POETRY

Pedro Abreu Simões / MAR REVERSOPoetry in Portuguese

Posted by Stevan V. Nikolic Wed, October 07, 2015 12:35:05

Blog imagePEDRO ABREU SIMÕES nasceu (já emigrante) a 16 de novembro de 1972, no Luxemburgo. Pouco depois de ter completado o primeiro ano de idade, veio para Portugal. Passou a infância e a adolescência na aldeia paterna (que passou a ser sua), no concelho de Mortágua. Frequentou o Curso de Línguas e Literaturas Modernas na Faculdade de Letras da Universidade Clássica de Lisboa. Por razões laborais, mudou-se em 2004 para o Algarve, estando há vários anos a residir em Portimão. Depois de ter navegado em tantas águas, planeia o regresso às fontes da terra que já era sua, mesmo antes de nascer.

Obra publicada:
MAR REVERSO (Ecos da Terra, do Mar e da Vida), Lisboa: CALÇADA DAS LETRAS, 2015. ISBN 978-989835262-0

MAR REVERSO

Eu tenho um mar inteiro à minha espera,
na praia que me acolhe ao fim do dia,
com águas ressurgidas da quimera,
que afogam, no seu leito, a nostalgia!...

Marulha, neste inverno, a primavera,
trazendo um sol sereno à noite fria!...
Mergulho, sem pensar em quem eu era,
nas vagas doutra luz que me inebria!...

Eu mato o meu marasmo nas marés,
fazendo do meu barco sem destino,
a nau que há de alcançar outro universo!...

Nos versos destas ondas sem revés,
sou puro como os sonhos dum menino
e vejo-me a fluir num mar reverso!

(in MAR REVERSO (Ecos da Terra, do Mar e da Vida), Lisboa: CALÇADA DAS LETRAS, 2015. ISBN 978-989835262-0)

OÁSIS DE PALAVRAS

Liquefaço-me nas palavras,
tornando-as minhas,
como se elas fossem um oásis
no deserto mais agreste...

Faço nascer nelas
fontes de águas frescas
que nunca deixam secar os rios...

No leito das palavras,
faço brotar ribeiros mansos
e acalmo temporais no mar de inverno!...

Mesmo que tudo secasse em meu redor,
ainda teria miragens infindáveis,
feitas de miríades de palavras,
desejosas de matar-me a sede!...

Sorvo-as sofregamente...
Depois de saciado,
deixo-as correr,
para que saciem outras vontades...

O oásis das minhas palavras
passa assim a ser
de todos os que o sentem
e podem ver!...

(in MAR REVERSO (Ecos da Terra, do Mar e da Vida), Lisboa: CALÇADA DAS LETRAS, 2015. ISBN 978-989835262-0)

VINHA DO DESERTO

Quiseste fazer vinho no deserto
e tantos te vaiaram com desdém!...
Num chão de areia seca, a céu aberto,
plantaste a tua vinha sem ninguém!...

Sonhaste e o que era longe fez-se perto…
Na areia ressequida, viste além!...
Videira após videira, em chão incerto,
a vinha enraizou-se e deu-se bem!...

Chegada a hora doce da colheita,
até quem te vaiou já se deleita
com tantos cachos ébrios de sabor!...

A vinha que plantaste na secura
vingou, mesmo sem água, em pedra dura…
E todos te erguem taças em louvor!

(a publicar no próximo livro “POEMAS POR SER”)

O ESCRITOR E O TABERNEIRO

Pouco faltava para as dez da manhã e a rua já girava num turbilhão de palavras.
Atrás do balcão riscado da taberna, um homem de baixa estatura, em bicos de pés, tentava alisar a barba descuidada. (Parecia dez anos mais velho do que consta no cartão de cidadão.)
– Bom dia, escritor!
A voz do taberneiro ressoou num tom que denotava despeito e sarcasmo…
– Então, trabalhou muito esta noite?
– Bom dia, Gaspar! – respondi ainda ensonado.
– Então, diga lá, amigo escritor... É um café cheio em chávena escaldada?
– Sim… É o costume…
– Diga-me uma coisa, escritor… Como é que alguém sabe que sabe escrever? – perguntou o homenzinho empertigado.
Abri o pacote de açúcar como se o tempo não existisse. Misturei-o calmamente no café, afagando a espuma.
– Então, não diz nada, amigo escritor? Como é que alguém sabe que sabe escrever?
Ergui a chávena, soprei e bebi o primeiro gole… E só depois respondi.
– Em primeiro lugar é preciso conhecer todas as letras do alfabeto!...
– Então, isso até o meu Bruno sabe e só tem oito anos!...
– E você sabe?
– Então não havia de saber?!
Bebi mais um gole de café e senti um incêndio nas cordas vocais.
– Se assim é, também sabe que o meu nome começa por P, a décima-sexta letra do alfabeto…
– Claro que sei, amigo escritor!...
– Então, chame-me Pedro, amigo taberneiro! O meu nome não começa por E!...
Acabei o café, paguei e despedi-me, pesando as palavras.
– Até logo, Gaspar!
– Até logo, amigo poeta!
O dia fez-se alfabeto. O homem empertigado já chegara à minha letra inicial…

(texto a publicar futuramente em livro ainda sem título)

CHRISTINA BORGOYN / LETTERHEADPoetry in English

Posted by Stevan V. Nikolic Wed, October 07, 2015 12:33:11

Blog imageChristina Borgoyn lives in the Baltimore area. She graduated from University Maryland University College in 2012 with a BA in English Literature. Her first book of poetry November Poems was published in December of 2013 and is available through Amazon.com. She currently works for the state government while trying to complete her second poetry manuscript.

smoke-filled

clinging breath, they will see me
in red plaid jacket, thumb holes,
the cold infringing upon this winter
puff of smoke slowly fill the air
can't take any more into lungs
I will fight, and eternally lose
fading dusk spreads over
the far, distant valley,
seeping into bones, a remembrance
called spring, though dead in
January, the long weeks drag on,
pockets full to bursting of
lighters and keys and notes and things,
backpack hidden beyond rugged shoulders,
the entire earth carries the weight
of itself into the night, though
quiet, I lose all sense of myself
through the words, verbs, sentences,
prying apart nouns that make no more
sense to deaf ears, I walk away
into sunset, betraying every
thought I'd ever have, a morsel
to bargain with, a dream you can't have.

survivor

I am no longer a warrior
with hunting arrows in my quiver
the smell of meat brings bile
to these vile lips that I taste,
taints the lineage drawn across
the centuries, I have everything
that I own strapped to the small
of my back, bending beneath
the burden's weight, never will
let these shoulders rest as
I gaze out upon the horizon,
sun cresting just below
the far mountain ridge I am
headed towards, this land yearns
no longer for me, it is red
and dripping dust in its outcroppings,
follow the freshwater stream
that runs far from this deserted place.
The babe sits dull and quiet
inside of me, no longer moving,
its tiny heart fluttering now inside mine;
stopping only once to freshen my tongue,
for out there, somewhere, something
calls to me back from the time I was young,
a memory scantily surfaces in membrane,
audible, coherent, growing stronger
till it is undeniable, unmistakable,
the rivers I cross are closer than I imagined
as I never let this body rest,
stone arrows drawing blood forth from
hands scattered out towards stars,
blood a fortune, yes, a treasure I weep
to my kin, stumbling after me
when the winter settles in these aching ribs.

pause

pause, grape halfway to mouth
spirit hovers somewhere nearby
through the open window, spring
drifts into summer, late moon
blooming, the rains come again
drenching benches and patios,
skinning the backs of my knees
against the pine tree you refuse
to cut down, let alone prune,
drifting, sometimes searching
cool skin to the touch, against
mine, now I'm yearning for
something to go after, to taste
like the acrid smoke filling
the room after we made our love
known to the shadows scarred on
wallpaper that peels and escorts
you from me once I've fallen
way head over heels for and back.

clean laundry

we left our dirty laundry outside
on the clothesline yesterday,
forgotten amid the ruins of fog.
sun dare not bleach the echoes
away, the creases in our elbows,
skin pruny from too much washing,
wrinkles softly as I lead you
from the yard to our back bedroom
where we make love all afternoon
amid the fresh linen scent.

letterhead

I'm tired of these hands becoming brackets,
for words, yet I do not understand
the meaning of, behind, them

plural, punctuation
each dot resemblance
I am growing closer and closer
to the blip on the monitor

when the whole world
engineered itself
in such a way, I lay myself
for ruin, watched them
rob me of my feats and dreams
to assure I would never
breathe again,

a soulless debacle,
obstacles that make no sense,
and I understand everything
that is misrepresented-
had it all figured out
before words were ever spoken

laughter fills the air,
heart is beating, broken,
breaking me down to a point
where I am rare meat sizzling,
rotten, an arrow head picked
up from clear shining water at dusk
a treasure to be found, I'm sure
by the map that your trembling
hands can barely read, the sunshine
fading once crisp letters to
discernible script.

Branko Miljkovic and his poetryPoetry in English

Posted by Stevan V. Nikolic Sun, September 13, 2015 16:48:15

Blog image

Branko Miljković (Serbian Cyrillic: Бранко Миљковић) (January 29, 1934 - February 12, 1961) was an iconic Serbian poet, one of the leaders of the Neo-Symbolist movement which had the mission of bringing together Surrealism and Symbolism.

In a preface to an anthology of his work, Ljubica Miletic (2001) writes that "already in the first lines of his first book ("Uzalud Je Budim" / "I Wake Her In Vain") begins Branko's contest with words, their internal battle, and dilemma: is the poet master of the words or do they rule over him. Unfortunately, that battle ends with the poem "Epitaph": "Ubi me prejaka reč" ("I was killed by too strong a word")."

He died prematurely in 1961 at the age of 27, found hanging from a tree in Zagreb. This controversial incident was officially recorded as a suicide although remains unclear to this day.

His work was strongly influenced by the teachings of the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus.

In Vain I Wake Her

For the Sun that explains itself in plants
I wake her
for the sky streched between the fingers
I wake her for the words that burn the throat
I love her with my ears
One should go to the end of the world
and find dew on the grass
I wake her for some distant things
that look alike the ones
here
For the people with no face nor name passing down the street
For the anonymous words of squares I wake her for the manufactured landscapes of public parks
I wake her for this planet of ours that might become
a mine in the bleeding sky
I wake her for the smiles in the stone of comarades that fell asleep
between two battles
when sky was not a great birdcage
but an airport
My love full of others is part of a dawn
I wake her for the dawn for love for me for others
I wake her though in vain
in vain as alluring a bird that has landed forever
Surely she said:
let him look for me and see that I'm gone
that woman with hands of a child that I love
that child that fell asleep not wiping its tears that I wake
In vain in vain in vain
in vain I wake her
for she'll wake up different and new
In vain I wake her
for her lips won't be able to tell her
In vain I wake her
you know water flows but doesn't say anything
In vain I wake her
One should promise to the long lost name
somebody's face in the sand
If not so
cut off my arms and turn me into a stone

(Translated by Aleksandra Milanović)

First canto

I found myself within a forest dark
Dante
It was a forest that ate the sky
the forest from which I came out to realize
that I did not come out that beasts have eaten me
and I knew that it will be bitter to tell
what I saw and didn't
see when I entered it's darkness and came out not
from that forest which ate its paths with green jaws
and got lost in itself
there is one warm shore hill of green and one
Beatrice
but there are three jaws three scissors and three knives
yes I would like to return
I went ahead of myself on the cried out road and sand was biting my feet
like glass and I saw dogs eating dirt
saw sinners being swung by the evil wind
sky that barks and rain of damnation heavy
and eternal
I saw blind waters of Stix and mud of hatred
I saw city in flames and women whose arms are snakes
I saw the wailing wall with no stars
and I heard words of pain in maelstrom
of those who became tree or a stone
and I can not hope for death
of those wretched that never've been born
I saw I saw I saw and heard and wept
flute of earth of forest
of blood
alluring the other shore
on the dire shore there stood people and wept
ay ay your damned souls
with balsamed arms and lips of blood
I saw I saw I saw and heard and fell dead
Oh Acheron Acheron
all sides of the world meet on your shores.

(Translated by Aleksandra Milanović)

The Last Poem

Evening star shall stare at my burned out eyes
and won't find it's lost reflection.
Somewhere someone will
over the peaceful river of thoughts lean
remembering
Sadness once in me shall fly out into the world
And distant sunflowers will bow their heads.

(Translated by Aleksandra Milanović)


Dedication of elegies

Messenger of headland what a bird
under heart you carry? By an eye replaced the world
above the river tightly sleeping you dream
Bitter fruit of climate for riddles above your bloodstream
when dead time and a pit the dome become
of our bitter days in a lavish flow
of stars under which I fell in fervor.
Where I have kneeled the Sun shall fall.

Speak up shadows do I sense the deceit
of a bleary nape. Oh sad north of the body, sky of four winds, turn into vapor
over wide open water that delivers
over body whole the darkness of eyes. Flames
become joyless when poems in me find
the dark abundance that torture me starved.

All that I have is our words
over waters that suspect the dark splice of the flow
when heights discover pain in me kneeling before
my core that dreams the painless flower.
By that which banishes river from the earth, let us be cured
When world tuned our bread into stone
when mirror into her dead face turns
above evil cliff for the winged birds.

Messenger of headland what a bird
under heart you carry? By an eye replaced the world
above the river tightly sleeping you dream
Bitter fruit of climate for riddles above your bloodstream
when dead time and a pit the dome become
of our bitter days in a lavish flow
of stars under which I fell in fervor.
Where I have kneeled the Sun shall fall.