It’s curious how certain figures in history have had their names attached to things that rarely reflected who they were in life. Take Sappho, for instance. From the scraps and fragments handed down over the centuries, we know she was bisexual, at least by today’s understanding of the term. She was married to a merchant named Cercylas and had a daughter named Celis. Despite all the wonderful love poems to women that she wrote, legend has it that she killed herself by jumping off the Leucadian cliffs for her love of Phaon, a village fisherman. In the 19th and 20th … Continue reading Sappho

There is a single message saved in my inbox, a treasure from one of my favorite poets. In it, he writes: “Throughout the earth let dead lips congregate, out of the depths spin this long night to me as if I rode at anchor here with you…” — Pablo Neruda, Canto XII from The Heights of Macchu Picchu. These words, nestled within the confines of my inbox, echo a timeless resonance. They carry the weight of ages, bridging the chasm between the past and the present. Neruda’s voice, immortalized in ink, reaches out across the expanse of time and space, … Continue reading Pablo Neruda

The undeniable poetry of it all… The way the light kisses the snowberry as if for the last time, gentle and fleeting, yet infinite in its grace. The way the dewdrop clings desperately to the leaf, embracing its ephemeral existence before it surrenders to gravity. The way two winged ones share the same fragile branch, a delicate dance of balance and trust. These moments, small and profound, make me want to live better. They inspire me to bow in reverence, to weep for the beauty that surrounds me, to sing the song of existence with all its highs and lows. … Continue reading The Undeniable Poetry of Everything

Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us. In the quiet corners of our hearts, let us release the weight of unreciprocated affection. For in holding on, we only burden ourselves with the shadows of what could never be. To forget with generosity is to embrace the freedom that comes with letting go. It is to understand that not all hearts beat in harmony, and that is okay. We must cherish the love we have given, even if it was not returned, for it is a testament to our capacity to feel deeply and to give selflessly. In … Continue reading Let us Forget …

I am the first comma in a sentence that refuses to wait for a period to conclude the paragraph. I am tender with ellipses, for I am remade in continuities. I never end, for even sorrows pass, not needing a conclusion, but a re-establishment. I no longer suffer from the syndrome of unfinished stories. I am frivolous with episodes, for we live by chance. And if we do not wait for new arrivals, we will not allow ourselves, we will not find our meaning. My identity has its crises, for what I desired yesterday, I am not even sure exists … Continue reading My Identity

If you were to ask me where I’ve been during the days when you were dreaming with open eyes, I would say, “My friend, I was in despair.” You might think this despair is just a trend from ’82, but truly, I am discontent, desperately shouting out in Portuguese. I carry sixty-one years of dreams and blood, rooted in South America. By the force of fate, an Argentine tango suits me far better than a blues. You might think this despair is merely fashionable, but I wish this crooked prose, like a knife, could cut into your flesh. This cry … Continue reading If you were to ask me …

Voilà donc comme j’étais, rêveur, insouciant, avec l’humeur indépendante et railleuse, me bâtissant une destinée et rêvant à toute la poésie d’une existence pleine d’amour, vivant aussi sur mes souvenirs. Le collège m’était antipathique, un microcosme où la régularité était synonyme d’emprisonnement. Ce serait une curieuse étude que ce profond dégoût des âmes nobles et élevées, manifesté de suite par le contact et le froissement des hommes. Je n’ai jamais aimé une vie réglée, des heures fixes, une existence d’horloge, où il faut que la pensée s’arrête avec la cloche, où tout est remonté d’avance, pour des siècles et des … Continue reading Rêveur

When the poem you are reading does not tell your story, seek one that does. When the poems you find do not reflect your journey, pick up your pen and craft one. And when the verses you create still do not capture your essence, persist until they do. Do not rest until your voice sings true, until your heart’s whispers are etched in ink. For your story is yours alone, a precious tapestry woven from your dreams, struggles, triumphs, and hopes. Write your own story, with all its beauty and imperfection, because it deserves to be told. Embrace the power … Continue reading — Dear daughters,

Toi, belle âme qui fait de moi un poème, tu transformes les matines d’incertitude en poésie. Nos souvenirs résonnent comme des cordes qui vibrent ensemble, chantent ensemble et crient ensemble leurs désirs. Je veux rendre inévitable ce qui pourrait être évité, ressentir chaque nuance de manière complexe. Car si l’Amour est une terre sans chemin, je me suis égaré car je veux te retrouver. À chaque pas que je fais, je me livre, car je reviens toujours à nous deux, et nous ne revenons pas tous les deux. Les syllabes de ton nom se confondent avec les battements de ma … Continue reading Belle Âme

One year since my mother passed, and the longing that resides in my chest has grown too large to contain. It overflows through my eyes, each tear a testament to the depth of my grief. There is a restlessness within me, a discontent that makes every breath laborious. When this longing cannot be confined, my eyes grow weary from the wait, and I feel so small, almost invisible, lost in a sea of sorrow. When the longing strikes, it is as if my very soul cries out, begging for the impossible: “Come back soon, come ease this immense longing and … Continue reading Written one year after my mother passed…