There are many poems which touch us through the years. Poetry has the ability to say what we feel. It’s rhythm sometimes comforts us as a child can be comforted in a rocking chair. It lays bare the soul and pretense and pride are burned away by the fires of yesterday. It comforts us when we feel sadness and despair. It inspires us when hope is almost lost.The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world diesWith the dying sun.The mind has a thousand eyesAnd the heart but one;Yet the light of a … Continue reading The Touch of Poetry

J’ai vu tant de mers, tant de rivages, tant de ciel et de paysages. Chaque horizon s’est offert à moi, dévoilant des secrets infinis et des beautés insoupçonnées. J’ai vu tant d’escales et tant de ports, où chaque arrêt était une nouvelle promesse, une nouvelle aventure à embrasser. J’ai pu me chauffer au creux des îles, où le soleil caressait ma peau et où la brise marine chantait des mélodies douces. Je me suis caché au fond des villes, trouvant refuge dans les rues animées et les coins tranquilles, là où la vie pulsait avec une vigueur inégalée. J’ai marché … Continue reading Tant de Mers

The sacred is not confined to hallowed halls or holy texts; it is the quietude in a hammock’s sway on a lazy Sunday, the anticipation in an airport’s embrace. It is the stillness between life’s cacophony, a late-night tea, a duvet’s cozy retreat. Sacredness is the aroma of a meal, the earth’s perfume after rain, the silence of a fulfilled desire. It is the window that frames the dying day, the kiss that speaks without words, the surrender of entwined souls. In a room of cherished memories, the sacred finds its home, a gentle reprieve from the mundane. It coexists … Continue reading Sacred

The kitchen is silent, except for the bread. It sits there, a dense, unformed mystery. How many slices in a bread? I hold the knife and feel the vertigo of choice. If I cut it thin, I am a miser of moments, stretching the wheat into a transparent ghost of itself. If I cut it thick, I am a glutton for the present. The bread doesn’t care. It only waits for the edge of my will. It depends, you see. It always depends on the hand that holds the steel. I think of the old screen door. It is a … Continue reading The Weight of the Slices

Sou tomada pelo ir e vir das coisas; das pessoas, de cada sopro de vida que entra e sai sem pedir licença. É um movimento de maré: o que sobe e o que desce, o empurrão e o recuo, esse ritmo que não é meu, mas que me habita. Lá fora, os carros correm com uma urgência cega, um fluxo contínuo que não para para ser olhado. E os “olás”, e os “adeuses”… tudo o que acontece nesse intervalo, nesse entre-lugar que fica espremido entre o início e o fim. Cada pedaço de tempo é marcado com uma precisão cruel, … Continue reading O Entre-Lugar

I have chimeras in my eyesBright with thirty candlesFrom sex jumps seedsExploding locomotivesI have hoarse gutsIn a rosary of my faithMy muscles are so fragilTo this network of intriguesMy Afro-latino soul criesImplodes, rips, squeezesAnd in my sleeping fingers wanderThe moon in my dreams winsSo what?👣🇧🇷 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Quimeras

The word “grief” is too small. It is a word for a broken glass or a lost dog. It is not a word for the way it was when I was seventeen. At seventeen, the world was very old and I was very tired of it. I carried a thing inside me that was not meant to be carried. It was a dark weight, and then it broke. It was a bad business. There was the blood and the muscle and the heart failing in the chest, the way a horse fails when its legs are gone. The dreams died … Continue reading The Geography of the Break

And that was how I fell. I fell for an eternity and yet with the brutal speed of a single heartbeat, dreaming entire lives, thick, heavy romances, in the half-second it took for the air to claim me. But the floor… the floor was a lie that never arrived. I fell, instead, into the breathing geometry of those I have loved. They were the ones who had once slid into my life with the silence of shadows, fitting against my skin as if they were the missing pieces of my own mystery. I looked around and saw them: the glorious, … Continue reading The Fall

Nossa história não acaba; ela se demora. É um sopro, um vento que carrega segredos que o tempo ainda não teve coragem de contar. Somos viajantes cansados, sim, mas esse cansaço é uma crosta. Carregamos o peso de sóis e luas que não pedimos, mas que se infiltraram nos poros, tatuando a alma com o rigor da existência. Estamos machucados até o osso. E as cicatrizes? Não são marcas de dor, são constelações. Um mapa de carne para quem teve a audácia de estar vivo. Partes de mim fugiram. Foram procurar um equilíbrio que não existe, esse tal de centro … Continue reading O Nascimento do que Já Era

Un sommeil réparateur m’avait échappé pendant plus d’une semaine.Face à un autre “anniversaire”,Mon esprit courait au-delà des faits jusqu’à l’opinion,Au-delà de la raison jusqu’au délire,Au-delà de la logique jusqu’au ressenti. Là, je me tenais, confronté au miroir,Osant poser à l’image qui me fixait la question suivante.“Eh bien, tu as soixante-six ans maintenant, qu’as-tu ?” Mes sourcils commencèrent à tressaillir,Des vêtements amples semblaient soudain étroits,Sentant le début d’un mal de tête dû à une pression basse.Visiblement mal à l’aise, rancunier face à l’interrogation du miroir. Quelle impétuosité, pensais-je.Intrusif à ma vie privée,Insensible et provocateur.Le miroir cherchait certainement à me désarmer… ©️ … Continue reading Miroir