She now oft forgets. Memories are volatile, as is the foam of waves and the formication they leave debossed on the shore. September reminds her of wasps, meadows, heat. I’m reminded of jags and seagulls or a deformed field of ashfall. I’ve never heard her express fear of losing the common ropes; my name orContinue reading “1, Setembro”
“Books will give rest sometimes against the uproar of water falling and righting itself to refall filling the mind with its reverberation shaking stone.” William Carlos Williams, Paterson, Book Three (The Library) The inexhaustible becomes the forgotten. I abhor times of initiation and transition; this science of conjuring aphotic worlds is annealed by a silence which, by nature ofContinue reading “31, Agosto”
By popular demand, I shall put here another translation I had given up on and decided to complete upon seeing the warm reaction in my last translation of Daniel Faria. As I’m noticing that more-and-more folks are becoming interested not only in Portuguese poetry and the translated works themselves, but my method of translation andContinue reading “(translation) poem, daniel faria (2)”
Daniel Faria is a complicated figure of Contemporary Portuguese Poetry, perhaps the most complicated of all. Daniel died young, at twenty-eight, and left behind a literary legacy of seven published collections of poetry, along other small publications found in literary awards and a plethora of other fragments and pieces that his acquaintances donated to theContinue reading “(translation) poems, daniel faria”
Herberto Hélder was born in Funchal, Madeira, in 1930. In 1964, alongside António Aragão, Herberto would create the first anthology of experimental poetry in the Portuguese language, which punctuated an enormous shift in Portuguese poetic literature. He died in 2015.He wrote the poems above in his book, Servidões, a book also never translated into English.Continue reading “(translation) poems, herberto helder”
Herberto Hélder was born in Funchal, Madeira, in 1930. His poetry began during the tail of Portuguese Surrealism, after Mário Cesariny, and had as recurrent themes alchemy, mysticism and ancient mythology. He died in 2015.He wrote the prose-poem above in his book, Os passos em volta, a book never translated into English. This translation wasContinue reading “(translation) the trains that leave to Antwerp, herberto hélder”
Herberto Hélder was born in Funchal, Madeira, in 1930. He was the most influential Portuguese poet of the second half of the 20th century, and by far the most misanthrope, having lived in relative isolation and refusing every prize he ever received. He died in 2015. He wrote the prose-poem above in his book, OsContinue reading “(translation) style, herberto hélder”
At the precise moment in which the irreducible tongue of the sun recoiled and became an irregular line trodden by the tremulant eucalyptus leaves, Jorge Guerra first felt the dense phenomenon of solitude so characteristic of birth. His father, António Medes Guerra, was a reputed dipsomaniac of jagged features, of which his black beard wasContinue reading “(Droplet) jorge”
My family is in the habitude of telling me how odd I was a child, since I’m similarly odd as an adult. It never quite dawned on me until I looked at pictures from my childhood. I’m having copies made, but it would be nice if some of them existed on the web, as relicsContinue reading “pictures of me as a balanced child”
Father scuffled with the taste of saltpetre still sticking unstintingly to his tongue, and the lustre of a candle which, already nearly drowned by its own wax, sobbed intermittently, enervating his eyes. Here, an horizon. There, an horizon; tessellating the sides of a glass as the canary-green flood subsided, in altisonant tongues of water slappingContinue reading “on Van Gogh”
(made in a for-fun manner; some lovecraftian mytho-poetics are great for the snap of spring; it’s not enriched with deeper meanings, or at least, not purposefully so. It’s just some unbridled imagery!) Thank you,João-Maria.
This is wholly unintelligible and I do apologise, but I’m at a point in which trying to curate a thought ends up harming more than helping when it comes to composing. I don’t know what path to take besides continuing writing and hoping the problem sorts itself out before long. Thank you (and sorry) forContinue reading “inhabit”
The beach of my choosing was Rocha, which was besprent with caverns, alcoves and grottos, some due to decades of construction atop the promontories inevitably causing fall-ins, others were formations of erosion that, so careful was the fashion of their forms, one would be tempted to believe that the sea sculpted them in its ownContinue reading “(Droplet) a basket of sun, a wicker of fear.”
There’s also my grandmother’s garden, published a while back, if you like looking at flowers. Thank you,João-Maria.
I recently joined a Portuguese e-publication where I must compose a poem weekly, and my self-proposed theme was to translate paintings that I favoured throughout my life, which, knowing myself, is a monumental task. I’m not a visual creator in the slightest, but am instead wholesomely auditive; I suffered of poor eyesight from early age,Continue reading “on Gauguin”
Shame never stays dead for long. Thank you, João-Maria.
Little exists in record regarding Telémaco Augusto Santana. From some spotted newspaper publications regarding his work, to some handful of poultry donations made to the parish he inhabited, his name seems almost like a dent in an ancient structure; part of a gestalt of ages, another function of the uniformity of time. A texture, almost,Continue reading “maundering relics #2”
Before the world spun suddenly into this crucible of fear and solitude we identify today, I had plans of collecting forgotten relics of the Portuguese written arts. Lisbon is thronged with “alfarrabistas“, stores with the unique purpose of selling rare and used books, many of them bought in bulk from personal libraries found by folksContinue reading “maundering relics #1”
The house slopes down from the holt, pieces of wenge sorted among lithe vertical panes, casting licks of sun upon the floors. The back-porch hung above the echo of a stream; it no longer ran even a hair of water. Standing purposefully near a dammed lake, during early mornings, one couldn’t detect the house fromContinue reading “(Droplet) vesaas.”
No matter how many times finish in failure, I never stop trying to write sensualistic poems. I’m not cut for sensualism, that much is clear, but oh, I truly wish I was. Thank you for reading,João-Maria.