# 47 – “Submerged poem”, by Roberto Piva

27 06 2014

 

Submerged poem

I was a bit of your violent voice, Maldoror,

when the green angel’s eyelashes wrinkled the

chimneys from the street I walked

And saw your girls destroyed like frogs by

a hundred birds strongly passing by

 Nobody cried in your realm, Maldoror, where the

infinite landed in the palm of my empty hand

And prodigious boys were assaulted by the absent

Creator’s soul

 There was a more than unbiased revolver spied on by

Amoebas in the ceiling gnawed by your butterflies’ urine

An always big blue garden used to lay down stains in

my cranked up eyes

 I walked those paths looking with beserk tenderness

at girls in the big revelry in the beds

of dizzy insects

 Your dissatisfied chant sowed the old clamor of the

slaughtered pirates

 While the enigmatically shaped world stripped itself bare

to me, in delicate mazurkas

|

Translated by Wagner Miranda

_____________





# 46 – Geruza Zelnys, 5 poems

2 06 2014

bonsai

 

some days I feel like

a bonsai

 

two amputated meters

and a heart dragged

on the ground

 

not that I aimed to reach the clouds

I just refuse having my dreams

constantly trimmed

 

 

melomel red

 

my heart

menstruates

its aborted

affections

 

 

a lie

 

the mirror tells me a lie

I straighten my torso

I puff up my chest

fooled, I smile

 

and happily leave

for work

 

 

 

last chapter

 

six months later:

 

everything was

just like six months before

 

 

after 10

 

my life wakes up late

with messy hair

and pajamas on

 

it tells me it is tired of me

and then goes back to sleep

 

Translated by Wagner Miranda

_____________

Geruza’s blog (in Brazilian Portuguese): http://geruzazelnys.blogspot.com.br/

 





# 41 – Vanessa Carvalho (3 poems)

3 10 2013

i

– 1 –

little poem about the distance

(translated from the original in Spanish)

now
between us
our eyes  bear
the distance of galaxies

– 2 –

longing is what I’ve caught
in the dust
of memory.

– 3 –

grandma

my grandma doesn’t know that,
but by walking
from the bedroom
to the kitchen
to the bathroom
to the living room
to the terrace
to the yard
and then going to buy bread,
she doesn’t take me with her
but she brings
something that not even her
knows she has.

my grandma doesn’t know
but I am a tree
that grows inside the house.
just like those plants
that pop up from inside
the abandoned houses
and slip out through the slits
of the windows, doors and walls.
but grandma, our house is not
abandoned yet.
so what in the world was abandoned here?

my grandma doesn’t know
and even thinks I’ve lost my mind,
but when I take
pictures of her,
I stop and prolong
her time in the portrait.

I know that
my branches don’t embrace
and my leaves don’t kiss.

my grandma knows so many things,
but what she doesn’t know
is that finding poetry in the other
it’s also a way to loving.

and this, I have no clue
of when she will know.

Translated into English by Wagner Miranda

Original poems in Brazilian Portuguese plus more here:  http://filosofiasdequinta.blogspot.ie/





# 40 – Maria, José, Jesus, de Tarcísio Regueira

27 03 2013

Imagem

Mary, Joseph, Jesus

The street corner was full,
it was Christmas Eve.

A tattered woman begged,
hand reached out.

Her name was Mary.

Next to her, a man slept

oblivious to the ruthless noise of the world.

His name was Joseph.

A shriek is heard: Thief!

A kid runs with a watch in his hands.

A sudden braking.

A dead boy.

His name was Jesus.

The woman stared
at that sad manger.

There were no cows,
only rats.

There were no stars,
only the police’s spinning light.

There were no kings,

only men oblivious to everything.

Translated into English by Wagner Miranda

____________________________________________________________________

Original text in Portuguese

Maria, José, Jesus

A esquina estava lotada,
era véspera de Natal.
Uma mulher maltrapilha
pedia com a mão estendida.
Seu nome era Maria.

Junto, um homem dormia
alheio ao barulho impiedoso do mundo.
Seu nome era José.

Ouve-se um grito: Ladrão!
Uma criança corre com um relógio na mão.
De repente um freio.
Um menino morto.
Seu nome era Jesus.

A mulher olhava
para aquela triste manjedoura.
Não havia vacas,
só ratos.
Não havia estrelas,
só a luz giratória da polícia.
Não havia reis,
só homens alheios a tudo.

Tarcísio Regueira





# 38 – A palavra mágica, de Carlos Drummond de Andrade

21 01 2013

Imagem

 

 

The magic word

 

A certain word sleeps in the shadow

of a rare book.

How to disenchant it?

It is life’s password

the world’s password

I will search for it.

 

 

I will search for it all my life

all over the world.

If the encounter is late, if I can’t find it,

 

 

I don’t lose heart,

I keep searching.

I keep searching, and my search

will remain being

my word.

 

 

Translated into English by Wagner Miranda

___________________________________________________

Original text in Portuguese:

 

A palavra mágica

Certa palavra dorme na sombra
de um livro raro.
Como desencantá-la?
É a senha da vida
a senha do mundo.
Vou procurá-la.

Vou procurá-la a vida inteira
no mundo todo.
Se tarda o encontro, se não a encontro,
não desanimo,
procuro sempre.

Procuro sempre, e minha procura
ficará sendo
minha palavra.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade





# 36 – Virna Teixeira, 7 poems

11 11 2012

Pavement

_

small, the

fragile

body

sobs

 

 

red,

the flower

between the

fingers

 

_

 

Night

white, the room

the colour of this

absence

 

ceiling

 

unreachable

 

sofa, the imaginary

figure

of a body

 

 

Portrait

 

his eyes

a cage

 

 

where a

bird

 

 

sometimes

sings

 

 

Lisbon

 

 

the feet

walk,

wet

 

 

among analytical

glasses and

raincoats

 

 

down the slope

the rain

washes

 

 

longing

 

sorrow

 

 

Picture

 

his solitude

in the kitchen,

near

 

 

the window

 

a vase

of tulips

 

 

Walls

 

 

After

the gate

 

 

the tears

flow


Distance

 

a three minute

phone call

 

 

then,

the silence

 

 

over

the line

 

 

 

Translated into English by Wagner Miranda and reviewed by Virna Teixeira (thanks, Virna)

Virna’s blog (in Portuguese): http://papelderascunho.net/

 

Original texts

 

 

Calçada


pequeno, o
frágil
corpo
soluça

vermelha,
a flor
entre os
dedos

 

 
Noite



branca, a sala
a cor desta
ausência

teto

inalcançável

sofá, o vulto
imaginário
de um corpo

 

 

Portrait

os olhos dele
uma gaiola

onde um
pássaro

às vezes,
canta

Lisboa

os pés
caminham,
molhados

entre óculos
analíticos e
gabardinas

pela ladeira
a chuva
escoa

saudade

mágoas

 

 

 

 

Fotografia

a solidão dele
na cozinha,
perto

da janela

um vaso de
tulipas
 

 
Muros

Depois
do portão

as lágrimas
deságuam

 
Distância

um telefonema de
três minutos

depois,
o silêncio

do outro lado
da linha
 





# 35 – Cânticos, XIV de Hilda Hilst

16 09 2012

Imagem

Chantings –  XIV

As if drawn
You
And the one from inside the house.
I enter
As if entering
The paper

And out of sight
I tear apart
Some fibers

Without being loved
I belong.

May it survive
The thin line of your presence.
Fragrance. Height
And my lacerated self

May one never notice
Some drops of blood in the engraving.

Hilda Hilst

Translated into English by Wagner Miranda

___________________________________________________________

Original text

Como se desenhados
Tu
E o de dentro da casa.
Entro
Como se entrasse
No papel adentro

E sem ser vista
Rasgo
Algumas fibras

Sem ser amada
Pertenço.

Que sobreviva
O fino traço de tua presença.
Aroma. Altura.
E lacerada eu mesma

Que jamais se perceba
Umas gotas de sangue na gravura.

 

Hilda Hilst








%d blogueiros gostam disto: