The final year of my fifteen years

[this is a possible and very late translation for the poem O último ano dos meus quinze anosIt is still subject to evaluation.] 

 

To this one I would like to dedicate

the oblivion that stitches itself to all things

the lips’ dormancy and the sensation of absence

if one wakes

from an unremembered night.

 

To this one I would like to give

if it is not too great a pretension, and if costume allows me so,

the last river I have poured

even though I can no longer know

if in eyes or in fish it reposes.

 

(Fifteen times you glanced at me and fifteen times I stumbled on trails.)

 

And if one shall still grant me, besides the entified silence of my conversations

– concave of mirrors where my image secretes in itself and I feel embraced – ,

I want to dedicate to it what was not

for what I held pierced in my eyelids

allowed itself to be left on the various stopovers

through which it navigates transversely and will not mend a course.

I am a shipyard yet I no longer recall it.

(blow the candles).

 

M. MATIAS.

On December 21st, 2011.

Devotional

[this is a possible translation for the poem Devocional. It is still subject to evaluation.]

It is necessary that the poet

have his hands on the earth,

even if the ground be the one

in which shall flourish, mute,

his wounds.

 

It is essential that he have

not the feet, doubtful plateaus,

but the very digits upon the carnal surface

of the land.

And it is indispensible that he know to leave, if so demands what is said,

to leave thus this mountain, adjectiveless[1],

not sad, nor uninhabited,

on the prairies, these being, when wanted, contrite.

 

It is necessary to doubt the touch, the rhythm and the reach,

it is enough to roll the eyes at the entities and they will remain

stained,

and once words are means of twining things,

we must urge to discredit them.

The poet has such a touch, not as the one the of midas[2], for nothing can he make into gold,

gold[3] to eat, useless pasture,

he has the touch that would have, if it could touch, a palette of colors,

living[4] watercolor,

which in the infinitesimal proximity already leaves a trace and never allows

the thing to speak,

but blemishes the thing’s face with itself[5].

 

It is urgent do discredit Frenchisms, the poet is no goldsmith

(no, not gold[6]),

neither does he grant eternity and matter to what, otherwise, would remain unexpressed,

for to no one eternity belongs, it is not a thing, nor it is in them,

eternity is a hollow idol, as all idols,

before which seats, stupid, humanity, and consents.

Neither there is matter in the looks. There is act, merely that.

 

The world is like the radio

(in fact the whole world is an enormous radiophonic station)

Which plays in spite of us, but always plays

to us, since there is no one else that may

listen and agree.

But we are likewise, to add to the pains of the day (the world has no pains), minuscule little radios. Somehow, we grate in the program.

Knowledge is of the street. I, who belong to the footpaths, to the woods and to the open fields, do not know.

I raise the volume of my radio without towers or lines.

And I listen.

M. MATIAS.

In January 25 and 27, 2012.


[1] “desadjetivada”, “not followed by, not qualified or accompanied by an adjective”. Attempts were made to maintain the same tone of Portuguese form, appealing, when necessary, to neologisms in accordance with the original.

[2] Not capitalized in the original.

[3] “Oiro”, archaic form of “ouro” (gold). Both forms appear in the poem.

[4] “ânima (aquarela)”, adjective created from the Portuguese “ânimo” (“animation, vitality”, also “soul”), directly related to the Latin animus (soul) to mean “that has a soul; living”. Neologism.

[5] “mas mancha-lhe a cara de si mesma”, “but blemishes its [the thing’s] face with itself [the palette of colors; the watercolor]. To avoid obscurity, we opted for repeating the term “thing”.

[6] See note 3.

Says he

[This is a possible translation for the text Diz ele. It is still subject to evaluation. Attempts were made to keep it as close as possible to its original form, even though we recognize the endeavor may have resulted in a truncated text]

Your chisels, your gods, your luminous teeth, nothing seduces or muzzles me. I am habituated to making myself through what cannot be seen. I came to the world so squint-eyed that I could never imprint straight the paths, and the pebbles, all shining glass beads, I leave them suspended in a uni-verse which allows itself to be seen, a bit at a time, in old nebulous monocles. Long ago I sought to comprehend, with the sudden and acute perception of angels, the undoes[1] that here go, burrowing a little deeper, driving and grating one more league[2] onto the dry trails. It is all bird lines[3]. And the rocking of chants, the sunken screeching of prayers always leads me to a semi-state of myself in which I am indisputably conducted to a wall of flowers and gravid trees; there, where fat volutes seem to arise from a near future to find me resolutely rigid in a past of waits, I shape passersby. I am fluidity as though of cigarettes. All this, about which you so infrequently wonder, is a wide and obtuse soreness[4]. And, suddenly, without a sign or figure to foreshadow it, I see myself fulfilling a mythical wandering[5], so long ago and somewhere traced that the columns of me do not reach it even through lengthy cords; I found in a fish slough. There are arid wetlands, but all earth gawks in an ominous silence of before the farming season. Not even the wheat’s or the potatoes’ vapor visits my nostrils anymore. I attained to surrender to the scene if only in this I could rescue the mild plangent of violins; in everything, however, I dangle suspended. Anything I would give for an east; for nothing, sir, should I consent to the north. I know the barren lands I pass across, and the image there immerse I recognize from other places[6], staticized[7], extending solemnly that for one moment I would make it ours of limpid will[8]. However, there is emptiness in the rooms. Even now, the core of us has not been poured: I bleed myself null through as many sheaves as there are tree rows in this land of beyond-and-more. I do not remain loved: I remain vacant.

M. MATIAS.

June 1st, 2012.

Translated and adapted to English Language by Mateus Matias Pinheiro, in July 28, 2012. 


[1] “desandos”, “decadencies, worsenings”, the word carries the characteristic of a situation or effect contrary to the expected.

[2] Unity of measure (4.8 kilometers).

[3] Originally, “É tudo linhas de passaredo”, “it is all lines drawn by a flying flock of birds”.

[4] “dolorimento”, “painfulness”.

[5] “um vagar de mitos”, “a wandering of myths”.

[6] “de outras paragens”, “from other stopovers”.

[7] “estatizada”, in the context, “made static”, evidently a neologism.

[8] “de límpida vontade”, “expressing a limpid (true) will”.

 

 

 

Like bells that.

[This is a possible translation for the poem Como sinos que. It is still subject to evaluation. Attempts were made to keep it as close as possible to its original form, even though we recognize the endeavor may have resulted in a truncated text]

 

Shush, little brother, and do not move me

for better is the wait than the reach.

Let pass for

these creeks go into the far distance.

Do not speak. Do not see. Feel only

and know

as know the birds:

from following traces into the unheard-of (and not from leaving words).

Call for the sowing. Eat the lights. For God’s sake, do not light out.

From the distance vague stars sing

at our mirage.

Desert yourself here with me. But do not be beautiful, for I cannot bear myself.

Little brother, little brother,

what sun has swallowed your senses?

 

M. MATIAS.

In January 23, 2012.

 

Translated and adapted to English language in June 4, 2012.

 

Against her who may not take us

[This is a possible translation for the text Contra a que não nos leve . It is still subject to evaluation. Attempts were made to keep this translation as much loyal as possible to its original.]

(II – series of paragraphs)

“What is it that death seems to spy on us, comes in our direction as if galloping occult stars, and her enormous breasts to men are given moist and rigid, I wish I could drink them, open sutures in this enormous belly which comes snorting canine breaths, but if we knew it in it we would hide and then it would be like rain. There is no one who has ever drunk from theses lusters without having their body coldly go plead for passage in another river, life likewise draws off through yet unseen drains, nobody has ever approached them without suddenly finding the woof of self torn. But if through the pierced hands of god one might glimpse something, let come this wolf, and upon her shall fall the flock of recondite birds that we have bound in the net of soul: every man is the gathering of many birds. The last enemy is the one they call Night. May these trills confuse her.”

M. MATIAS.

On December 28th, 2011.

Translated and adapted to English language by Mateus Matias Pinheiro, on December 29th, 2011.

Aqueous tones (and other visions)

[this is a possible translation for the poem Tons aquosos (e outras visões) . It is still subject to evaluation.]

To Jéssica Santillo, for all sounds you have prophesied to me in dissonant chords.

In penumbra we lie

Penumbra we are.

Our bleeding feet proceed

paving processions throughout the night.

Eternity

we sail it in recorders

of angels whose breaths clear

the stained-glass windows of time.

We learned from saying to hear that

god is turquoise

and the bulged sky of our routes,

a lute.

– dissonant third –

By threads, sewn,

I to you, being to the utterly novel flesh and

verb to infinity.

What might it be?

– night and silence –

Barks of present

have led us to glimpse in the distance

our inflow

pouring yesterdays that waste sadly

in doleful streams

of whole notes.

We.

– time and penumbra –.

M. MATIAS.

On November 17th and 18th, 2011.

Translated and adapted to English language by Mateus Matias Pinheiro on November 27th, 2011.

To be a child (an yester-logy[1])

[This is a possible translation for the poem Ser Criança (uma ontem-logia) . It is still subject to evaluation. The use of language, the neologisms  as well as the eventual disrespects to grammar and orthography are present in the original.]

To make algae moves and to be given

jellyfish kisses

To defeat the day monsters and to hide from the

bogeyman

To eat mangoes nearly rotten so

savory-ripe[2] they are

To fly over the roofs and to run on their

copious-waters[3]

To dream of happy days and not to know them different from

now

Now?

Time for tag.

 

M. MATIAS.

On October 12th, 2011.

 

Translated and adapted to English language by Mateus Matias Pinheiro, on October 12th, 2011.

 

[1] Untranslatable play of words. The author creates “ontem-logia” (a study of the yesterday, a study of the past), exploiting its similarity with “ontologia” (ontology). It indicates that the poem intends to examine the nature of being a child (its ontology), but, at the same time, it is a study of the past (a “yester-logy”).

[2] Author’s creation. In the original, the first four verses starting with lowercase letters present compound words, joined by a hyphen. Some are naturally like that, for instance, “água-viva” (jellyfish) and “bicho-papão” (bogeyman). Others, however, are creations of the author: “cheiroso-maduras” (savory-ripe) and “copiosas-águas” (copious-waters).

[3] In Portuguese, “água” (water) can also be used to refer to the sides of a roof. In that sense, one can speak, for instance, about a “telhado de quatro águas”, meaning a four-sided roof, a hip roof.

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