made her open her eyes for the truth. The cruel and cold truth “…a dead end.”.
Every time she cried, rain came out of the sky to warm the boy, making him believe that there was hope.
Every time he show hopeful feeling, his image appeared in the upside-down river to make her believe that one day they would be together.
Hope may be eternal but is not strong enough to fight doubts, guilt, sadness. So the ones who were against this bound of love, those with souls possessed by envy and thirst of power, decided to put an end to this “ridiculous” link, so they vanish the boy’s image from the girl’s sight and enjoyed the view of this condemn couple in suffer.
Without his image the girl couldn’t feel anything but despair. Without her tears the boy couldn’t warm himself and think about her as he was struggling for keeping his own life.
As the ones with dark souls were laughing, the boy and the girl were waiting for death to come. She dying of despair. He dying of cold.
In Egypt, there are all types of gods. And they judge according to what they defend: war, peace, love, hate, life, death. They somehow “help” all living souls of Egypt as other gods do in their own lands. So the gods were not blind to what was happening to this couple, and the first one to react was the goddess of love.
She wanted to help them as she saw them walking through god of death’s line. But the other gods advised her: “You may help them but don’t you forget that the one’s with dark souls that follow them are the destiny and nothing they have already done can be changed.” To what she answered “That doesn´t matter. I am the goddess of the most important thing that keeps this girl and this boy alive. I defend the only thing that they still hope they will find. So I will not let them while there’s still hope!”
The girl laid down on the floor and looked at the sky. It was a beautiful sky, as beautiful as the birds singing, as the plants and threes shaking with the soft breeze and as the calm waters of the river passing by. But all this place’s beauty she didn’t even notice. She knew that that place was a fake, created by someone who didn’t know what life was. “At least, give me on last moment with him. Let me die happy and let me make his death a little softer. At least…” What more could she say? Nothing could change that fated moment. Nothing could make the time go back. But, even if something or someone could make it, wouldn’t it be the same?
One last time she looked into her own eyes in the river’s flow. She was getting thinner and thinner, she hasn’t eaten for a long time and she was not angry but she got weaker and couldn’t stand without fall. Then she closed her eyes and let the dreams and memories fly by. Since she got there she never stop to remember past things. But she couldn’t. Nothing came to her memory, not even when and how she met him. All that came out was the image of a boy with soft skin, pure blond hair along his back and eyes with a blue so pure that was stolen by the sky. Her angel. Her safety. Things that she would never have again. Then she felt something. Something in her belly, like a movement. But what could it be? In that place of fakes and lies it could be just one more of them. Another movement and then his image became stronger and she begun to cry, not tears of sadness but tears of happiness.
One last time he closed his eyes and saw her. He couldn’t think of nothing more but that, because, if he did, the only thing he was keeping of her would disappear. But the girl was still there. Her light skin, her dark hair tied up by one silver ribbon and her grey eyes as the sky above him. That’s how he saw her, face to face, for the last time.
Suddenly, it started to rain. The warmer rain he as ever felt. And, as the water was falling on him, he closed his eyes and thought about her. His light. But that rain didn’t bring him hope. Instead, brought happiness. Something he felt before but he couldn’t remember when and why. And he smiled, “At least, my one last moment is of joy.”
As she was looking to her own womb and asking many questions to herself, a light came out of the sky brighter then the sun, so she could say that was real. A woman appeared, the most beautiful female she has ever seen, wearing the same clothes that Egyptians do but her head was not human. Her head had the form of a lioness so she knew that the woman in front of her was a goddess.
The goddess stared talking with a voice that sounded to her like a melody so pure it was.
“Oh dear! How did you let yourself get to this point?” The girl let her eyes fall to the floor, running into sadness, “Listen, you know your love was strong and pure enough to condemn you and your lover to this suffering and oblivion and, unfortunately, I can not do a thing about your lifes, your destiny has already been written. But, is that fair to let them write the same words to your bound of love?” She was confused. What could that woman been talking about? Another movement. Another heating of heart. Another tear dropped. “You mean I’m…having a child? His seed…in me? But I can’t remember. How can’t I remember such a wonderful moment?” More tears fell from her eyes and a tornado of feelings was passing through her mind. Feeling of sadness, happiness, fear, lost, joy. Without waiting, the goddess started to say “In this moment, the only thing I can…”, and the girl interrupted “I want him to know…that I’m waiting for his child. Our child.” Her determinated look made that woman, a goddess, answer to her request “Very well, he will know, at time. But first, I have a proposal to do to you. As you know, I can’t do anything about your condition and let me finish”, she said when the girl was about to interrupt again, “But your seed may continue his life at gods’ protection, if you accept. In your last moment I will come and take it to Heaven where he will live eternally as gods’ disciple.”
He knew. He suddenly knew. So was his love’s for her power. But, how could he be with her in such a moment? The moment they were supposed to be together to see their prove of love born. He couldn’t, because destiny has already been written, and so, it couldn’t be changed. Could it?
For the first time, since she got there, she smiled, a pure moment of satisfaction and certainty as she answered the goddess “I can’t remember when and how, but we were happy. Moments of true happiness that destiny and you, gods, could only dream about ‘cause it was only ours. Our moments, our memories, our love. Thing that we would like to remember in our last moments but we can’t. And now, that I finally know that the prove of our link is in me you want to come in the moment of my last breath and take my only reason to smile? I’m sorry but if destiny, or who ever it is, is going to take our souls as its written then our child won’t be alone in this world of fakes. Wherever we go, our bound of love will go with us.” And for her surprise the goddess smiled too “The words of your destiny may be written, but the story did not end yet. Write it before they do and I will make sure that you, your lover and your seed will rest in the peace of gods.” The girl thanked. The goddess disappeared.
He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t touch her. But he knew that in the land of dreams nothing was forbidden so there he could hang her tight and whisper her gentle words so she could feel safe and so she could stop crying.
And she felt it. His invisible hug, his voiceless words. Then, she opened up her eyes and she saw him, his image, in the Nile’s calm waters. He was looking at the same place, to that endless desert, but his eyes said more words than his mouth could. Words of strength, words of hope, words of love.
Suddenly, without thinking, she extended up her arm and, with one of her fingers, she touched the image’s face.
And he felt it. Her soft and gentle touch upon his face. A touch he thought he would never feel again. And so, he extended his arm to the air, without even thinking in what he was doing, and waited for a hand that could never come.
She let herself fall in the ground. Her weakness started to take over her and she just laid down, still her sight stuck in the flow.
The cold, for long calm, started his violent movements against the boy. His hand fell with him in the floor, his eyes still stuck in the sky.
“What is going to be our child’s name? Do you have any idea?” with a sad smile in her face she knew that he couldn’t listen to her and so, she cried.
Of the sky only fell one drop, fated to reach that boy’s face bringing a message that only he could understand. And he did. He understood that the last tear just fell and no more he would feel the warmth of her touch. So he stood, in that right place in the middle of nowhere, waiting for death to come.
Far away from one another they’re bodies was, waiting for destiny’s full stop. Closer as the sea to the sand they’re hearts were and so, they could see each other warming and protecting one another from the world out there. And, in their hands, lies a child, their child, the seed of a perfect and cursed love.
That would be their eternal dream. The peace they so much desired. And suddenly, an image came out to both of their minds.
In Egypt’s silence, near Nile´s calm waters, all alone stands a girl. Her blue-sky eyes looking to the clouds passing by and her soft-skinned hand cutting the rivers flow as she was lying on the ground with an untidy blonde hair under her head. She was enjoying that moment. A moment of peace. A moment of freedom.
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