PRELIMINARY NOTE

"Be it as if I were with you"

Walt Whitman

I undress myself of my words,

and what remains? what remains of me

without my words?

I am dripping words that want to come out,

tired of inhabiting my body.

(Can I let them escape without resistance?)

My mouth is shut.

But the words try to break through eyes and pores.

(My words seek out love

in other words that reach my ear.)

A hand waves and my words respond.

One by one I take them out,

putting them in order on the paper.

Some are dirty and ill-cared for.

Others, fresh and gleaming.

Some are pure hope.

Others have no meaning at all.

They are words that know

my body and have learned from it.

They are words that taught me

to know them and to learn from them.

Perhaps they are not the most indicated.

Perhaps you will not like to hear them.

But they were the ones that gave me

this craft: a certain way to arrange them,

to preserve life itself.

WATER ON HARD STONE 

From the spout the droplets start to fall,

One by one, repeatedly they come.

Translucent crystal bodies, standing tall,

Clash with the ground, almost entirely numb.

Monotonously they seem to recall

The very same thing always, overcome.

Without the poetry of tears or squall,

The drops fall from the spout, where they begun,

Repeatedly, just one by one they go.

An unfinished poem, they discourse

On many different themes that start to flow.

And if they don't provoke a flood's great force,

At least they leave within the cement so

The hole, opened by many, proves the source.

WHEN MY FATHER DIED 

In memory of Cicero Brasileiro de Mello

When my father died

I lay down next to him on the bed.

I stayed in the same position.

And listening to my breathing

it seemed like I heard his.

When my father died

I lay down next to him on the bed.

I heard the silence of his heart

and prayed, I don't remember the prayer.

I would never talk to him again...

When my father died

I lay down next to him on the bed.

I held with care the hand,

that so many times held my hand,

and felt that I would never be that one again.

BALLERINA 

Seven times crazy the ballerina

Her legs cross over in circles

light as if they did not need the stage.

Her Egyptian arms turn snake,

propeller, arrow, knife.

The music becomes skin,

reborn unique, hybrid.

The whole world dances on her feet.

Seven times crazy the ballerina.

She returns home seven times a week.

POEM OF THE GOOD YEARS 

(Reading of the Sermon of the Good Years,

by Father Antonio Vieira)

A good thing so much awaited

must be well possessed and held,

so that the long wait endured

realizes the meaning it's spelled.

Three days pass quickly indeed,

or last for infinities.

Three days to those who wait

are more: three eternities.

Such great pain (that of the wait)

that it even seems like a curse;

but the remedy is applied only

after conquering the worse.

And it is certain that the good years

are not given by those who wish for them,

but by those who assure them.

It was so and so let it be.

NIGHT OF STARS 

Dark night, without a moon's soft care,

The stars are those that shine so bright.

Useless to try to count them there...

Impossible to forget their light...

One shows itself to be quite fair,

Another nearly silent, out of sight...

I seek the diving light within the air

Of the lovely shooting star's great flight...

Two others sweetly loving, quite alone,

They kiss the whole night through, with joyful sighs...

Love... let us stay this way, with hearts now sown...

Like to the star that holds its company...

That over-bold one there before our eyes...

Just wants someone as proof of brief decree...

Of the short days of glory that will rise...

A new star's smile that gently starts to beam!...

The morning star reminds us of old theme...

Of Bandeira's verses in a flowing stream...

Let us stay listening, in this quiet spot...

Star of an entire life's sweet dream...

BY THE RIVER 

The washerwoman beats the cloth

Upon the cold stones of the stream;

Singing a gypsy song of sloth,

She does not hear my quiet dream...

What movement has the sly one got;

The reason for my flights of theme...

She lowers down her body's spot,

Exposing breasts that sweetly gleam.

Does her father work the field of plot?

What do her mother, brothers seem?

Dark beauty—whom life sweetens, not—

Who are the courtiers of her lot?...

With skirt tied up, she gives the plea

That she alone washes the clothes;

She works with pure indifference, free

Of any burden that the washing shows.

No; she does not care a thing for me

Who suffers with the longing that grows;

She doesn't know the verses that I decree

Requesting kisses that her body owes.

Tired, she lay down on the lawn so green,

Her eyes upon the sky she set her sight...

Is she asleep or stating a cruel scene,

Proclaiming an alternative name's light...

The muse, the owner of the river mean,

Fled home, quickly and with all her might;

The sound of my own whistling now unseen

Scared the poor washerwoman in the night.

ADAGIARY 

Take it easy, calm down, please,

everything, in the end, won't arrange

for the devil to carry you with ease

a bent stick will straighten and change.

A bullet has no street sign on its face

in the barracks of the Abrantes group

since God is Brazilian, without a trace

nothing is as it was in the soup.

The poor person has no right to state

the wolf eats, not the wolf of their own kind

oh, big world, wide world, that is great

good people, foolish people, in our mind.

As much as you have, so much you are worth

have saintly patience, full of peace

who does not sing his woes on earth

loses all innocence and cease.

Many are the ones who have been called

few are the chosen to remain

do not wait sitting, or you'll be stalled

or you will be forgotten in the rain.

SPRING LOVE 

The perfume

seduces and we discover ourselves

beyond touch, in words,

glances, silences, and music.

The perfume (is it ours

or that of that flower?)

calls attention

to that small corner,

where, fallow and happy,

we make love.

Time opens up

and time no longer exists.

A small noise in the nothingness

remakes creation,

and worlds and stars are born.

And the Earth is nothing,

only the piece of ground

where we love

and saw bloom

a new flower.

I WROTE YOUR NAME (ESCREVI SEU NOME)

I wrote your name upon a wave

The wave broke turning into foam

And in the sea your name became a grave

I wrote your name among the stars

The sun was born and lit up all

And in the sky your name left no sad scars

I wrote your name upon the sheet

The wind it came and swept the street

And blew my paper to a cold defeat

So many things I tried without success

But do not be so sad, sweet girl, no more

Within my heart your name stayed to possess.

I HAD A LOVE 

I had a love

and when I noticed

that love was over.

A beautiful love

that had no time.

It ended without a scream

and without violence.

Could it have ended?

It passed. Patience...

Was it true?

I don't know, nor do I remember

if it was the first.

But it arrived

just so suddenly,

and soon it passed.

It passed just as

the car on the track

the boat at the dock.

Like that heavy

summer rain

of grape-like drops.

That love passed

and when I noticed

I had a love.

CHRISTMAS

The first word written,

what might it have been?

Might it have been a name, a complaint

or a request?

Where was its imprecise design

drafted and set?

Might it have been on stone, on wood

or beaten ground?

And who must have read it,

even if badly,

and understood its original

meaning profound?

I write today already forgotten

of the vital light

moving the hand in its direction,

word-guarantee, and with all my might.

POETICS 

I try to concentrate

and the mosquito buzzes

in a circle around the light.

The insistent and strong sound

seems to want to conquer

death. And it does no good

to try to write verses.

They have wings too.

(Certain poems are like that mosquito.

They keep circling

without finding a way out.)

I see the mosquito's struggle.

And a moment ago it was I who struggled.

I look at the window. It is closed.

I open it. The mosquito continues

its flight without noticing my gesture.

(How many caresses I tried

that never reached

to fulfill their destiny...)

The circles lengthen

and the mosquito comes to land

beside me. Have we lost the fight?

Complicit in its effort, I start

to write again and with my hand

I give it back its freedom.

(Some poems are written like this.

They emerge greater than the words

and only a window puts them on the paper.)

POETRY 

Think of poetry as a dress.

The unnecessary ornament,

do not use it.

The starched collar that bothers.

Leave it aside.

The hyperbolic sleeves the redundant colors.

Forget them.

Why so much fabric?

Think carefully about the dress.

And write naked poetry.

FANTASY (FANTASIA)

To make poetry is to dress

words with fantasy's light.

To make one cry and smile

on the sheet that is almost white.

A little to be like a madman

trying things on his own might.

On the other hand the baroque

of Aleijadinho's works so bright.

It is to have the insane passion

of the beloved for her own love's art.

It is to have the Bahian sway of fashion

of the people of Salvador's heart.

To act like the tightrope walker's plea

who crosses life upon a thread so thin;

or the impromptu singer's mastery

in the challenging circle to begin.

It is a class in architecture's lure

without the loss of liberty's soft kiss.

Pleasure and pain of searching, pure.

To know of a Mário de Andrade, in this.

If there is so much poetry found

that is not learned within the school's cold claim,

better to hear the magic of the sound

of master Cartola's enduring fame.

LESSONS BENEATH THE TREE 

(The boy and the manacá butterfly)

Beneath the manacá,

stirring the soil

he follows the trail

of the tiny ants going

with small legs

climbing the trunk

They carry green leaves

large green leaves

bigger than themselves

Beautiful caterpillars

of yellow and black

move slowly

A cocoon sways

and catches attention

No, it is not the wind

It begins to open

a flower blooming

because of life

The flight rehearsal:

an almost straight line

two parallel tracks

The boy watches

follows everything

until he sees it no more.

He learns amazed

on the lap of the earth

biology and art

Butterfly, daughter

of the cocoon, son

of the caterpillar, daughter

Whose daughter is she?

Says the butterfly

— Daughter of the mother of the tree!

I DREAMED A DREAM 

I dreamed (it was a dream...)

and I saw so sad

my dream die.

A childlike dream

of pure hope

without fear of being.

I dreamed the passion

that my heart

refused to learn.

But I swear I had

a dream that lives

and lets live.

I felt so much love

that when it passed

it was almost dying.

I was so much a child

that now my destiny

fled without me seeing.

TOO LATE 

It is late to rethink

or propose any foolish lie.

It is so late that Sunday

feels like Monday flying by.

We cannot pretend anymore

to maintain the situation's state.

It is too late also

to deceive the heart, and wait.

To scream, to fight to know

which of us was the culprit in the fray,

is, more or less, to cry

over the milk spilled on the way.

It is no use to make a promise,

in the name of some faith you cite;

we don't have time left over

not even for the last cup of coffee's light.

A farewell kiss would be

lovely and romantic, in its style

(if it were a sincere gesture

or, at least, semantic for a while).

Unfortunately, it is not possible

to look into your eyes, I fear:

it is too late, too late,

even to say goodbye, my dear.

FORGETTING SOMEONE 

To forget someone

or something else

that comes again

to make us suffer

to make us recall

to make us fear

what has already passed

will never pass

if you once loved

and suffered too much

if you once lived

and live no more

a single song

can awaken

that sensation

that makes you choke

time that is gone

wave without the sea

letter without the author

fire without the light

sound that never arrived

the worst torment

is to fight, in vain,

against forgetting.

PRESENT 

Silence. The needle basting the fabric

says nothing. In the room full of memories

the silence is almost a piece of furniture.

The kiss given with love rests

on the mirror without reflection of the dressing table.

The first pleasure lies forgotten

in the closed jar on the small table.

The thread continues sewing the dress

as if it were the one conducting the scene.

— Grandma!

No, it is not the granddaughter calling.

It is the silence that holds all sounds.

It is the paintings, the portraits that bring so many memories.

Silence. The needle knows the fabric's path.

The blurred eyes are turned inward.

— Mom!

No, it is not the daughter calling.

It is she who sees herself supporting her daughter,

in the house full of people who were there one day.

Silence. The dress is getting ready.

And, like a flower plucked from the ground,

it will be just a present being offered.

GIRL ON THE BEACH 

The sea sings in waves.

She does not hear the sea.

Her voice is stronger

than the sea's song.

Her pain hurts more

than the crashing of the waves.

The sea has suffered,

carried slaves in the holds.

There is still blood in the sea.

But for her the green

and the white foams

are the sea. Beautiful image,

useless for those who suffer,

for those who want to see

in the world, the pain they feel.

Seagulls, like commas,

cut the sky, dive

into the sea. They, from so much salt,

become blind. They die of hunger.

Men also die.

But she only sees seagulls,

beautiful seagulls in the sky,

and the sweet sea, without pain.

THE RIVER IS NOT REPEATED 

True, the river is not repeated.

The hand touches the water trying

to hold an instant at least.

But the river water does not stop,

taking hope between the fingers.

Your wet hand remains

without any explanation.

The face reflected statically

on the water that passes,

is not repeated either.

Life runs like the river.

You try to grasp within your gaze

an instant of your life -

without any explanation.

LIFE LIFE

My wife aborted a son,

yesterday also a friend's father died.

Two mysterious instants that lead me to think:

Who lost?

My son did not see the sun, the moon,

my son saw nothing.

My friend's father saw

(but how much he lost)

The two are now together

covered by cosmic silence.

And the emptiness of both falls upon me.

I would like to be able to pray for my son.

I would like to be able to believe in prayer.

But I don't believe!

I don't want to pray or cry.

I just want to think about these things:

To suffer and know one suffers,

to live and know one dies.

To leave my son in silence.

To leave the dead in their silence.

To ask only what will come.

And I know many sons and dead fathers will come.

And to think about life; life, life.

INSPIRATION 

The poem died

before reaching the paper.

It had body and soul,

and its own life to live.

It could have been

a beautiful son, a great friend.

However, it escaped

for lack of ink and paper.

And the poet remains

seeking to hear the sound of the verses;

counting on his fingers,

trying to compose the words.

But they are so many

(all irreplaceable)

that the poet makes mistakes,

forgets the step, leaves the dance.

When he gets home

he tries to start over.

With ink and paper.

He writes; but for profession.

IMPRESSIONS ON THE BLANK PAPER 

Before the blank paper

we are everything and nothing;

Each word is a possibility

upon the void.

Our body does not fit on the sheet

(but so many times we feel

that there are things that do not fit

in our body,

and yet we still feel

speak, polish, scribble),

although the essential fits.

The clear luminosity of the white

overshadows any wandering idea.

There is no fissure on the ivory

of the artificial skin,

although there is the impurity

of our hands.

If I write a name (or a thousand)

they will be just names,

or my false impressions,

but they will be a testament.

A blank sheet of paper

guards all books

in its silent whiteness.

Host of the celebration

not of the desire to live

but of the giving

and the desire to know.

The stains that will be recorded,

with all imperfections,

on its gleaming body,

will be almost nothing,

seeds.

BIRDS 

— You are too sad.

— Yes, I am very sad,

the pain has taken over me.

— Why so much sadness?

— Do you see the bird singing

in that cage there?

— Yes, a beautiful song.

— I became sad because

I was remembering...

— Speak. Say what you feel!

— The dreams I did not want

to try to realize...

— ... Do you hear them in the bird's voice?!

— No. They only answer

when another dream is singing.

BREAKFAST 

The knife cuts the bread,

on the crooked table it cuts

the bread that the devil did not want.

Eyes, spears, wound the poor bodies,

the rotten teeth are wounded.

There is no butter. The knife cuts,

deceives the stomach and the bread

(and they say there are no games!);

the watery, light, brown coffee like

dirt. Around, almost nothing was

bought: bed from the former boss,

closet found in the trash, etc.

But they are theirs until a stone rolls,

some police raid destroys it,

or expropriation appears.

The sun outside shines, foolish eye,

calls them to work.

And a feeling, perhaps resentment,

a brother as Cain also was,

asks, Guardian Angel,

why must it be this way?

FRUIT OF THE PEOPLE 

Cartola will no longer make

songs, magics, in green and pink.

But everything the Poet created

remained.

And if "everything in the world happens,"

History does justice:

it preserves what deserves.

The hill, the same hill,

of houses invaded by the police.

This same hill, with so many empty bellies,

sings at his funeral "As Rosas não Falam..."

His people are there, alive,

and they are not peaceful or orderly.

No, his people are drummers.

And the drumming gets more tuned every day

(for the samba of many arms, legs, and voices,

composed in the finest harmony).

And when the day comes

someone will remember

his melody

"run and look at the sky

for the sun comes to bring: Good morning."

VERSES TO LUIZA 

My daughter of two years

calls me to play.

She doesn't know of the commitments,

of the work to be delivered.

— "Daddy! Daddy! Come here.

Run, I want to climb up."

Her fifteen kilos of light

want to go to the window.

To greet the daylight.

To smile at the sailboat.

And she says. — "One at a time;"

I count: one, two and... three!

The jump into my arms,

starts the game:

walking, running through the room,

painting, turning into a cook.

— "Come with me. Come with me!

Walking, see if I follow you."

In a very small corner

she sits and wants me to sit.

Daddy is too big;

I try to be convincing.

— "No, come hide!"

I sit and grasp the meaning.

And I am amazed

learning to learn.

Where we go now,

it is I who want to know.

And she says: — "One at a time;"

Yes, daughter, one at a time.

RAIN 

Serenely the rain weeps

over vague bodies in the mist,

sobbing heavy syllables,

solemn, though meaningless.

Alone, I contemplate the gray city;

without solar sentimentality;

without longing for dream or sleep;

dry, capable of sucking up the shadows.

THE WORD 

The word that fits me

Does not silence me

The word that speaks to me

Does not know me

The word that clothes me

Does not cover me

The word that remains for me

Does not leave me

The word that lights me

Does not go out

The word that caresses me

Does not trap me

FINAL NOTE

Writing is difficult.

Living is difficult.

Loneliness is difficult.

Communion is difficult.

It is too difficult.

It is difficult.

Difficult.

Until no more.