📷Beauty of Creativity - Photography

THE RED LANTERN

What’s the point of showing you’re dead and, even better, breastless,
Mrs. Adelaide Janeleira?
That His Beast has gone back to dipping hands into the plate
or that Dr. Falaz is left with nothing but flies?
Or that old women, soaked in urine, haunt pastry shops,
still cooing to Brilhantinas?
What tactless impulse still allows me
to speak of the three who—treason!—are no longer there
where they stood for an eternity?
What stumble in taste makes me always fall
onto the singer no one listens to
(if only the Old One wished she were good, even if she didn’t sing…)
What ancient shyness makes me peck-kiss the ivory
hand of Moema
when what was worth it was to bite it
so that for once there’d be blood
in that room?
What do others care about some package
I carry in my soul?
Why strum frustration?
Why grind aggression?
Come on, tell me your opinion!
– I sit in the stalls, see myself on stage, and don’t take myself seriously.
– If I took you seriously (are you listening, Alexandre?)
I’d let you glide nonchalantly through sanctuaries,
allow certain females to devour you
while you’d praise God
without those curse words that now fill your mouth,
or (sob-solution) I’d make you a great and cherished outcast,
one who knew how to organize excursions to Anguish, Remorse, and the Other Side,
but never rob the dead of their precious sleep.
If I took you seriously, I’d put you on track,
my red lantern!
What matters is the small-time glory (a monkeyish name)?
What matters is showing up in Stockholm aboard a poem
that doesn’t even make it to Trás-os-Montes?
Why bargain with mirrors
when mirrors reflect themselves in us?
Don’t you think, colleague, that poetry has nothing to do with research?
(Research is done at home, as my grandmother, the writer, used to say).
Don’t you think, colleague, that we’re all exaggerating
in crafting knives with blades that lack handles?
Don’t you think, dear colleague, that poetry’s goal should be practical truth?
“And what is practical truth?” you’d ask me immediately, cornering me.
“And what is fire?” my son once asked me with gestures.
“It’s what burns,” I told him by mimicking burning him with the tip of a cigarette.
Is this practical truth? Help me out, please, dear colleague.

Madam colleague, pardon me, but if your husband doesn’t fulfill, so to speak, conjugal duties,
what does poetry have to do with that?
Confide instead in a friend, or if you have courage, in a male friend,
who could very well be your servant here...
When you do a striptease, dear colleague,
don’t forget to leave yourself completely naked in the poem
but only take off the black stockings at the end—men like that more...
If you, colleague, display verses in the window so neo-generous,
what must you keep in the warehouse, eh?
Psst! Colleague! Care for a little shot,
a little shot in that fine body of yours?

We already know, most honorable colleague,
that you carry some angels flying
in your paper sky,
but don’t forget to refuel them
with earthly fuel now and then:
they’ll seem more real...
Colleague (if I may...), has your rose
already disrobed?
Instead of deceitful roses,
send for 9 pennies of bread and 3 of wine,
all nicely drawn...

And now, colleagues, ending
this slow-cooked fantasy
where no curtain falls,
let us sing allegro for the critics,
remembering what’s slipping away,
forgetting what’s long gone:
If not for us
who would you be?
If not for you
who would we be?
Who reads us?
You (and us...)
Who reads you?
We (and you...)
It all stays, then,
between us, between us...

"ALEXANDRE O´NEILL"

I am sharing photos of landscapes, moments and experiences. Nature and sea are the most visited themes in my photo collection, but any attention-grabbing aspect can be photographed. Hope you enjoy it...