There is a doorway to a kind of night you are,
your breath rising and falling, the profile of wind,
forms and shadows covering the field, how things react
differently there, like the moon, shedding its binary beat.
You say words are finer and more awful with the solitude
of night, that when you climb the outer cliffs the world is fully lit
behind you. Maybe the stars flicker, maybe a mist falls
from the mountains like silky verse,
but clouds are still the reservoirs of history - heaven
disappearing into its own infinite funnel.
I know this the way I know our voices will be classified
as a metatextual tear in morning, the holes in o
The sight of stars in growing dark
Lends the soul a comfort still
Knowing darkness will not fill
The night completely; no, a spark
Is always there, no matter where
Your thoughts may lead you; blank and stark.
The doubt will come again, it will--
But stars will light your dreamer's heart.
I see the maps, watch you navigate -
you will always find the shortest route
between two points, I know -
but no straight line can satisfy
this wind over water,
or a thousand meandering coastlines,
curving latitude and longitude,
currents marked "adventure"
and dives into forbidden.
The ocean is a shade of blue perfection,
the map, folded in my hand, is salt,
and something like tears.
A life began in the heat of Georgia.
Nostalgia, sick, sick, sad nostalgia,
evokes the most unforgettable sound.
She paid a visit to her ancient stomping ground.
The familiar home where broken records played.
A mad memory's cemetery is what she found,
Her childhood swingset a mere skeletal frame.
Rust's on her fingers.
The dust's in her eyes.
Hands that once anchored her to swings,
are instruments for less carefree things.
Peridot eyes that shone what innocence defined,
have dulled to the point that peace cannot bind.
Distrust's burdening her heart.
A cold front's shaking her apart.
Love given without reservation or guile,
was second natu
she writes in the empty spaces between the words
between the world,
world-weary fingers and toes and pengrips, knives
letter-opener swords, typewriter machetes
arm-wrestling with fate and the universe on a piece of paper,
computer screens painting faces with colors
stained-glass hyphenated hue-tint-shade glory
she waits.
she is patient.
she's their patient, doctors and nurses
emergency room, operating room, clinical study
stethoscope children
they wish fervently to cut her open.
her insides will be beautiful, they say,
beautiful and pink and full of words.
unwords, she says.
she writes on her skin, on napkins and paper bags
i
Star Double Crossed Blind My Eyes by SleentheBeast, literature
Literature
Star Double Crossed Blind My Eyes
I remember how the stars seemed
so much bigger
brighter
alive....
A night sky so deep
imagination could swim
a thousand million fathoms
and never find a breath.
I pulled the glittering veil of galaxies
over my mind and surfed an infinity
of dreams.
Now the distant points taunt...
blurry legacy of half-baked choices
and neurotic fancies.
An oblivion of twinkling regret
and the crushing vacuum
of lost hope.
You are Autumn, beautiful
as falling. And me, I never really loved
any of the seasons; it's just that winter
and i agree on a lot of things.
I told you
I am a bright, cold day
but you knew: the majesty of a window
could never trick you.
So I am back
for the poetry of your winter clothes;
the music of your feet in the porch;
the thickness of make-up against you.
I am coal-fire in love with you,
Darling: I will not last the night.
Can't you hear it? Can't you feel how she is calling? The Berimbau is singing. She is calling, she is urging you: Play with me! I won't let you go before I am silent!
She doesn't rest. How can you rest? Into the roda. Playing. Just don't rest. Raise your voice. Together. The energy is flowing. We are a part of it.
You are playing. Fatigue, what is that? You are moving, turning, kicking, evading.
It is already over. You give your place to another Capoerista. You feel the fatique.
But soon you want to play again. The Berimbau is still playing, the energy still flowing.
In your thoughts you are still playing. What would you do in their pla
Life is how you play it by capoeiras-world, literature
Literature
Life is how you play it
The berimbau calls
(é me chama, camará).
The berimbau teaches -
- it teaches, my friend -
O jogo bonito
(que eu quero ver).
Esse berimbau de ouro,
It sings to us;
Sings in our sleep, as we dream.
And we visit far away places
(Ie, Paranaue, Paraná).
We dance out the mandinga,
singing: Ie, viva meu Deus.
(Ie, viva meu Deus, camará!).
We float like butterflies, sting like bees
(a malandragem mata um, camará).
And we dance the dance of freedom,
Out in the streets.
At the foot of the berimbau,
we see ourselves.
In the roda de capoeira,
we learn to live.
We learn
that life
is