Thursday, March 30, 2006

Adilia Lopes ( ) Portugal

A Woman of Thirty Years

you will love
my shiny
nose
my stretch-marks
my black-heads
the words I write
my eccentricities
and my cats as well
of my being a single woman
or you will not love me.

*****

La Femme De Trente Ans


Amarás
o meu nariz
brilhante
as minhas estrias
os meus pontos pretos
os meus textos
os meus achaques
e as minhas manias
e as minhas gatas
de solteirona
ou não me amarás

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Reconciling with Memories

In the mirror I see myself
pasted with glue
more beautiful
than before
like a Zen plate
that has fractures
underscored
with gold
the work of fortune
both bad and good
the work of lacking affection
and affection
Narcissus and anti-Narcissus
to live is to believe.

*****

Reconciliada Com As Memorias

Eu no espelho
colada com cola
mais bela
do que dantes
como o prato Zen
que tem as fracturas
sublinhadas
com ouro
obra da fortuna
má e boa
obra da falta de afecto
e do afecto
Narciso e anti-Narciso
viver para crer

Nuno Judice ( )

I love the women who age
with the haste of their wrinkles, their hair
falling down the black shoulders of the dress,
the look that is lost in the sorrow
of repositories. Those women sit
in the rooms, corners, look outside
from an atrium I do not see from where I am,
though guessing the presence of
other women seated at the wooden bench
leafing through cheap magazines. The women who age
feel that the eye that admires their slow
gestures, loves the hidden work
of time in their breasts. For that they hope
the day passes in this dark room,
they would go out to the street and play bass,
sometimes, the elegy that only their lips
could sing.

*****

Gosto das mulheres que envelhecem,
com a pressa das suas rugas, os cabelos
caidos pelos ombros negros do vestido,
o olhar que se perde na tristeza
dos reposteiros. Essas mulheres sentam-se
nos cantos das salas, olham para fora,
para o átrio que não vejo, de onde estou,
embora adivinhe aí a presença de
outras mulheres, sentadas em bancos
de madeira, folheando revistas
baratas. As mulheres que envelhecem
sentem que as olho, que admiro os seus gestos
lentos, que amo o trabalho subterraneo
do tempo nos seus seios. Por isso esperam
que o dia corra nesta sala sem luz,
evitam sair para a rua, e dizem baixo,
por vezes, essa elegia que só os seus lábios
podem cantar.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

ElegyNot even the long days separate me from your image.
I open it in the mirror of a monotonous sky, or
leave it for later to prolong in the tedium of
the horizons. The gray profile of the mountain,
to the North, and the blue line of the sea, to the South,
give it a frame whose center flattens
when, upon calling your name, the reality of
the sound effaces the illusion of a face. Then I desire
the silence from which you could be reborn,
the shade and the presence that could abstract
your memory.

*****

Elegia

Nem os dias longos me separam da tua imagem.
Abro-a no espelho de um céu monótono, ou
deixo que a tarde a prolongue no tédio dos
horizontes. O perfil cinzento da montanha,
para norte, e a linha azul do mar, a sul,
dão-lhe a moldura cujo centro se esvazia
quando, ao dizer o teu nome, a realidade do
som apaga a ilusão de um rosto. Então, desejo
o silêncio para que dele possas renascer,
sombra, e dessa presença possa abstrair a
tua memória.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Luiza Neto Jorge (1939 –89)

To Magnolia

A little happiness
And wonderful lightening
Of this masterful event,
Gives splendor to my being.

A tiny crib cradles me
Where the word vanishes
Into the matter—into the metaphor—
As needed, gently, wherever
It echoes and slides.

Magnolia
In which the sound swells
When pronounced,
Is intensely fragrant
Lost in a storm,

A little wonderful thing
Shedding lightening
Over me.

*****

A MAGNÓLIA

A exaltação do mínimo,
e o magnífico relâmpago
do acontecimento mestre
restituem-me a forma
o meu resplendor.

Um diminuto berço me recolhe
onde a palavra se elide
na matéria – na metáfora –
necessária, e leve, a cada um
onde se ecoa e resvala.

A magnólia,
o som que se desenvolve nela
quando pronunciada,
é um exaltado aroma
perdido na tempestade,

um mínimo ente magnífico
desfolhando relâmpagos
sobre mim.

Antonio Ramos Rosa (1928 - ) Portugal

I cannot holdback love for another hundred years

I cannot holdback love
For another hundred years
No, I cannot
Even though the scream chokes my throat
Even though the hatred erupts, breaks and burns
Under the gray mountains
Over the gray mountains

I cannot holdback a hug
That is a two edged sword
Love and hatred
No, I cannot hold back
Even though the night weighs centuries on the coasts
And the dawn is still uncertain
I cannot hold back my life
For another hundred years
Nor my love
Nor my cry for freedom

I cannot hold back my heart

*****

Não posso adiar o amor para outro século

Não posso adiar o amor para outro século
não posso
ainda que o grito sufoque na garganta
ainda que o ódio estale e crepite e arda
sob montanhas cinzentas
e montanhas cinzentas

Não posso adiar este abraço
que é uma arma de dois gumes
amor e ódio

Não posso adiar
ainda que a noite pese séculos sobre as costas
e a aurora indecisa demore
não posso adiar para outro século a minha vida
nem o meu amor
nem o meu grito de libertação

Não posso adiar o coração

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Livro do Desassossego of Fernando Pessoa (1888 -1935)

The following poems are an attempt to put passages from the Book of Disquite (translation of Fernando Pessoa’s Livro do Desassossego) into free verse. The numbers at the end of poems refer to the passages in Margaret Jull Costa and Richard Zenith renditions of the book.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything is absurd

Everything is absurd.
a man spends his life earning money and saving,
yet he has no children to give to
and no hope the heaven will bring
him the rewards of his toils once dead.

Another man tries hard to be famous
to be remembered once dead,
yet he does not believe
in the survival of the soul,
to let him know of the fame.

Yet another wears himself out to death,
doing things he does not even like.
And there is the man who...

One man wants to know,
He reads but all in vain.
Another enjoys himself to live,
Again all in vain.

113(163)MJC

--------------------------------------------------------------------

We never love anyone

We never love anyone.
What we really love is
the idea of someone we have.
And we love our own selves –
our perceptions of ourselves.

In sexual love we seek
pleasures through the lover’s body.
In non-sexual love we seek
pleasures through our own concepts.
The masturbator though seemingly abject,
is the best lover to express love for himself,
the only one who never feigns,
the only one who doesn’t fool himself.
Deceptive and complex are the expressions of love.
As abstract are the shared words and gestures of lovers,
They think in different flavors and fragrances
Coloring their ideas forming, their impressions.

So when one says to another: I love you
Both may have a different idea of what love is.
So their meeting becomes a non-meeting
And love means not the same thing.

Understanding is the wearing thing.
Living is not thinking.

112 RZ

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Advice to unhappily married women (III)

Dear women,
Follow faithfully my advice
to indulge in the sexual pleasures
with the man your womb and name is tied.

Only by digging its feet in the ground,
the bird takes off its flight.
May this always remind you
of the spiritual commandment in sight:

To achieve the highest sensuality,
you’ve to be the lewdest slut imaginable
and yet, never unfaithful to your husband,
not even with your eyes .

Be a slut on the inside.
Be unfaithful on the inside,
Cheat him as you hug and kiss him
with kisses that aren’t meant for him!

O superior women,
O my mysterious cerebral followers,
that’s how you reach the heights
of sensuality still being faithful on the outside.
Why should a man not follow this advice?
For he is a creature of a different kind.
If inferior, let him seduce women
As many as he can in contempt.

If superior, he needs no women.
Sensuality he can have
Without sexually possessing them,
Alien even to superior women
Woman is a sexual creature, essentially.

page 397 RZ

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Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Ravi Kopra ( )

Melancholy

When you do not call
or send letters to me,
I miss you and wonder
if you’ve forgotten me.

I look at your photos,
I read your old letters,
I miss your hugs and
drift into sweet dreams...

I wake up on hearing
the longings of my heart,
in sad loneliness
it sobs and screams...

******

Melancolia

Quando voce não me chama
Ou manda cartas,
Eu sinto sua falta e
fico imaginando
se voce me esqueceu

olho para suas fotos
leio suas velhas cartas
sinto falta dos seus abraços.
mergulho em doces sonhos....

Eu acordo ouvindo
as saudades do meu coração,
que em melancholia
suspira e se lamenta...

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Lustful Eyes

At Fellini last evening
when I retuned to the table
after making a phone call,
you were still sipping Akhaleni
looking at me with lustful eyes...

You had kissed me secretly--
your red delicious lips
adorned the napkin on my thighs,
sending fires to my groins
while dining and looking
into your lustful eyes...

*****

Olhos Lascivos

Ontem no Fellini
voltando pr'a mesa após
um telefonema,
você ainda saboreava
seu Akhaleni,
e olhava pr'a mim
com seus olhos lascivos...

Beijou-me em segredo
com lábios rubros,deliciosos
adornando o guardanapo
em meu sexo,
ascendendo em minha
virilha fogos selvagens
enquanto jantava
olhava pr'a mim
com seus olhos lascivos...

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Sem voce não posso viver


Voce e minha pinga com abacaxi
Voce e minha cachaca com uvas
Eu vou embebedar-se primero
e não vou deixar o sol te queimar,
protejo voce em meus braços.
eu vou esconder meu rosto
em seu peito, em seu colo.
Em o mar, pele sobre pele
Labios nos labios
Eu voy tocar seus muculos.
Nada enter de nos
Solo das gotas de agua de mar.
Voce e meu amor eterno
voce e minha doce enamorada
te amo te amo minha mariposa
te amo, meu beija flor
voce está em meu coração,
voce esta em minha vida
voce e minha alma
voce vive dentro de mim,
e voce o ar que respiro,
voce é cada batida de meu coração
voce e mi sangre quente,
minha doce amargura,
minha mais pura emoção,
voce e minha inspiração
voce agora é tudo para mim,
sem voce não posso viver
meus sonhos, todos todos
que posso nao escriver
voce é meu doce olhar,
minha lagrima pura, meu sorriso,
e em cada bom dia sentirei voce,
e em cada anoitecer, voce estará comigo,
fará com que meus sonhos vibrem em mim,
e em voce, esteja, onde estiver,
mesmo além do horizonte
voce me sentirá, eu o sentirei
com toda força
do que chamamos amor.

Herberto Helder ( ) Portugal

Light created for the light to be seen

A mirror facing a mirror,
an image born of an image,
how marvelous!
in the depths of the self
is a hidden fountain
framed within itself,
light created
for the light to be seen!


***

Um espelho em frente de um espelho: imagem
que arranca da imagem, oh
maravilha do profundo de si, fonte fechada
na sua obra, luz que se faz
para se ver a luz.

Soares Feitosa ( ) Brazil

Femina

I did not wash my breasts
for they had
the warmth of your hands

I did not wash my hands
for they had
the sounds of your body

I did not wash my body
for I had
the traces of yourself—
the sacred-profanity of your gaze

not even those sheets
nor the mirrors have I washed,
they are there
where they always have been,
for they saw us together in passion,
paradise it seemed to be…

I washed though and perfumed
my soul with jasmine,
for it is yours, only yours
waiting for you as nowhere
you ever have been,
and I erased all those absences
that your gaze wanted to erase.


*****

Femina

Não lavei os seios
pois tinham o calor
da tua mão.
Não lavei as mãos
pois tinham os sons
do teu corpo.
Não lavei o corpo
pois tinha os rastros
dos teus gestos;
tinha também, o meu corpo,
a sagrada profanação
do teu olhar
que não lavei.
Nem aqueles lençóis,
não os lavei,
nem os espelhos,
que continuam
onde sempre estiveram:
porque eles nos viram
cúmplices, e a paixão,
no paraíso,
parece que era.
Lavei, sim,
lavei e perfumei
a alma, em jasmim,
que é tua, só tua,
para te esperar
como se nunca tivesses ido
a nenhum lugar:
donde apaguei
todas as ausências
que apaguei
ao teu olhar.

Fiama Hasse Pais Brandao ( ) Portugal

The Voice of Things

Only the gusts of winds
make lyrical sounds
on the sails of windmills.

Only the things touched
by the love of other things
have a voice (to sing)…


*****

Da Voz Das Coisas

Só a rajada de vento
dá o som lírico
às pás do moinho.

Somente as coisas tocadas
pelo amor das outras
têm voz.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
Lisbon in the Fog

In the fog
the drunk city tumbles and falls,
the formless building lose
the day and the place.
Unattched the walls become
menhirs - the hazy, ancient stones,
with no beginning and no end.


*****

Lisboa Sob Nevoa

Na névoa, a cidade, ébria
oscila, tomba.
Informes, as casas
perdem o lugar e o dia.
Cravadas no nada,
as paredes são menires,
pedras antigas, vagas
sem princípio, sem fim.

Fernando Pessoa ( ) Portugal

All letters of love are
ridiculous,
they would not be love letters if they were not
ridiculous.

During my days I too wrote love leters,
like others,
ridiculous.

Love letters, if there is love,
have to be
ridiculous.

But at the end
only those creatures that never wrote
love letters,
are really
ridiculous.

I wish I were in the times
of writing those letter of love,
not knowing they were
ridicolous.

But truly today
my memories
of those letters
are the ones that are really
ridiculous.

(All the strange words,
the strange thoughts
are naturally
ridiculous)

--------------------------------------------------------------------

After A Holiday

They go past somewhere
With their empty songs,
Their short dreams remain unfulfilled,
And to you they look like jokers--
The poor fools!

In the shadows of the full moon
They gather together and disperse,
They know not each another
And hardly lift their faces--
The faithful servants lost,
Their tall-stories died!

Abandoned, they sang
Again and again
Till they became hoarse,
Their hour - near.
Eternity is not in their pursuit,
Nor is it in ours.

An original rendering of Fernanado Pessoa's poem from the Russian version in West European Poetry, XX Century. Belles-Letters, Moscow 1977

Page 405

Manuel Gusmão ( ) Portugal

For A Moment I Feel Your Black face

It is in the night of the morning
You get up
Morning and night do not see
each other in the front of a mirror,
but always miss each other endlessly

But they hear each other in the rooms of the house

You are suddenly in the corridor-corner
for a moment I feel your black face
and the vastness of your nocturnal body


You pass me the morning slowly,
hand to hand,
like a phosphorescent-map

where surely we will die


*****

É isto: a noite de manhã
Tu levantas-te

Manhã e noite não se vêem ao espelho
antes o estilhaçam para dentro
desencontram-se interminavelmente

mas ouvem-se uma à outra entre as salas da casa

Tu estás súbita ali na esquina do corredor
sinto por momentos a tua cara negra
e a imensidão do teu corpo anoitecido

passas-me a manhã devagar
de mão a mão
como um mapa fosforescente

onde por certo íamos morrer

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Then you’ll speak of passions

Learn to speak—
says a rose:
write at night
with my multiple suns
guiding you down countless paths.
Sit in a room with the light out
and wait for another light,
fragile,
to arrive from another room
at the paper you turn its way.
Then you’ll speak of passions
and of the petal that falls
into the heart and sails,
in the shadow of the blood,
passing many wonders.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

We will die repeatedly

We will die repeatedly
on this beach,
along the shores of light.
Its life story the rose declines
falling obliquely...
Over miles and miles
of prevailing forests,
over shadowy structures
of this earth in love,
over the rose, rising
to the airy metallic-clouds,
we will die repeatedly…

***

morreremos repetidamente sobre esta praia, nas margens da luz.
A rosa declina a sua autobiografia, obliquamente caindo
sobre quilómetros e quilómetros de florestas insistentes,
sobre a sombria arquitectura desta terra longamente apaixonada,
sobre a rosa que sobe até à aérea metalurgia das nuvens.

Sophia de Mello Breyner ( ) Portugal

Transparency

O Lord, free us from
the dangerous game of transparency,
in the sea-floor of our souls
there are no corals or shells of the sea,
only a suffocated dream,
and we do not know well
what things are there in the dreams.
Silent messengers of faint songs
which one day suddenly emerge
in the grand, flat patio of disasters.

Gonçalo M. Tavares ( )

Like they understand philosophy

In a café they bring me
a glass of water,
as if it will solve
all my problems.
It’s ridiculous, I think,
there’re no solutions,
And yet after drinking the water
no longer do I feel thirsty,
a sensation only of my being
calms me down momentarily.
Like they understand philosophy--I think--
and return to chase me immediately.

António Franco Alexandre ( ) Portugal

When hands brought us together

Yes, to light the fire
is a very simple thing,
I cover my head with ashes
(not stars!) like in a warning.
Here we’ve come to the end of the world!
and a huge wall! a monument to ancient wisdom,
that runs inside us. And meanwhile
we spread ourselves in all directions
and I know I’m forgetting
something essential, the bottle of perfume
at the end of the day? or was it the night? when
hands brought us together,

the fire in all was an easy word,
and only in us, the light lived.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

An obscene ad

I am going to put an obscene ad
in a paper asking for
fresh but healthy flesh
with true feelings of passion

I want, how do I say,
a human-being who will
discover my mouth, and who
like me has split hooves
and a blue-bifid tongue
singing under waters
in manners of rudeness...

I want someone who will
love me and leave me
with equally serene concision,
recording our meeting in a poem
for school-texts beyond bridges…

and I wait by the phone
finding out if I am real
or simply a foam of ashes
slipping through various hands…


*****

Vou pôr um anúncio obsceno no diário
pedindo carne fresca pouco atlética
e nobres sentimentos de paixão.
Desejo um ser, como dizer, humano
Que por acaso me descubra a boca
e tenha como eu fendidos cascos
bífida língua azul e insolentes
maneiras de cantar dentro de água.
Vou querer que me ame e abandone
com igual e serena concisão
e faça do encontro relatório
ou poema que conste do sumário
nas escolas ali além das pontes
E espero ao telefone que me digam
se sou feliz, real, ou simplesmente
uma espuma de cinza em muitas mãos.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
To measure my virtue in inches

You can pick me up
and put me on a balance
of yes and no
to measure my virtue in inches,
but my heart would still be safe
in a cool dry place
beyond all words.
I like being alone on mountain slopes
in the small cell of a sterile prison,
sitting in a window singing all night
and seeing other windows with bars.
You can then tell me
(but you do not like to tell)
those funny phrases of yours
of flying over distant hills
trembling in awe of a solemn new-dawn.
You could get me some cool water
but I’d roll myself into a tight-ball
and would not budge even when
the inexplicable monster rips
my bed-sheet with its claws.


*****

Podes pegar em mim, pesar-me na balança
do sim e não, medir-me às polegadas a bondade;
ainda eu guardo o coração em sítio seco
e fresco, e longe de palavras.
E agrada-me estar só, na mais pequena cela
de uma prisão estéril entre os montes,
toda a noite a cantar contra a janela
donde se avistam outras grades iguais.
Podes até dizer (mas não as dizes)
as engraçadas frases em que voas
por distantes colinas, espantadas
de tão solene e nova madrugada;
e trazer-me água fresca, que me enrolo
em mim como um novelo e nem sequer
me movo quando o monstro inexplicável
com as suas garras rasga o meu lençol.

--------------------------------------------------------------------
In love in this world

Sorry, I did not know
in silence you sing alone,
drink ice-water in this heat
and worship not idols, including
your self-tormenting-image
(that also torments me).
don’t worship Babylonian gardens,
the eruptions of Mount Etna,
the aphrodisiac effect of diamonds,
and the arts and sciences you learn.
I am going to sit here
and breathe of things:
possible, though really unreal things
until it hurts to know, knot by knot
how you’ll untie yourself;
we will fall into a well
without a parachute or a compass
and will be the first two souls
in love in this world.

*****

Perdoa, não sabia que cantavas
Em sossego, silenciosamente. Neste calor
é preciso beber água gelada; também convém
não adorar ídolos, por exemplo a imagem
que aí trazes de ti e te atormenta
(ou me atormenta a mim?).
Outros exemplos incluem jardins de babilónia,
Erupções do etna, o efeito
afrodisíaco do diamante,
as ciências da educação.
Vou-me sentar aqui, respirar até doer
as coisas possíveis nunca reais,
aprender, nó a nó, como te soltas;
Vamos cair num poço, sem
bússola e pára-quedas, vamos ser o primeiro
amor a dois no mundo.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The imprint of a hand, an extra letter in the earth

On waking up they will ask:
was it a prophecy or mere carelessness
to leave on this stone-cliff
the imprint of a hand?
a hunting ritual?
or the promise of rains from far-off lands

dissipating the shroud of full calmness?
perhaps I have been ignorant
of the most exact memory-forms
or I'm having delusions as the winds
whine forcefully in my bicycle,
or perhaps the brain pressed-together

is the missing part of the clock,
an extra letter in the earth
guiding us to the house of light.


***

acordados, virão
perguntar por que presságio, que desleixo
ficou esta mão gravada
em precipício de pedra;
Rito de caça? promessa
de chuvas além-terra, aonde o manto

da inteira solidão se desvanece?
Talvez, da ignorância, tenha feito
a mais precisa forma de memória. Ou me baste
essa visão de enganos, quando o vento sopra
mais forte no rumor da bicicleta;
ou seja o crânio, à pressa encomendado,

a peça no relógio que faltava,
a letra a mais na terra, que ao farol nos guia.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I will know how to be sad

And I could give you a cellophane floor
on cool nights for waves to slide,
and a cage of four colorful-walls
with flawless marble-teeth,
for love to enter the scene there
on wings that are blind…

and honey, the houseflies and the rest
would all be there to ward off the death,
instead of fruits the birds will grow there
fooled by the continuous exaltation of rhymes,
and I will know how to be sad
without a dog or a saying,

staring blankly as if sleeping
on the dull-blade of a jack-knife...

*****

E poderia dar-te
um chão de celofane, onde desliza a onda
em noite fresca;
quatro paredes, pintadas de gaiola,
e o implacável mármore dos dentes. Amor viria
de asas cegas no recorte,

e o mel, as moscas, tudo nos seria
maneira de afastar a morte.
E cresceriam aves no lugar dos frutos, enganados
pela contínua exaltação da rima;
e saberia, acaso, até como ser triste
sem provérbio nem cão,

de olhos brancos no ar, como quem dorme
na romba lâmina de um canivete.

Anonymous ( ) A Brazilian Song

The marriage of the little bourgeois

He plays the part of a bridegroom
She plays the part of making him faint
They’ll live under the same roof
Until their house falls
Until their house falls
He is a discreet employee
She puts the starch on his collars
They’ll live under the same roof
Until they explode the nest
Until they explode the nest

He plays the part of a restless virile man
She makes the children in heaps
They’ll live under the same roof
Until the fountain goes dry
Until the fountain goes dry

He is a full-time employee
She learns how to make candles
They’ll live under the same roof
Until they burn down each other
Until they burn down each other

He has a secret affair
She says she won’t get out of the line
They’ll live under the same roof
Until they marry their off-spring
Until they marry their off-spring

He talks of potassium cyanide
She dreams of poisons
They’ll live under the same roof
Until one of them decides
Until one of the decides

He has an old project
She has a mountain of channels
They’ll live under the same roof
Until the days come to an end
Until the days come to an end

He sometimes shows some affection
She undresses herself in the dark
They’ll live under the same roof
Until a brief time in the future
Until a brief time in the future

She warms-up the grandson’s porridge
He has amassed a fortune
They’ll live under the same roof
Until they are united in death
Until they are united in death