no meio do caminho tinha o diabo.


passamos, inhora, passamos, sinhô.



m. matias.


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).



On December 21st, 2011.

Poème du moment (ou brinquedo de letras)

À elle, ma belle Isa-belle, como quem balbucia as primeiras letras.

« aujourd’hui quero dizer que sans vous la vie serait ennuyante,

(sinon impossible)

e para acrescentar olharei para o centro de meus abat-jour

avec un regard transfiguré par l’expérience imminente de la mort

(ou da épiphanie de se savoir un être vivant e animado pelo fôlego dos altos)

e comme ceux que são carregados por asas de oiseaux

deixar-me-ei estar (ser, jamais)

pendente ao canto, sob a imponente e charmante revoada de fusco e


enquanto vós, de lâmpadas, me vedes, e vendo, vous savez,

que eu hei-de restar

aqui, innomable, e só.”



Em 28 de agosto de 2012.


[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


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.


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.


É preciso que o poeta

tenha as mãos na terra,

ainda que o chão seja aquele

em que me floresçam, mudas,

as suas chagas.


É preciso que ele tenha

não os pés, platôs duvidosos,

mas os dígitos mesmos sobre a superfície carnal

da terra.

E é forçoso que saiba deixar, se o exige o dito,

deixar assim esta montanha, desadjetivada,

não triste, não desabitada,

sobre os prados, estes sim, quando se os quer, desconsolados.


É preciso duvidar do toque, do ritmo e do alcance,

basta que se estendam os olhos aos entes para que eles restem


e como as palavras são modos de enlaçar as coisas,

urge descrê-las.

O poeta tem o toque, não como de midas, que a nada faz ouro,

oiro para comer, inútil pasto,

tem o toque que o teria, se pudesse tocar, uma paleta de cores,

ânima aquarela,

que na proximidade infinitesimal já deixa o rastro e nunca permite

falar a coisa,

mas mancha-lhe a cara de si mesma.


Urge descrer dos francesismos, não é o poeta ourives

(oiro, não),

tampouco dá eternidade e matéria ao que, doutro modo, sobraria inexpresso,

porque a eternidade a ninguém pertence, não é coisa e nem nelas está,

a eternidade é um ídolo oco, como todos os ídolos,

diante do qual se assenta, estúpida, a humanidade, e assente.

Tampouco há matéria nos olhares. Há ato, só isto.


O mundo é como a rádio

(de fato o mundo todo é uma enorme estação radiofônica)

Que toca a despeito de nós, mas que sempre toca

a nós, porquanto não haja outro alguém que possa

ouvir e estar de acordo.

Mas também nós, para acrescer às dores do dia (o mundo não tem dores), somos minúsculos radiozinhos. De algum modo, rangemos na programação.

O saber é da rua. Eu, que pertenço às sendas, aos matos e aos

descampados, não sei.

Ergo o volume do meu rádio sem torres ou linhas.

E ouço.



Em 25 e 27 de agosto de 2012.

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.


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?



In January 23, 2012.


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


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