ISSN 2359-4101

Brazilian Literature in Translation / Literatura Brasileña en Traducción

Issue / Numero

year/año: 2012
issue/numero: # 01


Author | Autor: Eucanaã Ferraz

Translated by Sylvio Fraga Neto


The poem teaches us to stand up straight.
Fastened to the ground, the street, the verse
doesn’t fly, doesn’t float, doesn’t hover.

The hand that writes doesn’t dream
(actually, it barely sleeps in light
Of the things it dwells upon).

The Lunatic

Some say, truly or not, he was rich and sane
And despite the estate once possessed

He ended up indebted, bankrupt, and crooked. Maybe
that’s why, though miserable, the straight

head, the step
of one who governs and walks expansive land

of his own, perambulating under the absolute sun,
absorbed by who knows what deliriums.

Absorbed by who knows what deliriums,
he’d insult the wind and the void in an agitation

of hairs and words and it was common 
to see him combing with his soiled

fingers the ocean waters,
as if a country of his own, 

as if his liquid wife or daughter.
So he lived, among wounds and lice, 

Until the night descended 
And a stone came to take him. 

The Actor

I considered lying, I considered pretending,
saying: I have a rare type of,
I am on the verge of, 

Though it’s not apparent. Do I not appear so? 
Measures: another color upon the skin, 
The palest; another backdrop for the picture: 

nothing; fallen arms, a pungent
honey between the teeth.
As for the sadness

Our distance brings me,
it’s perfect, let it be as it is: cold,
astonishing, seven fingers

on each hand. Everything so your eyes 
could see, so your body
could pity mine and, who knows,

your compassion, for one moment, 
could transpose into mouth, mouth into skin, the skin
keeping us safe from the weather outside.

I would call this happiness 
and die.
I have a rare type.

The Unphotographer

I see everything differently now,
as if time against the river
drove and from back to front
I unwrote a book

and every word in it became
free and made me free
and syllable by syllable every memory 
went missing — disappeared —

as if, in front of us, everything
we once were, in a feat 
of magic evaporated in a feat
of music, quick feet — in the air

Today, one can see all without pain, 
clean, without a trace of passion.
The poems have faded away and, take note,
let us collect our thoughts: nothing

remains of us beyond the blank page
at the end of a book, portrait in 
white and white 

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