Note to “The Eye”

“The Eye” is, in some sense, an autobiographic poem triggered by the adult memory of a childhood event. Curiously enough, events of an autobiographic nature have rarely a direct, explicit presence in what I write, being rather there in an indirect and elusive way, whenever the past allows for some enrichment of what is written.

My father was drafted to the army in the 60’s, when Portugal was involved in a colonial war and posted as a doctor in Mozambique. Some months later, my mother, my siblings and I joined him. We lived there for about 2 years.

I was 6/7 years old and one of the main interests was a playground where were made available for the children military transport vehicles too old for any other use.

I remember one day seeing an eye peeking through a hole, as I was climbing to the rear of a truck. I stood still for a while, not approaching it nor running away, fascinated by its emotionless, unblinking stare, till I moved away, called by some other game.

I heard shouts some minutes later and saw the caretakers running towards us with sharp sticks on their hands poking with them the hole where the eye had been. I saw moments later the dark body of the snake being taken away. It was a deadly snake, we were told. I felt, by then, fascination and curiosity.

Fear only came later as time made me realise the danger, however remote it might have really been, and time itself coloured memory, turning the unblinking eye into something else, something of an unnatural dimension that visited my childhood nightmares again and again. With them came an image of evil as a stare devoid of feeling and emotion that needs not doing anything to be what it is.

The Eye

The Eye

I saw clear the snake’s eye
peeking through the empty hole
at that African playground.

I saw it so clear that I kept its memory,
unlike the faint remembrance
of fright, sticks and shouts

and the dark, thin body hanging loose.

It was dead poisonous, they said,
It could have killed us, children,
from a brisk bite, a lightning,

and it stared at me, unblinking,
the passionless stare I wouldn’t evade.
Was it meant for me,

the eye of evil that constricts my dreams?

See Note

Salisbury Poetry Cafe - 25/6/2009

I read two poems about rivers at the Salisbury Poetry Cafe:

- Acheron, the River of Woe
- The Secret River

Salisbury Poetry Cafe - hosted by Grace Gauld
Every las Thursday of the month - 7:30
Salisbury Arts Centre
Bedwin Street
Salisbury
SP1 3UT

Den of Voice - 17/06/2009

At the Den of Voice, Guildford, I read the poems:

- Rush Hour
- The Canvas of the Night
- Falling
- Excuses
- Giordano Bruno's Journey to London
- Acheron, the River of Woe
- The Secret River

Hosted by Jennifer Gale
the Boileroom - 8pm
13 Stokefields
GU1 4LS

Poetry Unplugged - 16/6/2009

I read at Poetry Unplugged:

- Rush Hour
- The Canvas of the Night
- Falling

Poetry Unplugged, Hosted by Niall O'Sullivan
The Poetry Cafe,
22 Betterton Street,
WC2H 9BX
London
Every Tuesday at 7:30 PM

Y Tuesday Poetry Club - 2/6/2009

I read the following poems at the Y Tuesday Poetry Club hosted by Ceri May:

- Summoning the Dead
- Lethe, the River
- Excuses
- The Birth of Sound
- Rules of Engagement

Y Tuesday Poetry Club - Every first Tuesday of each month
The Three Kings (Pub)
24 Clerkenwell Close
EC1R 0AT

London Literature Lounge - Harrow Arts Centre - 31/05/2009

At this special edition of the London Literature Lounge hosted by Anjan Saha and Siobahn Curham, I read the poems:

- Haunted House
- Lethe, the River
- Excuses