Search among Armando Taborda's articles

Since a long time now I don't remember my memories I think they are winged without weight nor shape pieces watching me abyss where I fall asleep. Now I find them again the puzzle becomes Portugal without promises gains shape and weight under the abyss of

Today at noon the sun is the only sound in my desert and vague rumours of abstract images fade away into the air as a mirage of life over my far horizon /// Ao meio dia de hoje o sol é o único som no meu deserto e os vagos rumores de

We are fascinated by the text cause it uses and abuses of lying words over which we walk in our insomnia's track. The word is an artifice and the text a light beam that sometimes burn and engrave the brief moment by fire while we feel

I assume the responsibility of watching a dreams' parade just now that the whole conquested liberties guarantee to me the right of indifference and the nocturnal breeze over the quay-bridge on River Geba provides me comfort enough. There are

Up above the Great Lisbon my soul travels along with the nightfall breeze a restrained fever keeps the temperature of my body writing hides from me easily on the other Tagus River bank under the same soft blow a murmur's herald turns me dreamy.

QUE FAZER DE NÓS SE TODOS SOMOS INCAPAZES DE CRIAR UM UNIVERSO MAIS CLARO, CREDÍVEL E PERECÍVEL DO QUE ESTE INFINITO EM QUE MORREMOS? /// QUE HACER DE NOSOTROS SI TODOS SOMOS INCAPACES DE CREAR UN UNIVERSO MÁS CLARO, CREIBLE Y

Flap the wings of distressed bird fear that my flight couldn't be enough to take off from me to me traveling without intermediate stop in mystery and darkness. Bater de asas de pássaro aflito medo que me não chegue o voo para largar de mim

my body is my home where my steps drive me out of myself o meu corpo é a minha casa onde os meus passos me levam para fora de mim by Armando TABORDA, 2012 (post 1st edition, 2012; 2nd edition, 2022)

the swimming pool and the sea are at a dive distance and the insidious wave of heat covers our skin as if it was sweat in the beach blind from bright light deaf by salt crystals in the ears and dumb by so many people amazement knees in water and my back

I am the gardener of my polychromatic garden the grass of all plans ledges recesses refuge of weeds is green and the water to irrigate my life is sparse. Sou jardineiro de meu policromático jardim é verde a relva de todos os planos socalcos recantos

The window panes make the refraction of the flying light towards the horizon looking for the night and the illuminated windows of the empty buildings. The purple light watched from far away is from the spilled blood in the buildings' facades

Despite daily repetition the sun surprises us even if obscured by clouds it accomplishes the universal travel and we too small in our subaltern planetary orbit so glad of heat and eager of light O sol apesar de repetido surpreende-nos todos os dias

In my false modesty I am immense as the universe so you are in the same infinity love at the nucleus fusion of the bodies nuclear holocaust of thought. Diz-me a falsa modéstia que sou imenso como o universo e nesse infinito também tu amor na

if I see you and you see me if our destiny is to see each other when we meet on this precarious planet where we live why do we pretend not to see each other? why do not politicians come to us? why do we pay them exorbitant funds to make utopias a

I have two open accounts on social networks, Facebook and Ipernity, and I'm the administrator of a poetry website, "Livro Único". Today I woke up under the fear of uncertainty of what will happen to them after my death. I suddenly remembered that I

One can hear the waltz night within and us useless at all ghosts dance´s centre fatuous and futile ancestors nothing discovering that we might clearly see under the centuries' light that whirls forever the same waltz. (to read

For Lionel Deyna Cartesian birds plane fat ideas from highs which control tiny dreams fears and utopias as soul's projects. Mammal birds attack in circle at twilight afterwards they dream night hanging in caves where sunlight

I am a writer of little writing just not to bore you with repetitions. Days occur equal and also nights and tides we look to the full moon or the sunlight to the dark night or the tide's mark on the beach surf as it was for the first time. If the world

Between sky and sea there is the wind I breathe the waves swing for and against the tide provides dimension strength and meaning to the surrounding view that annuls me I will navigate some day if my anchored feet turn to wing or row or sail for my

Shadows hide behind the music and perfectly audible sounds are lost in the invisible forest but I lift my head and the powerful light stars twinkle the cosmic music I hear through night's darkness As sombras escondem-se atrás da música e os sons

Nothing is all that remains from everything we are given by life the day the night the joy the pain the writing the voice the colour the sound the love the friendship the mystery the dream the art the work the time the space the finite the infinite

There are trees in our city they are dreams into the new avenues' sky that run away from the buildings where we hide our disillusions. A nossa cidade tem árvores são sonhos no céu das avenidas novas que fogem dos prédios onde escondemos as nossas

I want to remember the colours of my grey dream and the geography of valleys and mountains rivers and deserts seas and oceans but my subconscious only draws decadent cities yes those are very tangible crumbled in the blood that flows through the building

Red flower flush of gardens impregnated of carbon dioxide from passing cars in the neighborhood at more than 50km/h do not realizing that the flower opened by day's heat smiles to bees butterflies and other insects that smash against their

For a long time I would like to talk to you about a fabulous French artist, Agatha Ukeo, my friend, from my age group but as young as my grandchildren, because her creative mind is airy, colorful, and untimely. She invents characters that seem naïf but

Wait we are always waiting for the right time the wrong person the surprising event the unexpected love the sudden death why not? right now in the car parking waiting for. Espera estamos sempre à espera do momento certo da pessoa errada do facto

I like the blue phase of the white nights while red alive blood cells are floating in the aqueous dream's gray against the darkest background of blindly clenched eyes. Gosto da fase azul das noites em branco quando no cinzento aquoso do sonho

Velvet time no sun neither rain nor wind the night humidity weeps grass more green now against the grey day nearby under my glance my private landscape. Tempo de veludo sem sol nem chuva nem vento a humidade da noite chora relva agora mais verde

O Amigo e Poeta António José Cravo gravou este meu poema em youtu.be/JoFvGsysDRA (13.07.2022)

A piece of paper fell from my hand as if it were an idea that stood in the balcony and flew taken by the wind to get lost light and useless Caiu-me um papel da mão como se fosse uma ideia que se pôs à varanda e voou levada pelo vento até se perder leve

On my porch there is a resting chair without a body and in my house one night without shadows by corners or hidden in drawers and my soul planes around the light in more and more shorter and faster circles vortex of the body which will lay down in the

Maria Adelina AMORIM (MAA), poet-historian, narrates human condition since immemorial time, from mythology to virtual society, with rooted cultural references, boh personally and originally assumed through frequent and surprising images and metaphors.

A few days ago, my step daughter Cristina Brito went to the beach but forgot her Moleskine Notebook. The only similar thing she had on hand was an old Círculo de Leitores novel, in the handag, for travelling reading. It was there in the margins and blank

There is something indelible in late afternoon almost night as if the tenderness that falls on the warm and humid city was a sensual curtain that hides you from me behind the window I look on the treetops at the avenue they drip varnishes on parked cars

The Portuguese Army Day is celebrated on October 24th remembering the remote year of 1147, when Lisbon was conquered by D. Afonso Henriques, our first king and founder. Last years the itinerant ephemeris has been celebrated in diverse main cities.

"life is a cross", it's said, but not everyone carries it. there is a lot of cheating, for example, pretending not to see or have it, nailing it on the back of an unwary innocent, setting it on the high altar or at the church facade. "a vida é uma

Drums are beaten far away I don't know who is being executed I imagine myself a sailor without navigated sea hidden in the Jerónimos' crypt cowardly pasted to the stone's columns as they were land to discover deserter in time to sail

A constant wind blows around the place where I'm living on and drags a repeated word pieces of paper and garbage circulate in whirls by corners pigeons peck crumbs at the squares of public buildings and the wind pushes the word hunger here and there

The crowd in the "Joe's Bar" is almost human smiling smoke spirals around the words. Glasses straighten up colourless by the kiss of lips caress of hands musics and glimpses. "That's nice the music sounds perfect" she said. The crowd in the "Joe's Bar"

Human waste supple as water foam on the barracks' wall till collapsing in tears fragments of cement and lime interweaved dust by our hands. Desperdício humano dúctil como espuma de água no muro do quartel até ruir em lágrimas estilhaços de

Alone in the main chapel of the Santa Maria da Vitória Monastery with stone and stone and stone and stained glass windows around I wait for the mystic light that converted Paul Claudel at Notre-Dame de Paris without any explanation from quantum physics or

At the half-open mouth looking for an exit tongue caresses the palate tired from the teeth erosion. Na boca entreaberta à procura de saída a língua acaricia o palato cansada da erosão dos dentes. by Armando

Speaking to me addiction while I write to me in comma's solitude hindrances of thought in dots' silence paragraphs of everything weaved in the game of words that we lose cause we repeat things that pressure the blood too much more than veins

There isn't light enough to clearly see the insects insidious flight under the trees and birds shadow the batrachian's libidinous shine at the puddle of females sticking in the mud the cloud's cornucopia suggesting winged gods the

It was wrong to say that stones burn till a meteorite rain fell down into my conscience. Era falso dizer-se que as pedras ardem até que uma chuva de meteoritos caiu em minha consciência. by Armando TABORDA, 2012 (post 1st edition, 2012; 2nd

I drink too much. Without an aim is drinking that time flies without hurting too much. Sleep and heartburn remain to complete my day. Bebo demais. Sem querer é a beber que o tempo passa sem doer demais. Ficam o sono e a azia a completar o

You that feel solitude as belonging only to you let the time goes by cause there are more persons who love non-existent silences dawns slow coming to whom don't want wake up thoughts that stay by night alone without moonlight and there also are more

While death is part of life there is nothing like fall asleep everyday rehearsal without memory of dreams corrupting so to speak the definitive sleep. Enquanto a morte for parte da vida não há nada como adormecer no dia-a-dia

I'm getting lost through crossed ways complex deflections infinite paths I don't come back nor I run away from future of uncertain ways complex fears infinite dreams. Determined I carry on and stumble I fall to the ground and

I give shelter to my insomnia in the wing of my dream and I dream I am a passing cloud that protects me from the hot and unlikely sun that will be rising and certainly flooding me of light. Abrigo a minha insónia na asa do meu sonho e sonho que

The plump, little, and friendly ladies of Armanda PASSOS (AP) give a happy and peaceful look to those who contemplate them. In 2002, Mário CLÁUDIO said: "I see AP's painting as a great resting place [...] I don't know a Portuguese painter who better

The Teresa ALVAREZ last book, dedicated "to those who turn words into ammuniton", is organized in "fragments", as if they were the shrapnel of all Ukrainian wars in the world, the destruction, the death, the suffering, the inexplicable aberration that

Angels and saints of excellent behavior with wings to fly into the sky and other blues stay on ground their feet tied to the clay anchorage infinity isn't a destination neither route nor way. Anjos e santos de exemplar

SILENCE One can hear a far off outcry closer silence increases from the immediate silence it doesn't matter if the sound is universal lament or God's roar upon imperfect landscape or Valkyries' gallop into the bohemian dawn the outcry