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Aline Martins

From which races, I am, was and will be?
Which colours and creeds, which luck?
How many lifes lived and will live?

Died and will die of how many deaths?
How many loves and dreams and hopes
How much faith, how much pain
I was Mum and Dad, of how many children?
how many torments, and horrors?

How many children have I cried, in so many wars?
How many children have I raised and was happy?
How many bodies, how many waters, how many lands
did I touch, kissed, love and was root?

And how many times yet, to give me?
How many lives still to be reborn?
How many mouths, yet to be kissed?
How many deaths, yet to die?

Yet, conformed, I sing the song
The march, the mission, the pain that screams
And I got butterflies by my side
Made, like me, of Love and Land! …

I had many many bad experiences in my birthdays: deaths, arguments, loneliness… So, I had no hope for a special birthday.

I spent most of my day being greeted by my friends on line (while in PJs, still in bed). Got a single phone call. And thought my dinner with friends was going to be only my brother and I. I have to say I have not enjoyed knowing some people didn’t go to my dinner because they were going to watch Harry Potter, but now I know where I can find my friends.
I had a simple, small and very happy dinner with my Brother and some friends.
Good Japanese food, lots of laugh, some pictures.

(Thank you Andre, Mariana, Sabino, Beto and Hiro)

Oh! Yes… there is a Stereo in the Attic.

My father still has many LPs and I lived years encountering Stairway to Heaven several times a week in my life.
The song that popped into my head at my birthday this year was a catchy little tune: Over the Hills and Far Away. It evokes a certain yearning for the open road of life that appeals to me. We never know exactly where the path ahead will lead, but, if we let them, our dreams and imagination can help guide our steps and give that final destination a more pleasing shape.

Over the Hills and Far Away by Led Zeppelin
Hey lady, you got the love I need
Maybe more than enough
Oh darlin’ darlin’, darlin’
Walk a while with me
Oh, you’ve got so much, so much, so much
Many have I loved
Many times been bitten
Many times I’ve gazed
Along the open road
Many times I’ve lied
Many times I’ve listened
Many times I’ve wondered
How much there is to know
Many dreams come true
And some have silver linings
I live for my dreams
And a pocketful of gold
Mellow is the man
Who knows what he’s been missing
Many many men
Can’t see the open road
Many is a Word
That only leaves you guessing
Guessing ’bout a thing oh…
I really ought to know, oh…
you know I should…

Hoping for a good year….
Aline Wishes Martins

“Inspiration must mean just this, that the speaker or writer is uttering something that he does not wholly understand – or which he may even misinterpret when the inspiration has departed from him.” T.S. Eliot

I think Eliot and all of us doubt if the word “inspiration” has any meaning. If you are a religious believer of any denomination you know, or at least you have words for, where your inspiration comes from, however mysterious it may seem; But for many there is not much language to talk about inspiration without beginning to sound a bit mystical or relying on a Powerful source that can’t quite be named but can’t quite be ignored, and yet inspiration is a word no one is shy of using now, even though they are not that keen to explain how it might work.

I can’t answer the inspiration question well because I’m inspired by almost everything. I read as much as I can and try to always keep my eyes and ears open. Today in a brainstorm I was inspired by the Powers of Life and what in bring to us as experience.

Ultimately my belief is that anything can be inspiring.

So when I think about inspiration, I think about understanding that anything can be inspiration. Most of us grow up believing that learning must be boring. A teacher must stand in front of the class and teach us through some incredibly dry textbook (and as a teacher I must say: if the teacher is not inspired to teach, the pupil wont be inspired to learn). We get so much more out of those times when we’re engaged in an activity.

Inspiration is the kind of magic that people like to believe in, perhaps especially now, in a culture where money can buy virtually everything else of value, and science and technology can create or invent the things we most need. But, it reassures us, or at least reminds us, that some of the best things about us are beyond our control.

Inspiration may not belong to us, but it is only we who can be inspired. (and it is only we who can spoil it   )

I think (and my opinion may be very disturbing here) we have glamorized inspiration, idealized the artist possessed a special vision of the world, in a way we don’t see it.

Just as you can’t try and have a dream, or decide beforehand what it will be, inspired work, just happen based on the person’s life per se.

When Keats wrote that poetry must come as easily as leaves to a tree, or Picasso said, ‘I don’t seek, I find’, they were both reminding us, that inspiration is beyond the realm of calculated intentions.

I think, all we need it to be receptive to the unfamiliar; and we need to be able to wait, without certainty, for the thing we want. This, in a sense, is the faith of the believer in artistic inspiration.

{Inspiration} lays in my mind
As a patchwork of colors.
I see it. Recorded in pieces of life,
a complete work made of moments.

If it is beauty, it´s innocence.
If it is body, it´s lust, temptation.
If I´m thirsty, it´s a spring
if I have hunger, bread.

It gives me agile fluency
If the paper wants to be empty.
It is a muse of emergency.

It comes in the night, sometimes in the day;
it’s inspiration that creates the cadence.
If it doesn’t come … the poetry is gone.

Aline Inspired Martins

PS: apart from my faith, books, music and love…there are other things worthy sharing…these things really inspire me…

When I dance (Aline-Brazil- 2008)

My cats and nature in general (Dana and Her babies 2007)

My friends (here only the girls gathered for a Tea Party, but love them all!)

My Parents

and my only Brother and Best friend Andre

"Inspiration comes in many ways" - Aline at Serra da Cantareira -Brazil -2007

What is a poet? An unhappy man who in his heart harbors a deep anguish, but whose lips are so fashioned that the moans and cries which pass over them are transformed into ravishing music. His fate is like that of the unfortunate victims whom the tyrant Phalaris imprisoned in a brazen bull, and slowly tortured over a steady fire; their cries could not reach the tyrants ears so as to strike terror into his heart; when they reached his ears they sounded like sweet music. And men crowd about the poet and say to him, “Sing for us soon again”—which is as much as to say, “May new sufferings torment your soul, but may your lips be fashioned as before; for the cries would only distress us, but the music, the music, is delightful.” ~Søren Kierkegaard

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. ~ T. S. Eliot

Being a poet is hard… Why?  Who hasn’t been on the uncomfortable side of the conversation that goes something like

this: “So, what do you do?” “I’m a poet.” -long silence- “No, I mean what do

Dana, my librarian cat!

you do? What is your job?” As if poetry is not a job, but merely a taboo hobby. (and I think this conversation follows the same way in many other art branches)

There is also the fact that most of the time it simply doesn’t pay. Many poets must work one or more manual labor or teaching jobs (like me) to actually pay the bills. But it’s only the practical life problem.

Another reason being a poet can be difficult is the nature of composing the poems themselves. I have been writing poetry all my life it has only become more and more challenging to write, not easier. And there is no shortage of distraction, whether internal or external. There are those who argue that such distraction is necessary; others that it is detrimental. There is no doubt that it is unavoidable.

But for those of us who write poetry, the art chose us. We have no choice but pursue it (the choice consists merely of whether we will publish in our lifetime or not). And it is rewarding in its own right. No, it offers absolutely no instant gratification. Therefore, soldiers of the words, ever and onward with your mighty pen!

But still…

TODAY I AM POET

Today I am a poet again
Singing to the four winds
My rhyming verses,
Of nostalgia and heat …

Today from this hill
I see the plains,
filled with my words
growing with the rain
of my elegance…

Today I am childhood,
that wants the future
And is not afraid to age,
I offer innocence…

Today I am dementia,
of the craziest passion,
I am alive, I am yours …

Today I am paint,
Which runs through my veins,
In tangled webs
as life in an hourglass …

Today I am a poet, today I am…

For some people, the most important place is the Kitchen, it’s not more beautiful or tidy. The tidiest place is the living room, remember? With the souvenirs, mirrors, rugs… In the living room children have to behave, wearing their masks. But the kitchen is different… there we are hungry, we have fire and happiness.

Remember those old stoves? Logs inside, coffee, sparkling fire, the smell of smoke, rosy cheeks…sometimes my soul misses these old country kitchens… these old stoves are different from the new ones, look at it like a single candle. A simple match can lighten it up. No art or science is necessary to do it, even children can do it! The lonely fire has a different personality. It’s different from the log fire, where we have to put a log in the perfect time, like in a fireplace.

People nowadays only know the electric or gas fire, they don’t know anything about the art of the logs, and with it much is lost. Exupèry said:

“somewhere the fire was burning and I could fly, and around the fire, some people were getting warm”.

Someone once said the men came to be when the first song was sung. And I think, it was sung by the fire. Before the song, the fire. A lighten fire can be a solitary communion. Solitary because the fire that sparkles there awakens some dreams that are only ours. But the solitary dreams become communitarian when we eat and warm up.

In the old houses in the countryside of my country, the kitchens used to be the last place of the house, the most distant from the entrance, like in my Grandparent´s house. Not because it was not important, but because it was protected by being there. To protect the intimacy of the family. It was also very close to a place of dreams, the Garden, where we could get some seasonings to cook special dreams.

But from living abroad I learnt something; many houses have their kitchens connected to the living room or some place people gather to talk. So everyone could enjoy the magic ritual of cooking, while listening to music and chatting. So, the cooking was part of the family and friendship routine. I would like to be many things, a pianist, gardener, writer, artist… life is short and the arts are many. But I would also like to be a cook.

My grandmother was a great cook (nowadays we cook for her, and she barely eat).I remember her cooking things that were so delicious I can´t describe, and she never had a notebook with recipes. (That´s why most of it was lost with her memory).

Sometime ago, when I used to have my own place, I used to like to invite friends to cook once a month. Yes, I didn´t invite them for dinner, I invited them to cook. The party used to start early, around 6 pm. And everyone helped, chopping, peeling, preparing. And we know, the objective is not the start, nor the end, it’s the path in between these two points. Eating is the end, but is very fast…but the path to get there is long. And we used to cook, drink a bit, eat a bit, laugh a lot, chat. It was ready about eleven o´clock. And we were happy.

Friends cooking before Poetry Sharing

Rossana and Cy working hard and being Happy

I feel happy when I cook, eve though I am not a cook. I prepare simple recipes, and like to try and create new ones. Cooking bring us close to the magical place of our soul, just like Vianne does in Chocolat by Joanne Harris, where through their food, they change the life of a whole country village… What makes me think I must finish reading this book now…

Fausto and Dani "wine experts"?

After feeding the body, we used to feed the soul with music, poetry, dance...ARTS!

Aline Cook Martins

Ah! It´s a GARDEN!

Once, a poet wanted to write a poem made of a single word. He was looking for a word that could translate the whole world…we never knew if he could do it. But, I think, poetry is looking for the essential word. Maybe when God made the Universe he thought: GARDEN! (or not)

A garden is the image of beauty, harmony, love, happiness. A writer, friend of mine once said that if he could choose a word to translate the world, Garden would be this word. After a long time waiting, finally, I could have my own garden. I had to wait, because gardens need a land to plant. And I didn´t have it. From my garden, I only had a dream. But one thing I know.I know, that dreams are the places where gardens start to grow, before coming to exist in “real life”.

A garden is a dream that became reality, it’s a part of our soul, being shown to the world with no shame… but the dreams are beautiful things. On their own, they can’t create much…maybe only birds with no wings…like songs that are never played, like seeds in small packs, waiting for someone to put them where they belong.

The dreams lived inside me. They were my own possession. But the land… didn’t exist. But someday, the land came to be… I know, I know it´s virtual, and we can only see from the window of this Dusty Attic, but look friends, what can you see? oh, my dream made love with the land and a garden was born! I didn´t need a gardener. They are excellent, to make real gardens beautiful. In fact, all I wanted was my garden to speak. Oh, you didn´t know gardens can speak?

The poet Guimarães Rosa- Brazilian Poet once said:

“There are many, millions of gardens, and they all talk to each other. The Birds of wind in the sky – always bring messages (…) Even now, there is a big garden, full of girls. Where a little girl, is making fairies… someday you will miss it…then you will know…”

Only those who miss something can understand the messages from the gardens, and we are the only one able to hear the message from our own garden. A garden is like a body. The nature becomes the lover in it…and it´s so good!

All I wanted was the garden from my dreams, that one that only existed because of the things I missed. Then, I was not looking for a real garden; I was looking for the poetic beauty from myself. I wanted to revive the lost happiness; the lost time…

Some time ago a friend said to another “Poor Aline, is nostalgic”. But this person didn’t realize that nostalgia doesn´t mean we stay crying all the time.
To miss is the pain we feel when we realize the distance between the dream and reality. It is realizing that the happiness will only come back when reality can become a dream.

I dream of a garden. We all dream of it. In each body, there is a paradise!

We are nothing but a butterfly. Our world, our destiny, our garden. An utopia.

The Birth of a Butterfly

It´s weird to notice how light comes during the night
How a smile comes with tears.
It´s weird how a storm, can make the land fertile again
How simple steps, can make a dance
everything is change

and…then, amidst all this darkness…

It came slowly, passed by as a breeze
soft, evolving my hectic nights
and night after night, it came back, with agile fingers, and broad smiles
to plant in me, a hope that for a long time had been broken

I looked for memories that were forgotten,
feelings of past lives soaked in tears, but still, I threw my net, and got
that single drop of the sea, that was waiting for me.

I held it carefully, as a diamond… how could a diamond so fragile?
Then, it vibrated, and as a reverse tear, it went up through my face
entered the windows of my soul, and installed itself in my heart.
After a long sigh, the world became a rainbow. The pain was gone.

I could feel that breeze within me, as arms
was it spreading inside me? I can´t be that big…
So, I had to get rid of things I didn´t want anymore.
And In a frenetic whirl of colours and horrors, I tried to create space.

But there was nothing left. So, I entered my own cave.
Organized the mysteries of my soul.
Maybe, that thing that grew within me, could find its purpose.

The breeze became a storm of kisses and smiles
A storm that raised seas of tears
An earthquake of senses and touches
and there, as a metamorphosis, between earth, sea and sky
I could understand the alchemy that was happening inside me

A butterfly was born …
in my back, the most delicate wings … unique, as I had never seen.
And tonight, I´ll fly, high, in search of my spring of inspiration.
It can be anywhere, doesn´t matter its name.
I´ll recognize it when I see for it is mine and it´s is part me.

Now, dear guest and creatures from this Attic…
what can you see in this garden?
What are you missing and Nostalgic about?

Love,
Aline Butterfly Martins

PS: here is a very close friend of mine.
Every morning I cross a park when going to work, and there lives a very special being. My family calls her “grandma”. (It is an elder indeed). I have shared with her my best and worst moments… Yes, It´s a magnificent tree (From Celso Daniel´s Park- Santo André -São Paulo-Brazil)

PPS: I know this Attic is quite Hectic, but
the comment link bellow does not bite! trust me!  

To go in, we had to pass through a huge door. I never could understand the reason for such high doors, I used to think giants used to live there before ! When the door was open we could see a long, gloomy corridor, that ended at the stairs.

The living room, noble place of the house! inside you could see the candlesticks, the marble and crystal vases, statuettes and souvenirs from long trips, the huge mirrors, symbols of nobility displayed to visitors. In the room, the arrangement of the furniture did not give chance to doubts. The visitors were forced to sit in certain places and do certain things. There was no place there for mistakes. Everything had its place.

Then, there was a hallway leading into the private part of the house. And there were huge rooms one after the other. It was necessary to cross the first to go to the second …

The nights were haunted, governed by the carillon clock and its beat, useless information, which only served to make the insomnia even more excruciating.

It was fascinating to walk in those rooms. But what fascinated me was a THE FORBIDDEN ROOM, locked all the time.

In other times, when the house was full of children, all rooms were standard rooms. But…the children got married, the hard times came. Without use, that room was transformed into a deposit of old stuff, where neither people nor broom or duster was allowed in. It was forbidden to get in, and the key was always hidden.

To my uncles it was a place for the ugly things, the dust and spider webs. But for me it was the THE ROOM OF MYSTERY. If there was no mystery, the key would not be hidden nor, we would be forbidden to get in. The forbidden room is always the one we want to get in. We are fascinated by the mystery and the forbidden. The reason for this I do not understand, but I know that the human soul is made of it.

Well, I used to steal the key and, quietly, enter the room of mystery. The room was an enchanted place. Even what was considered horrible helped composing the scene: the accumulated dust on the furniture, the spider webs, the smell, everything was there to tell me the time had stopped there. Magic. The objects emerged from a world of dreams. The zither, with mother of pearl inlay: how long have been in that silence? And the paint palettes? covered with old paint. What was the last time a brush had touched it? A gramophone, old records …

I think my fascination for the room of mystery, was due to the fact that, inside, I AM like the room. My soul is a room where the weirdest objects are placed, without order, without any intention of doing so. In contrast to the living room, where each object is placed in a precise order in relation to others, in the room of mystery there is no order, no arrangement: each object is a COMPLETE UNIVERSE, does not depend on others.

For me every person has a living room clean and organized, open for general visitation, but also has a fascinating room of mystery which we only can get in if we steal the key. Some people think that the forbidden room is full of terrible things, corpses, excrement and horrible smell. And that is what they find, because we only find what we’re looking for. But for me, (that little girl in the forbidden place), the terrible things are just ornaments and enchanted things, frozen, asleep, out of time, such as Sleeping Beauty in the dust, with spider webs and wild plants, there, waiting for someone who will give the kiss that break the spell …

“So, this is the room of my mind. Therein lays everything: magic, poetry, insights being brewed. Just like in the Room of mystery, in my grandpa´s house… not many people will like to get in, and stay here, for it was built for enchanted ones”.

Why did I tell you that?

oh! just to say….

WELCOME TO

THE HECTIC ATTIC