Poems From The Portuguese
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Sara F. Costa

(B. 1987)

Sara F. Costa’s poetic creation opens the door to the revitalising of many themes, through original image-filled language in which meaningful aphorisms and epigrammatic elements co-exist. Her poetry holds in perfect balance inner and outer universes seen from many angles – be that eroticism (of body or soul) or the proximity of technology. Hers is a Multiple, Refreshing and New Poetic Voice.

Sara F. Costa has a degree in Oriental Languages and Cultures and an MA in Intercultural Studies: Portuguese/Chinese, from Minho University. She works as a teacher at the Leiria Polytechnic Institute and is preparing a PhD in International Relations – International Politics and Conflict Resolution, at the University of Coimbra.

Poetry books since 2000:

A melancolia das mãos (2005), Uma devastação inteligente (2007), O Sono Extenso (2011)



24 Setembro, 2018By bitcliq

rough mornings
burn away sleep
and fever fizzes up the most vertical of words.
your finger on my name exerts agonising pressure
and a spasm runs through this text
while hell is slowly hatching inside my chest
like a snake creeping into the unsteady hollows of the hours.
sparks fly out of books
and the flames urgently heal each less intended breath
but there are assignments less sweet than others
and there are syllables set to vibrate
in the core of the deepest innocence.

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a few months have gone by since I learned your face by heart
a few days have passed since I knew your name,
a few hours have gone by since i left your room.
from my room to yours time is a sombre passageway
floating on the edges of images.
i find myself lying on the soft robes of expectation, i find the meanderings
of a fetid academicism
a soft roaring robe that devours my waiting, that burns through my waiting,
though i wait for nothing, in particular, except perhaps
more waiting.
arteries weakened by the years run through me.
the skin of fear slides with me across the room
or is it my ideas being flooded by the sampness of thesed cracked walls?
in my voice i sense the burden of the furniture and the burden of all
the fingerprints of all the other students who, like me, have used it.
in my mouth, i taste the salty memory of you, or the salty memory
of what i think you are,
of what i’d like you to be,
of wthat i’d like me to be together with what i’d like you to be.
fear is stifling age, delight in pessimism is perched on the chest of drawers
and some minutes have elapsed since I started hating you.

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the power of the landscape corrupts the text,
it penetrates its frailty.
the game of the tactile, of the glowing, of the scenic tension
of your name –
so tense is it, that it isn’t displayable –
but i can always display this photograph,
not on walls as in times past, but
i can still ingrain it into your subconscious through the feed of
your wall on one of those social networks where there’s no place for debate
since each person is the dictator of his own reality, which might even be

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there’s a savage light

there’s a savage light scanning my name
slowly going insane
within the humid gut of memory.
the voice’s space
expands until it reaches the unbreathable age of objects.
i sit watching the beach
how the water dreads coming too close
almost touching on questions.
my eyelids drain down to the nerves.
there is an unbearable coldness in the slide of time
over the moulded plaster of each name,
and a feverish place, where intelligence manages to crumble away
at all the decipherable traces of life.
each name, in the inner stillness of its womb,
in the simmered blood of nights,
carries an unpronounceable
heavy light.

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i’ll search for you all over my body,
i know you inhabit me,
buried somewhere inside my ego.
if you aren’t there, you’re in the stars’ entrails and that’s the same,
it’s the language of a film you found mediocre because it was abstract,
it’s the chromatic spectrum of the grammar
you inflict on me,
it’s the agitated nerves yelling at the poem
and it’s the poem shouting back
and the words jerking down through the tendons.
i press each letter into the deepest loneliness
and the pages suffer the weight of the syllables.

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