Fragmentos de um poeta (poema 2)

O que escrevo informa-me de que consegui;
ainda aqui estou.
Menos por sobrevivência,
mais por vício.

Viciado no néctar que se diz acre
ou deixar os corações dilacerados 
e as páginas dos livros manchadas de lágrimas,
escrevo, de muitas maneiras,
não sobre amor,
mas por senti-lo.

 Leonor Hipólito /2021 

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Time waits for no one
Only I do wait for you

my longing
with no more
but my time
with you,
but no, it isn’t you!

I hear the howl
I smell the fear
I touch the sound
and whisper in the darkness.

Thoughts can bruise and
bruises can become enormous shadows.

I draw a figure;
it does not matter
what shape
nor color
nor even which tone matches my feeling.
I am blindfolded as I do it.

Time waits for no one.
Only my waiting persists.

 Leonor Hipólito /2021



Resgate do inverso

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 Metamorfose do olhar

Um rouxinol entrou na minha casa.
Deu voltas perdidas e acabou na minha mão.
Aflito, deixou-se ficar.
Seus olhos fechavam e abriam, seu bico tentava sorver o ar.
Por fim, o calor do meu gesto restitui-lhe o canto.
Vida aflorou no seu pequeno corpo e peito palpitante.
Naquele momento, fomos um.
Logo de seguida partiu.

Leonor Hipólito /2021 
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In the very beginning of twilight,
when birds make from the sky a drawing,
I can briefly dismiss my sadness;
I exchange it for acceptance.

Acceptance of what?, I soon inquire.

It is in the twilight that all my senses wake
and all my tensions dissipate.
When you are more present than ever...
and I walk under the violet sky,
and the city lights disguise the stars that I can imagine anyway.
It is in this in-between state that I decide I don't want to choose.
I want to be all shades of pink
and have nothing to regret.


Bem no início do crepúsculo,
quando os pássaros se ocupam em desenhar o céu,
largo a minha tristeza;
troco-a por um pedaço de cor à volta dos meus braços
e dou as boas-vindas ao que vier.

Mas logo a seguir questiono: a quê?

É no lusco-fusco que os meus sentidos se avivam
e todas as minhas tensões se vão.
Quando estás mais presente que nunca...
e eu caminho sob o céu violeta,
e as luzes da cidade ofuscam as estrelas, que mesmo assim consigo imaginar.
É neste estado de transição
que decido não querer decidir,
mas ser todas as tonalidades de rosa
e não ter nada com que me arrepender.

Leonor Hipólito /2019



There must be a twist, an edge where I can see the other side, the front and the reverse in one single glance. There must be a tip to find, a corner to bend or perhaps to mend. A surface to walk on and to fall from. A line on which I can hang my thoughts whenever I feel tired and from which I swing in times of happiness. 

There must be opportunities that I will expect amazed, surprises for which I will keep my eyes veiled and movements I will enact fully conscious.

Fragments, holes and wholeness.
Leaps, breaks, gazes and instants when everything seems to stop but it does not.

If I walk will I defy motion?

I dismiss, mishandle and misbehave to lose sense.
I hold on to and hope to enjoy.
I am and I am not.

Leonor Hipólito / 2011
In Beyond Emotions
Pego em toda a dor e faço com ela uma joia, que uso ao peito. Para lembrar o que aprendi.
Mesmo nos recantos mais horrendos do ser, onde o ódio corre como água numa gruta, ao virar de um curva está o amor.
Leonor Hipólito / 2020 
Of this and more

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(...) Art challenges our noticeable tendency to encapsulate impressions and conform them to fixed patterns. It calls upon us instead to observe, imagine, and remember our inherent quality to express in inventive ways.

In a creative process we go through phases of transformation - insights that bring forth a sense of realisation - and perhaps a conclusion to what ideas generate besides the search for meaning may well be all.

Observing, feeling, learning, creating, growing, on and on - life, we are. (...)

Leonor Hipólito 2016/17
In Looking at us looking at us


Without ever being, becomes

She awakes at the dawn of every breath,
Opening windows of wind, undressing ghost of the past,
Her domesticity.
Then feral, she finds herself amongst untamed thoughts,
In days and nights, always and for now
In hearts; Slamming doors that shake the Earth
Free, she transfigures herself.

Defiant, lively and capricious,
She moves forward without remorse,
Refusing to waist her breath on reason, dust, bricks of history
On foliage eaten by those who keep chewing, ruminating, swallowing
Views from an insatiable gloom that she naturally appeases.

Eternal, silent. She flaunts a new garment,
At the dawn of every breath.


Que permanecendo sem ser, será

Desperta no alvorecer de cada sopro,
Abrindo janelas de vento, despindo fantasmas de ontem,
Sua domesticidade.
Então feroz, descobre-se nos pensamentos revoltos,
Nos dias e noites, sempre e por ora
Nos corações; Portas que batem estremecendo a terra
Solta, transforma-se.

De passo rebelde, sadia e caprichosa
Caminha sem remorso,
Recusando inspirar razões, pó, tijolos de história
Sobre folhas carcomidas por seres que mastigam, remoem, engolem
Leituras na escuridão sôfrega que a sua respiração sossega.

Eterna, silenciosa. Ostenta novo traje,
No alvorecer de cada sopro.

Leonor Hipólito 2017


The back of beyond

Late that evening,
Around arms and mute lips
Curtains hid scenes with other surfaces;
Expectation communing with distance, and I a speck of space stretched beyond the limits of my chest
Moving forwards, with many other bodies
Enlacing colour with the invisible poetry of their flesh,

Like ice, floating in the waters of a river
Now loose fragments, oscillating through my eyes
That glaze seemed to hold feelings.

I wondered what would have happened if I had done what no one expected?
Blending in with the spaces in-between?! 
I didn’t!
I remained suspended by the thread of no-nonsense
It was too late to change position, after all.

On the last page of my writing pad Iwrote: Living demands taking position.

Leonor Hipólito / 2017
In Writing Pad

Dark, docile, deeply mysteriousThose eyes,
In which I lose myself for a while,
A while long enough to forget my worries,  
Too short to dissolve them in their magic.

They are powerful in concealing their subterranean nature,
Exuding calmness from a whirlpool of emotions,
Stirring my dreams, their longing?
Beneath the impeccable vitreous surface — They mirror
Nothing but a fantasy, having the colour of this poem.

They are also blue and bright.

Leonor Hipólito / 2019


A estranheza da vida encanta-nos, porque no estranho reside a imaginação; esse fascínio promove o desejo de compor a realidade.
O deslumbramento pelo novo, desconhecido ou de difícil alcance, convida-nos a dar um passo em frente. Eis, porém, que nos reconhecemos perante o abismo entre os nossos passos e o nosso desejo. É então que o estranho torna-se curiosamente familiar, no sentido mais visceral da comparação. Aproxima-se como estranheza consentida pela nossa própria dúvida, enquanto o que pensávamos conhecer, se distancia. Com essa dúvida habitamos o mais desconhecido dos lugares.
Life’s strangeness attracts us because in the oddity imagination resides; that attraction promotes the desire to shape reality, to frame an idea.
Attracted by what seems new, unknown or difficult to comprehend or get, we take a step forward. And there we are, facing the abyss between footsteps and longings. It is there, where the strange becomes familiar, in the most visceral sense of the comparison; the strange becomes part of us in the same way that what we think we know becomes relative. Doubting, we inhabit the strangest of places.

Leonor Hipólito / 2014
+ in



My tongue – A stranger,
Blind to the margins of your target,
Hidden behind your manners,
It claims nothing but surprise

This stranger does not care for absent minds nor refrained hearts,
It welcomes in every way, unable to conceive the breadth of a lie or the longitude of desire

It looks for the one in the recesses of your mask

Leonor Hipólito / 2017
In Writing Pad


O desejo, inerente à experiência humana, é um sentimento que nos move, por vezes dominando, que nos vitaliza, ou então definha ou mesmo aniquila. Sempre transformador, é para mim movimento, ação, projeção, subtração e adição ao mesmo tempo. Modela forma, corpo, rosto; amalgama-os, recria-os.

É a procura de algo que nos possa completar. Por conseguinte é um sentimento que defino por movimento na direção da mudança. Que nos lança para a constante busca do sentido da nossa existência, projetando-nos no outro, fazendo com que reconheçamos no outro uma parte de nós. Mostra-nos que nos falta um pedaço e que, perante essa evidência, aspiramos encontrar o que ainda não somos, como se nos completássemos apenas com a mudança que traz consigo e, nesse nosso movimento em direção ao que pretendemos vir a ser, nos encontrássemos com o que em nós anda perdido.
Desire is an inherent feeling of our human experience. It moves us, often dominating us, it vitalises us, but it can also weaken us or even make us perish. For me it is always transformative. It is motion, action, projection, subtraction and addition at the same time. It moulds the shape, the body, the expression; it
amalgamates them, recreates them.

It is a feeling that impels us to search for what we feel we are missing, presenting us the one we are yet to become. It is, therefore, a feeling that inspires reinvention, propelling us to question our own sense of being, and reflecting back to us the other we may recognise as complementary.
Leonor Hipólito / 2019
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Falsa mudança

Em mim o tempo acelera, como se quisesse dizer-me algo de urgente sem que eu me aperceba o quanto demora a fazê-lo.
É por entre os dias, como neblina salgada, que vela a direção do meu achado - sempre atrasado.

Hoje sinto que o tempo se dilui nas tonalidades de um dia interminável - sem fim.
Em mim, em ti ou noutro alguém. Com todos fará do seu corpo compasso.

Agora descanso.

Leonor Hipólito / 2016
In Sem retorno


Quando o teu olhar se desvia sei que devo parar por aqui. Então afasto-me, consciente da distância que nos une, para poderes representar sem ser visto, por entre o meu espanto e a cortina opaca dos teus actos. Faço-o sabendo que é nesse intervalo que o nosso intento se despe.

 Leonor Hipólito / 2017


In my tea, three spoons, please!
Sweet, very sweet. I need to soothe my mind tonight.

Honey drips
loose are the words...
Sweet drink, sweet talk...

Hesitating gestures
cradled cups.

My spoon swirls
mixing my thoughts as I speak
and the clock nailed on the wall
points out: got to go, got to go!

Leonor Hipólito / 2008
In überstein


In the Dracula of my fantasy I rejoice in the power of my bite. It is when life appeals to me.

Leonor Hipólito / 2016


Around the landscape of your eyes

In the hide-and-seek of time,
Around the landscape of your eyes,
Walks the other with your steps,
In disguise.

The stranger dresses the night,

His shadow, into your sleep
A curtain of mystery unfolds.

Leonor Hipólito / 2016
In Looking at us looking at us


In my neighbourhood birds make nests with my hair.

Leonor Hipólito / 2016
In Looking at us looking at us


Object for dreams

Sometimes whispers form my words
Sometimes is the absence of your words
Between me and you


Flirting my thoughts
Stretching my soul

Does solitude bring fear?

A breath of quietness



Leonor Hipólito / 2004


Para sempre

Não preciso de frases, encontro-me no teu rosto
a renda de silêncio onde não guardo nada,
Apenas o olhar,
Transparência da minha sede.

O que não falas procuro na tua língua,
Afluente e margem.

Ficará sempre tudo por dizer.

Leonor Hipólito / 2016
In Sem retorno


Whose world is this?

Desires are abloom
when gestures don´t hold.
The Magician is a Sower,
a Shapeshifter.

Do we still wonder?

Leonor Hipólito / 2015


There is something behind the mundane that so easily escapes unnoticed, but there persistently whispers...
Sensible to this subtle breeze the creative man wonders. In his thoughts, visions, consciousness, and slumber.
Then when doubt seems to be everything - change becomes life's artistry.
In his mind he breaks the routine, gesture after gesture, reshaping old and new.
Leonor Hipólito / 2015


The sun stands still, burning like a bulb hanging from a ceiling. An endless ceiling that covers a crowd of people.The people move slowly, like their shadows on the pavement. Neither looking ahead nor having an attentive interest towards what surrounds them, they gaze at their own steps. Some count them, some don't even feel them. They move to somewhere. Nowhere. 
Their feelings seem to be unstirred. Their moods black. Doomed by the sunset about to happen.

Anonymously for some hours the mass condenses in the city centre like a drop of motion about to evaporate. As the hours roll along, their shadows elongate, losing contours, fading away until they disappear.

The night erases the day and with it the steps they have traced. Steps that did not reach further than yesterday.

Leonor Hipólito / 2011
In Beyond Emotions


My fantasy is like the sweetest beast. It smells like earth and it is warm. When my hand strokes its fur I feel at home. 

Leonor Hipólito / 2016
In Looking at us looking at us  


I am thirsty,
in this deserted land of minds
A plant with thorns
My thoughts like droplets thrive

Shallow depths, this Land
stolen from the well of Life
Without words to seed the soil
Without whispers to bring the fortune

I am thirsty,
in this deserted land of minds
No one
is all around

Like a plant
in silence
holds the ground,
I close my eyes and drink the water

Leonor Hipólito / 2015
partly In Writing Pad

Wind blows

Red rugs
smuggle dirt
behind the shoulders
eyes can't see.
Flags with flowers
blind the windows.
Curtains are walls
without ears.

Does anyone fear the wind?

In the streets
blue balloons
fake the sky.
Pierced by the needles of the trees
hang a few.

The parade amasses
black suits.

On the sloping side of the hill
the rock is hard.

Leonor Hipólito / 2015

What no longer serves a purpose, change it. I would call that a mindful revolution. 

Leonor Hipólito / 2015


Art is not an idea or a story upon which one identity is formed.
Arts is not the expectation of a position and its assurance.
Art is not an image to associate to or separate from. It does not limit opinion or define trends. It does not complete what is in progress. It does not claim to explain the indescribable. It does not pretend what it is.
Art is potential, through which we can envision the unseen.

Leonor Hipólito / 2015 


One can either opt for stepping forward or leave everything behind.
I guess I'd reached a state of borderline.

Leonor Hipólito / 2008
In überstein


Ao olhar para ele sorri,
como se o canto dos seus lábios puxassem os meus.

Leonor Hipólito / 2011 


I am spiraling around a fantasy
Holding in my mind a frame

Faint picture

Formless feelings

Call it romance.

Leonor Hipólito / 2007


The dense atmosphere
leaves a strange sense of goodbye in the air

On one side of my face a shadow fakes
the light that slowly becomes dark

I hear no sound of words
I see no one

As I feel the multitude of myself enfolding my solitude
I call you.

Leonor Hipólito / 2013



Tools, with limbs and mouth,
grasp and bite the desire
Fanged fork
Bifurcated knife

The hot air stirs the blood

In a large basin feelings are held between the crust and the fluid
A cloth with a fissure respires

Routine in the routine

The mind, a frame


golden gate without knob,
private landscape of life.

Leonor Hipólito / 2013
In Looking at us looking at us


My everything is nothing but a dream
I know is flesh, blood, me.

Leonor Hipólito / 2006



Blank books are on my shelf
for words to be told

Anticipating the stories
that will cover them 

From beginning to end

Piled together in emptiness
Without photographs to collect

Page after page

Forming a landscape.

Leonor Hipólito / 2014


I write
hours in a row,
immersing into a vision
that seems possible to hold.

The surface of the paper is scratched by 


A missing page,
The moment I hesitate.

A thought

ripping through.

Leonor Hipólito / 2014


Não tenho nada a dizer
a não ser o que sinto

quando omisso
o meu pensamento vagueia à procura de ti.

Leonor Hipólito / 2012
In Preto


The warmth of the morning's breeze announced the arrival of a pleasant day. 
The sky, plain and bright like an enormous mirror, reflected my mood as I drove to work. 
The hours passed and the night smoothly appeared.
Suddenly I awoke.

Leonor Hipólito / 2008
In überstein


Corpo vestido de corpo,
disfarçado com a pele de outro,

descosido da sua forma,
sem morada.

Várias identidades
numa só personalidade.

Corpo que não o é
porque não se revê no rosto
que o olha sem hesitar,

porque nos seus gestos
o dedo aponta
para a cicatriz que não sara,
que nele se aloja
e o faz sentir.


Corpo sem outro
para além dele próprio.
Perdido na ilusão enganosa
que lhe revela a verdade.

Sem propósito,

espera por si.

Leonr Hipólito / 2012
In Preto


Her vision, enlarged by sadness, losing definition...
Her eyes dropping in uncertainty...

Doubting whether her feeling resides solely in her mind or in earthy details she takes as mirrors, she now sees a miniature of herself.

Leonor Hipólito / 2015


Thin line

There is a thin line between the steps
back and forth

Weaving the old with the new

Between the fingers from where gestures depart

This line,
thin, but not fragile,
twists in loops


Sometimes it thickens

Sways by emotion

Leonor Hipólito / 2012


Her locks were tight up in swirls
like a bird nest – skillful 

in deed and hairdo.

I keep a little bird nest inside
a round box,
found empty in the woods,
handed to me as a gift.

I wonder which flock of little birds had lived there.

Tiny, feathery, branchy home.
Mesh of delicacy.

Sometimes, I hold the box
in my hands, open it

Let my thoughts fly.

I saw her again the other day.

She had long strands waving free.

Leonor Hipólito / 2014



I attempt to draw myself
At first, I draw my head,
curve after curve
A circle
A line
My throat 
I reach the lungs,
a sketch of leaves in the Autumn 
My trunk is thin and long, two lines - parallel 
At last, I reach the base
I trace a road of lines
Intricate patterns forming my ground 
Finishing my drawing
Before my eyes
I contemplate 
the tree I am.

Leonor Hipólito / 2006
In Looking at us looking at us


Human patterns

A moment of silence,
An intermittent but endless line of silence.
A blank space our mind can fill in with thoughts.
Stories embodied in fragments of repetition,
Memories looped in a waiting line.

How many seconds make a moment?

We might fold the line into a circle while time keeps slipping away.

Leonor Hipólito / 2008


Cicatriz na folha de um cacto
Estigma profundo

corta a suavidade ao toque
Na tenra superfície

complacência sulca em forma de palavra
o que alguém não encontrou no silêncio. 

Leonor Hipólito / 2012


Time flies while I am thirsty
Searching for an excuse to fill in the pause I make.

I try to match my slow-moving mind with the turning of the hours which give me no boundaries but demand objectivity.

My attempt to fit moments into a logical sequence slips off the hands of time.

I fold each moment separately or together according to their dimensions and orientate my next steps from the lines of their folds.

I am tired.

Time keeps flying while I am hungry
Searching for a trick to catch it

But if I won't
Time will remain where I am.

Leonor Hipólito / 2011
In Beyond Emotions




Can we, by means of knowledge and experience, attain the forces of Nature? 
Can we encapsulate the sensations the material upholds? And extend ourselves to all sides, into Nature, until the volatility of our sensations enable us to feel Life as a Form?
Leonor Hipólito / 2009