Don't you repent of anything.
A verse is always right-
Even when it is wrong.
The truth also,
Even when it hurts
Or wounds or seems inopportune.
The truth is never inopportune
Your nonconformity is the price of our liberation
And your verses flower in
The hearts of the people.
No,
Don't you repent of anything
Don't twist the verse,
Don't force the word.
A poet is
Always right.
Don't permit the oxide of the politicians to
Enter into the blade of your verses.
A poet isn't bought,
Isn't mended,
Isn't sold.
With a poet you sever his head.
And a severed head doesn't hurt-
But it is painfully important.
Self Portrait
From the Portuguese, I have a lyrical nostalgia
for all things past, a childhood
shrouded between crazy sunflowers and fun;
the Arab ardour of my eyes, the penchant
for extremes: from ready tear
to sudden incandescence of a cutting word,
from heady laughter to most bitter anguish.
From the Portuguese, a gruesome streak, a soul
encrusted with fado, resistant to all
ablations of a cultural kind, the sure knowledge
that red wine’s better than white
attesting in the brimful cup, the orthodoxy
of certain victuals of telluric taste and texture.
From the Portuguese, the knowing look, concupiscent
and multiracial, quick to take in breasts
half-glimpsed, a flash of leg, a hint of bum;
the apt reply ready on the tongue,
the heart-warming pleasure of malicious gossip.
From the Swiss, I have great grandfather’s inheritance:
an antique pocket watch and a peculiar, vagrant name.
-Rui Knopfli
I can't find the translation for this last one,
Rui is one of my favorite poets I was introduced to his work from
my brother who did a study abroad in Mozambique Africa and brought back one of his books.
Naturalidade
Europeu, me dizem.
Eivam-me de literatura e doutrina
europeias
e europeu me chamam.
Não sei se o que escrevo tem a raiz de algum
pensamento europeu.
É provaável... Não. É certo,
mas africano sou.
Pulsa-me o coração ao ritmo dolente
desta luz e deste quebranto.
Trago no sangue uma amplidão
de coordenadas geográficas e mar Índico.
Rosas não me dizem nada,
caso-me mais à agrura das micaias
e ao silêncio longo e roxo das tardes
com gritos de aves estranhas.
Chamais-me europeu? Pronto, calo-me.
Mas dentro de mim há savanas de aridez
e planuras sem fim
com longos rios langues e sinuosos,
uma fita de fumo vertical,
um negro e uma viola estalando."
Rui Knopfli escreveu no seu livro "O país dos outros", 1959
Oh and pee ess
I think that coming back to the light sunny shores of sandy eggo turns my eyes a much lighter greengreyhazelamber thing... I brought it up at dinner and everyone at the table said that theirs were changing too.
I think my eyeballs fell out sometime during my terrible terrible terrible sleep last night. It must have been all my shaking and shivering from the cold.
1 comments:
Your recent eye changes. Maybe you're turning into a vampire. (Yep, that was a "Twilight" reference. One I'm not going to rescind. I remind you that I work in a bookstore, which could very easily explain my knowledge of the world of "Twilight." Even thought that's not where my knowledge comes from.)
But more importantly, you are gorgeous and your eyes are lovely, and your poem(s) shared here are lovely as well.
For years a few friends and I have been planning a poetry-reading night...one of them has since moved away, so we need someone else to join. We had planned on each sharing a handful of poems, either our own or our favorites or all of the above. I think that we should do that. And I think that you should be involved.
Sleep better tonight, lovely lady!
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