<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/49526115″>Cradle of a poem by mefeedyoume 2012</a> from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user11909581″>Ricardo Andrade</a> on <a href=”http://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Cradle of a poem

My ship’s prow, while traversing an emerald sea,

freeing air-bubbles from the foamy (above density),

balancing a cradle, like a mother’s caring  swing,

following the melody of the traversed waves-

My ship’s prow, going ahead to Atlantis.

I was on the deck, sleeveless turtleneck,

dropping sweat, from dry-strand like salty skin

–  Reminiscence of a past simply-water.

I am facing the horizon

agnostic, rational,

with the look of a free-thinker,

alone with a mind breathing through

memorable eyes, on the sea, voyaging

I am seeing and I will tell you the story

  • of “The Arab section of Israel”
  • of  Mary Magdalene

Where once loins were cut into equal parts

and the divide came.

Thereof he found the Earth before sin; uncorrupted.

The one of the little creatures and souls

(aromatic herbs dressed him with vivid colours and birds

alighted on his shoulder, murmuring conversations of birds).

There was no desire in there,

no man-language. I don’t think they ever had any thought.

But he knew them.

How could they love him?

It was the profession of a Natural Religion

Of living beings communing with deaths.

You ask: “why that tiny star? Why a Sun, if not ours?”

He did not know.

“Evil! Evil!” If it wasn’t for them.

He said: “If I’m a man I’m not a zero”

But he kept the remembrance of that action committed on other planet.


He cried, there were no words for the Lord of Life and of Dead.

He stood quite.

He had become an alchemist. He knew Sirius was a word and a no word.

Sirius was a start he saw and the clouds around, and the path, and “going back home” in itself it was also the star. And then the star was another, maybe another suffering, another love, and life, and another poet reading a poet (and a woman giving herself to the first poet – and to the ones to come).

Because poetry is giving birth.

Listen to me

I will teach you how to build a cross

where you can burn the wood

sacrificing the history of a tree

because trees are mothers

and are sacred

You can then foretell

because that fire is present – sacred

that tree is past – sacred

and the ashes are future – sacred

and you’re an alchemist

and you have visions

And poetry is giving birth from the history of trees

before sin

(Inspired in the story “The Dream Of a Ridiculous Man “ by Dostoyevsky)

R.S.Andrade 2012