MYTH’S BELOVED
DISGUISE
There was a silence there, lost in
the middle of the night.
Perhaps between the cracks in time’s
ridge.
Or a swollen scar hallucinating the
past lost.
One never knows how much pain
rebounds.
Suffering is in the boundary of
conscience.
Some cities know more than others
how to abandon themselves.
Lights were as if night barely
slept.
The stairs were reluctant to show
the way to those who have proven better readers of urban afflictions.
Archeology tells us about
subterranean trails, stone, musk and water that shelter certain unsuspected
seals of history.
Everything makes us believe past
unveils when we dig beneath.
Yet there are cities that hide their
history upstairs.
A self-abandonment embroidered in
heights, covered up by the earthen agitation of urban makeup.
Plain cities, and without hereditary
excavations.
Who knows my, maybe yours, certainly
someone’s city.
And that deforest its essence like
weed.
Cities tormented by the refuse of
their own shadow.
Here night never sleeps.
It recapitulates the silence to
which it feels imposed.
This disconcerted emptiness of the
youngest ruins of history.
Air ruins, whose stairs myth tries
to disguise.
Possibly remains of some sin we
ignore.
WOMB OF
RUTH UNDERWOOD
The streets are intersected with
eyes of asymmetric angles chewing the essence of those who pass by.
A frantic palpitation of symbols
makes everyone fall in the fugacious detail of nostalgia, gathered under the
shade of memory, blaming sunset for being melancholic, cathedral for being
rectilinear, abyss for being inaccurate.
The most single notes repeat.
There are chords which know how to
spell the distinct image in each bridge or stage.
It’s not the same as being an art
catcher or a street one.
By there, always when someone runs,
is never reached by the name.
When you fold the notes landscape
quakes.
The skin dedicated to the
transcription of delirium.
It’s when one hears the solidity of
likeliness, the delighted plans of all we write only by glance, the vital spell
at everyone’s range.
A NIGHT IN SYDNEY
How could I have painted the house
with such a huge contrast of scenes?
Furniture whispering by the corners,
a fever of windows collected to their inner tremble, taps committed with
keeping silence for long eternities.
I had forgotten everything that
night.
I tried at least to recollect the
name of that woman lying by my side.
Descending to the kitchen for some
water I saw how my steps on the steps were already there, previously to me.
All over the house the signs
multiplied in a same enigma: everything I tried to do I myself had already
done.
From the window facing the yard I
could see buckets of paint, sandpaper, brushes, the stairs bathed in evidences.
Lips frayed of some twilight, wine
spilled on the carpet, Ben Webster still played Come rain or come shine.
Night immerse in scenic silence.
Her body multiplying in characters
which are codes of emptiness, painful shades, restless figures of dreams I
could never understand.
The house is some kind of souls
sewing, with its stage of paints and architecture of reflexes.
I’m already not anywhere, but she
hurts me as if she were all my life.
ANJA LECHNER’S WRISTS
Your body receives on your bed each
night a distinct verb.
Little household tasks protect the
day from other subjects.
I sit back on the worn out abyss’
shade counting your kisses.
The first one shows me the secrets
of powder.
Another makes me believe I can fly.
Like silent defiance are the small
faces buoying in each look’s amazement.
Signs of disorder that life elects
in its fugacious transit through the prosperity of time
Words with which I dig the
invisibility of your figure.
Silence we shelter beside them so
that they preserve what they know about us
The pendulous movement of your
kisses stresses the labyrinth they weave inside and outside my lips.
A Brazilian describes the desires’
images like voracious amulets.
I re-baptize your rites like who
unveils the virtues of storm.
Your body sophisms the disguises of
the night with its verbal spectra.
Do you recognize the indecipherable
lust of each pantomime?
Do you still recall the name with
which I pretended to be you?
I myself provided to forget, so that
you had no way back.
A NIGHT IN SANTO DOMINGO
The night reproduces itself in my
passing eyes.
We don’t let it sleep, so that it
accompanies us by the wrecked corners, myth disguised in illegible drafts,
petals grimy of memory of self forgotten memory.
Loneliness escaping through the
window with its small transfigured riots.
Don’t forget of anything tonight, so
that we don’t have come back here tomorrow.
Give me your lips one last time
before they vanish from my vision’s ceilings.
Sweaty furniture while we improvise
new sites in absentia of gravity.
When I saw your body learning how to
fly in a Sky of aquarelle brushed up its extensive maritime architecture and
clouds danced like trees in the wind.
It was when I unveiled the pain of
this Word made up of many falls.
The same that now multiplies in my
eyes that cross an endless corridor which leads from an horizon to another in
the wakeful hours we get lost.
I recognize in silence certain
relics that cross fate’s sill, whose language, always legitimate, confides a
defiance after another.
Wherever you are, don’t reply me.
MEMORY OF CONSUELO BENEVIDES
It takes too long to know where pain
keeps its bones.
Clip the verbs, recognize the best identified voices with each
conflict, whisper small behavior changes.
The faces were resigning to a
theatrical expression.
I didn’t see you otherwise than
slices of shades, vestiges, details of memory, were I used to go scribbling my
pain.
When I saw the first sign o f your
life, I had already given up being
human.
I was recognizing your being by marcs.
Much of what came to me confused
with what I stated to imagine as being my son.
I don’t believe we have left each
other anything in manuscripts.
Many times what we recover in life
has to do with your abyssal sense of imitation.
I will never know if you are my
lost son
or the idealized image of the same I have just found in a lot of replicas.
We imitate the future.
How to believe in past?
It doesn’t matter.
You are here in some place.
I’m not
yet anywhere.
A NIGHT IN TENERIFE
I wrote down your name on a leaf
lost from the dream.
The night wakes me up telling
stories which some day would pass here.
The Moon laughed as a lover hidden
under the bed sheet waiting for danger to pass.
While I waited to read my poems I
realized the world didn’t pass there.
Images self projected in dissonant
repetition: here, there, love, poem…
Only a verb moved: to pass & to
pass & to pass.
Full territory of reticence, when I
touched your skin I unveiled a night alien to time.
The poems lost motive.
Your body gained a crafty measure of
eternity.
Until today I don’t know where I
went to since I said goodbye to you.
The fact is that everything passes
and your island doesn’t differ from other feelings in the rest of the world.
The Moon pointed the fountain in the
centre of the square and recorded that something on the way to Brazil
The day uses to forget many things.
A greenish stone celebrates the
volcanic night in your body that we lie down to foresee the navigation chart of
the fountain.
We didn’t go anywhere.
We were perhaps the only night in Tenerife when nothing passed there.
[Traduzidos por Luiz Leitão. Perfil de Floriano Martins, gravura de Fabio Herrera, 2004.]
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