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”
Tag Archives: portugal
(translation) style, 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”
(Droplet) jorge
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”
pictures of me as a balanced child
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”
on Van Gogh
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”
our lady of the haze
(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.
inhabit
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”
(Droplet) a basket of sun, a wicker of fear.
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.”
my mother’s flowers
There’s also my grandmother’s garden, published a while back, if you like looking at flowers. Thank you,João-Maria.
on Gauguin
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”
