Filíocht do Samhain, Là na Marbh / Irish poems, verses for Samhain + All Souls Day

 

Cathal Ó Searcaigh

“Samhain 1994”

.

Anocht agus mé ag meabhrú go mór fá mo chroí

Gan de sholas ag lasadh an tí ach fannsholas gríosaí

Smaointím airsean a dtug mé gean dó fadó agus gnaoi.

A Dhia, dá mba fharraige an dorchadas a bhí eadrainn

Dhéanfainn long den leabaidh seo anois agus threabhfainn

Tonnta tréana na cumhaí anonn go cé a chléibhe…

Tá sé ar shiúl is cha philleann sé chugam go brách

Ach mar a bhuanaíonn an t-éan san ubh, an crann sa dearcán;

Go lá a bhrátha, mairfidh i m’anamsa, gin dá ghrá.

 

.     .     .

 

Cathal Ó Searcaigh

(born 1956, Gort an Choirce, County Donegal, Ireland)

“November* 1994”

Editor’s note:  the word Samhain is, in contemporary Irish,

also synonymous with the word for November.

.

Tonight as I search the depths of my heart,

in the dark of the house and the last ember-light,

I’m thinking of one I loved long ago.

.

And if the darkness between us became like the sea,

I’d make a boat of this bed, plunge its bow

through the waves that barge the heart’s quay.

.

Although he is gone and won’t ever be back,

I’ll guard in my soul the last spark of his love,

like the bird in the egg and the tree in the nut.

 

 

.

Translation from Irish:  Nigel McLoughlin

.

.     .     .

 

Rody Gorman

“Mo Mharana”

.

D’fhág mé an suíochán

Ina gcaitheadh is a gcognaíodh sé féin

Gan bhogadh tamall fada,

Mar a bhfuair sé bás

Thall i gcois an tinteáin.

.

Shuigh mé go ndearna mé mo mharana

Sa deireadh. Cheap mé dán

Agus fuair mé réidh leis.

 

.     .     .

 

Rody Gorman (born 1960, Dublin, Ireland)

“Contemplation”

.

I avoided the chair

in which he’d spent and chewed away,

and didn’t move for a long time,

he’d died

over there by the fireplace.

.

In the end, I sat

in contemplation. I composed a poem

and had done with it.

 

 

.

Translation from Irish:  Michael S. Begnal

.

“Samhain 1994” and “Mo Mharana” © Cathal Ó Searcaigh, Rody Gorman
.     .     .

 

“All Hallow’s” 

(Irish-American poem – Author unknown)

.

The voices of the dead…

Are you with me, grandfather?

Do you hear me, spirits of the past?

Is the night hurrying because of you?

.

The answers are not in unhoped for words

but the images of night:

the cloak, the stillborn wind ripping brown leaves,

rain on the sidewalk, clay earth

becoming mud, mute stars,

the tree sighing as it dies,

the ending of the day, the halo of dawn,

the night-touch, the wolves’ howl,

the heart, the soul, of the dark.

.

Because we know, we know you well.

The voices of the dead carry my heart,

whispering, wind-voiced.

What do they know but Time?

Timelessness is not theirs;

they surpass it, as they surpass the images of night.

My time is coming.

I must leave, as we all must, as the dead have,

wandering in their cities of different light,

strange and still, touching each other

as they pass, tenderly,

with the fingertips, as they pass,

walking home.

 

.     .     .

 

Irish lyric tenor John McCormack (1884-1945) was one of the earliest singing voices to be put on “phonograph record”.  Pianist and composer Charles Marshall (1857-1927) wrote the music and words for the following sentimental popular song, “I Hear You Calling Me”, which was recorded by both men (John’s voice, Charles at the piano) in 1908.  The song’s tender theme is entirely appropriate for All Souls Day.

.

“I Hear You Calling Me”

.

I hear you calling me –

You called me when the moon had veiled her light,

before I went from you into the night…

I came,

do you remember?

back to  you

for one last kiss

beneath the kind star’s light.

.

I hear you calling me –

And oh, the ringing gladness of your voice,

that warmth that made my longing heart rejoice.

You spoke,

do you remember?

and my heart

still hears

the distant music of your voice.

.

I hear you calling me –

Though years have stretched their weary length between

and on your grave the mossy grass is green.

I stand –

do you behold me listening here?

.

Hearing your voice through all the years between

–  I hear you calling me…
.     .     .

 

Thomas Moore (born Dublin, 1779, died 1852)

Editor’s note:  Moore was a great collector of Irish Traditional poems and songs,
told or sung to him by people who were illiterate.  Some of these verses he ‘tweaked’, making them rather more sophisticated than the folk originals – but the presence of Death remains, as in the earlier anonymous oral versions.

.

“Oh, ye Dead!”

(Irish Traditional)

.

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the light you give

From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves,

In far off fields and waves,

Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,

To haunt this spot where all

Those eyes that wept your fall,

And the hearts that wail’d you, like your own, lie dead?

.

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;

And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;

But still thus even in death,

So sweet the living breath

Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander’d o’er,

That ere, condemn’d, we go

To freeze ‘mid *Hecla’s snow,

We would taste it a while, and think we live once more!

 

.

* Hecla refers to Mount Hecla, the active volcano in Iceland (not Ireland).  Stories grew up around reports – possibly by mediaeval sailors – of the mystical strangeness of Hecla.

.     .     .

“The Unquiet Grave”

(Traditional – Ireland, Scotland, England)

.

The wind doth blow today, my Love,

A few small drops of rain

I never had but one true Love

In cold clay she is laid.

.

I’ll do as much for my true Love

As any young man may

I’ll sit and mourn all on her grave

A twelve-month and a day.

.

The twelve-month and the day being gone

A voice spoke from the deep:

Who is it sits all on my grave

And will not let me sleep?

.

”Tis I, ’tis I, thine own true Love

Who sits upon your grave

For I crave one kiss from your sweet lips

And that is all I seek.

.

You crave one kiss from my clay cold lips

But my breath is earthly strong,

Had you one kiss from my clay cold lips

Your time would not be long.

.

My time be long, my time be short,

Tomorrow or today,

May God in Heaven have all my soul

– But I’ll kiss your lips of clay!

.

See down in yonder garden green,

Love, where we used to walk

The sweetest flower that ever grew

Is withered to the stalk.

The stalk is withered dry, my Love,

And will our hearts decay

So make yourself content, my Love,

Till death calls you away…

 

“Quick! we have but a second!”

(Irish Traditional)

.

Quick! we have but a second,

Fill round the cup while you may;

For Time – the churl – hath beckon’d,

And we must away, away!

Grasp the pleasure that’s flying,

For oh, not Orpheus’ strain

Could keep sweet hours from dying,

Or charm them to life again.

.

Then, quick! we have but a second,

Fill round the cup while you may.

For Time – the churl – hath beckon’d,

And we must away, away!

.

See the glass, how it flushes,

Like some young (maiden’s) lip,

And half meets thine, and blushes

That thou shouldst delay to sip.

Shame, oh shame unto thee,

If ever thou see’st that day,

When a cup or lip shall woo thee,

And turn untouch’d away!

.

Then, quick! we have but a second,

Fill round, fill round while you may,

For Time – the churl – hath beckon’d,

And we must away, away!


Tallando calabazas en Toronto: Samhain y Hallowe’en 2012


“I seek freedom in the indefinable”: Five Poems by Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming

Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming

(born 1960, Trinidad and Tobago)

The Om

.

My Tanty used to sing/pray

evening ragas to the Earth Goddess

morning oblations to the Sun God

.

Now my Aunty prays

that I find salvation in the cross

in the church that has freed her

from indenture, from coolieness

.

Yet I seek freedom

in the indefinable

the OM

the puja breath that expands

my rib cage

with blessed pitchpine smoke

into an oval

large as the cosmic egg

.

The sea breath

OM

That echoes

In the conch shell

Blowing across the Caroni

Infinite like green plains

Of sugarcane

Or a milky river veiling

The face of the goddess

 

.     .     .

 

The Broken Key

.

1

Half left in the keyhole

Bright bronze blocking

Locking the door

.

Only a tiny drill

Can turn into powder

The hardened one

Reopen the door

Allow a human being

To become the way

For grace to come through

.

2

Half broken off

Round with jagged edge

As if the full moon

Had been gnawed by some

Celestial beast

Gnawed like the ropes

That bind us together

One tug away from

SNAP

CRACK

The sound of a key breaking

In the keyhole of our door

How can we reopen the door?

How can we ever let grace

Come through again?

.     .     .

Fusion

.

A quartet of ospreys calls

Kee-uk kee-uk cheep cheep

Kee-uk kee-uk cheep cheep

Riding on air currents

Beneath a periwinkle sky

Decibelled by steelpan carols

.

A sailboat chips along

Over cobalt blue near the horizon

As David Rudder’s voice solos

From the CD-player

.

A soulful Go Tell It on The Mountain

.

A white and orange tabby saunters

Along the boardwalk

Sasses Meow

Without stopping to marvel

At the ingenuity

Of Zanda and Hadeed’s

Playful panjazz fusion

.

The Mighty Shadow melodies

Greetings in a lover’s kaiso

While at the foot of the dune

Sixty feet down

The sea swashes in threes

A soft wetsandsmooth

Rake and Scrape response

Submerged voices of ghost Tainos

 

.     .     .

 

Beneath the Trees

.

These round roots encircle me

Like tubes

In a hospital bed but here there is no

Antiseptic scent

No sterile handwashing

.

Here the earth smells like wet moss

And when I bite into these roots

They taste of peppery pine

And green fruit: sugar apple maybe

.

Beneath these trees

I need no clothes to feel clothed

These gnarled roots with their humus

Coating warm my nakedness

In a cocoon soft like corn silk

.

The phloem and xylem passages

That carry messages

Between the sun and these roots

Water and feed my muscles

Giving them a turgidity

Like the fullness of youth

.

These roots do not just encase me

They cradle me

Like a mother’s arms

.

My heartbeat echoes

Through these roots

This earth

And I know

I have become

an incarnation

of Sita

Returning to her mother

Bhumi Devi: the great Earth Mother

Beneath these trees

 

.     .     .

 

Alphabet of Memory

.

I took with me seeds

Tiny dots of bhandhania

Flat, almost round disks of pimento pepper

And oval, plump legumes of seim

That I planted

With varying degrees of success

Wanting to feel at home

Where I have traveled to

.

Then I found

In a cobwebby closet

The alphabet of memory

I had brought with me

Some letters sharp as a tropical noonday

Others hazy

As a smoky dry season dusk

.

Letters which I shuffled

And then played a game of scrabble

Until I had used them all up

To create words

Then poems

To make me feel at home

 

.     .     .

 

Poet’s glossary:

Coolieness: East Indian Indentured Labourers who were brought to the West Indies, and their descendents are sometimes called ‘coolie’, as an insult. In my poem, ‘Coolieness’ refers to the East Indian culture that still exists in Trinidad and Tobago.

.

Puja (Bhojpuri Hindi): A personal, familial, or public Hindu prayer service or worship.

.

Caroni: A river in Trinidad and Tobago. The river plains, called the Caroni Plains were once used for sugar cane farming.

.

David Rudder: A calypsonian from Trinidad and Tobago.

.

Zanda: Clive Alexander, aka Zanda, or Clive Zanda Alexander, is a jazz pianist from Trinidad and Tobago.

.

Hadeed: Annise Hadeed is a steel pan soloist and composer from Trinidad and Tobago.

.

The Mighty Shadow: A calypsonian from Trinidad and Tobago.

.

Kaiso (Trinidad and Tobago Creole): Calypso

.

phloem and xylem: The primary components of the vascular tissues in plants, which transport the fluid and nutrients throughout the plant.

.

Sita: (Sanskrit: meaning “furrow”) is the wife of Lord Rama and one of the principal figures of the Ramayana, the epic Hindu scripture. As the devoted wife of Lord Rama, Sita is regarded as the most esteemed exemplar of womanly elegance and wifely virtue in Hinduism.

.

Bhandhania: The Hindi name for the herb, used in cooking, otherwise known as wild coriander or culantro.

.

Seim: The Hindi name for the Hyacinth bean, the green pods of which are used as a vegetable.

 

.     .     .     .     .

Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming is an engineer, poet and fiction writer.  She won the David Hough Literary Prize (2001) and the Canute A. Brodhurst Prize (2009) from The Caribbean Writer Literary Journal; and the Commonwealth Broadcasting Association 2001 Short Story Competition. She is the author of two poetry collections: Curry Flavour, published by Peepal Tree Press (2000) and Immortelle and Bhandaaraa Poems, published by Proverse Hong Kong (2011).

.

Zócalo Poets wishes to thank guest-editor Andre Bagoo

for introducing us to the poetry of Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming.


Cicatrizes da Vida: poemas brasileiros em inglês / Scars of Life: Brazilian poems in English

Valdeck Almeida de Jesus

“Aqui e agora”

.

Aqui e agora

Eu sou,

Sou tudo:

O mundo, o sol, o mar

O mar distante

O sol presente

O mundo invisível.

Sou nada:

O mar, o sol, o mundo

O mundo real

O sol no infinito

O mar da melancolia

Melancolia e saudade

Daquilo que não vivi.

 

.     .     .

 

“Here and Now”

.

Here and now

I am – I am

Everything:

The world, the sun and sea

– the distant sea,

The sun this very moment,

The invisible world.

.

I am nothing:

The sea, the sun, the world,

The real world,

The sun in its infinity,

And a sea of melancholy –

Melancholy and longing, yearning

– for that which I did not live.

 

.     .     .

 

“Cicatrizes”

.

A vida é uma sucessão,

Successão de cicatrizes…

Cicatrizes do amor

Cicatrizes da alegria

Cicatrizes da dor

Cicatrizes da euphoria.

Não quero viver

Sem cicatrizes

– alegres os tristes,

Quase felizes

Meus dias terão

Várias cicatrizes.

 

.     .     .

 

“Scars”

.

Life is a kind of succession…

– a succession of scars –

Love’s scars,

Scars of happiness,

Of grief, of euphoria.

I don’t wish to live

Without those scars

– scars joyful, scars sad,

Almost happy, my days…

And they’ll have numerous scars.

 

.     .     .

 

“Vida”

.

Viver en tento,

Morrer não quero,

Sorrir desejo,

Mas não consigo;

Me ver em ti,

Procuro sempre;

Amar com garra

E com segurança,

Estou tentando

Desde sempre.

Se não consigo

Ser mais autêntico,

É porque sou humano

E por tal, falho.

 

.     .     .

 

“Life”

.

To live with care,

And not want to die,

I wish to smile,

But maybe not with you…

.

To see myself in you

– always I seek that –

And to love with gusto, with sureness

(I’ve been trying to do that since forever!)

.

But if not with you…

Well, to be more real,

And it’s all because I’m human and,

For that reason,

Flawed.

 

 

.

“Aqui e agora”, “Cicatrizes”, “Vida”:  © Valdeck Almeida de Jesus

.     .     .

Valdeck Almeida de Jesus é jornalista, escritor e poeta.  Nasceu em 1966 em Jequié, Bahia, Brasil.

A journalist, writer and poet, Valdeck Almeida de Jesus was born in 1966.

He hails from Jequié, Bahia State, Brazil.

.

Tradução de português para inglês / Translations from Portuguese into English:

Alexander Best


Frida + Diego: poems, pictures / pinturas, poemas

Today in Toronto, at the Art Gallery of Ontario, a first-time-ever exhibition in Canada opens:  “Frida and Diego:  Passion, Politics and Painting”.  Combining the divergent artworks of México’s famous bohemian ‘power couple” of the twentieth century, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera – an odd yet charismatic pair of artists/soul-mates.

.

Diego Rivera (1886-1957) put México on the map internationally for his enormous public murals depicting Mexican history with a distinct Marxist perspective – and by placing Indigenous people front-and-centre in his work.  Arguably, fellow muralists José Orozco and David Siqueiros were superior artists but Rivera’s vast energy and robust national/historical vision place him at the forefront.  Though in his smaller painted canvases (some of which may be seen at the A.G.O. show) Rivera is wildly uneven as to technique and intellectual perspective – he can be cloying and  mediocre – still, he is an exceptional figure for his vitality alone.

A maverick originality defines Frida Kahlo (1907-1954).  In her short gutsy life she altered people’s perception of what it meant to be a woman painter.  Though her small-size – and they are almost always small – canvases lack painterly finesse , nonetheless they are deeply affecting for their self-absorbed even disturbingly raw subject matter/point of view.  Here  was something new in a female painter – and Kahlo has been embraced by Surrealists, Feminists, champions of “Mestizaje”, Disabled and Chronic-Pain Activists, Body Self-Modifiers, and dedicated Non-Conformists.  All have found what they needed in the work and life of this complex artist and woman – one who continues to fascinate a new generation now discovering her.

.

We present three poems in translation from Spanish by young poets who have meditated upon the “meaning of” Diego and of Frida…

.     .     .

Hoy en Toronto, el 20 de octubre, se inaugurará en La Galería de Arte de Ontario una exposición centrada en obras de los artistas Frida Kahlo y Diego Rivera – y titulada:  Frida y Diego: Pasión, Política y Pintura.  Es la primera vez que están en Canadá las pinturas de estos “compañeros” lo más famosos del arte mexicano del siglo XX.

Y para celebrar este hecho – las reflexiones de tres poetas…

.     .     .

Eduardo Urueta (pseudonym)

“Poem for Diego Rivera” (December 2011)

.

México:

The wet-nurse that breastfed you,

Who gave you your icy tone in love,

And who drew you, with his plump hands, as

Black women, soldiers on fire, Communists, kids;

México misses you –

this place is a fountain of the dismal…

.

So pronounced is your brow – like your temper.

So easygoing – so bearable – these mummy-like buildings.

The México of your tree-of-awareness is – like you – dead.

They’ve got skeletons – ‘at par’ now.

We are grey dust – smog – save for

Guanajuato which keeps on with its brightly-coloured houses in the hills and its

Streets smelling of oil paints – almost kissing us.

.

The buckets which by you got filled in two days

And by the third became big round chests or trunks-ful,

Were:

1. a nude portrait of (audacious poetess) Guadalupe Amor

2. a transvestite you never wanted and who ‘rouged’ you with his bearded cheeks,

And

3. your dead son by your first wife, Angelina Beloff.

.

So much matrimony to satisfy your hefty body,

So much travel to make ‘bug out’ those toad-eyes of yours,

So many kilometres of walls

To fill this country UP with History.

.

You are in debt.

You await – you hope for – a novice urbanization.

You have to hope – always – that the

Wall of memory (painted by you)

Bears the weight of – can hold up – the sky for you.

People will continue to love

The “Bellas Artes” fresco,

and that staircase mural decorated by your hands

– until the thing collapses and falls down…

.     .     .

Eduardo Urueta (Seudónimo)

“Poema para Diego Rivera” (diciembre 2011)

.

México:

la nodriza que te amamantó,

quien te dio tu gélido acento de amor,

y quien te dibujó, en las manos llenas,

mujeres morenas, soldados en combustión, comunistas, niños;

te extraña

– es una fuente sombría.

.

Tan pronunciada tu frente, como tu genio

Tan llevadera la momia de los edificios.

El México de tu árbol-conciencia,

como tú, está muerto.

Se hicieron a la par esqueletos.

Somos polvo gris,

excepto Guanajuato que sigue con casas de color en sus cerros

y sus calles huelen a aceite de pintura, a besos.

.

Los cubos que en ti cupieron dos días

y al tercero se volvieron un baúl redondo,

fueron

Un retrato desnudo de Guadalupe Amor,

Un hombre travesti que nunca quisiste y que ruborizaste de rosa

sus mejillas de hombre barbón,

y tu hijo muerto de Angelina Beloff.

.

Tanto matrimonio para llenar tu cuerpo gordo

tanto viaje

para llenar tus ojos de sapo

tanto kilómetro de muros

para llenar de historia al país

.

En deuda estás.

Te espera el blanco de la novicia urbanización

Te ha de esperar, siempre

el muro de la memoria

te ha de sufrir el cielo

por sujetarte el peso.

Te seguirá amando Bellas Artes

su escalera adornada de tus manos

hasta que se derrumbe…

José Pablo Sibaja Campos

“To Frida”

.

Today, when inexorable Time has shown us

How many calendars have gone up in smoke;

Now that the leaves have begun to fall from the trees;

Only just today when the sky seems to be transforming itself into a violent sea;

I – pausing before your face and its glance – have got to say:

Frida Camarada Kahlo,

That which you painted at one time or another as if wanting to speak to me;

The same fixed glance with which you have turned yourself into a nereid, a sea-nymph,

from that murky sea  many people wanted to conquer but which few have achieved.

.

To be sure, Frida, there are those who look for you under the shade of some Rivera painting;

Others, naïve ones, find you within the shuttered corridors of a dream

– Poor them! – sad…blind.

They don’t notice that you live in your paintings, your paintings live in you.

Come, Frida, rise up and walk, as if you were the biblical Lazarus.

Show yourself again and let us once more call you:

Woman, Artist, Revolutionary.

.     .     .

José Pablo Sibaja Campos

“A Frida”

.

Hoy que el inexorable tiempo nos ha enseñado

Cuantos calendarios ha quemado ya.

Ahora que las hojas han empezado a caer de los árboles,

Justo hoy que el cielo parece convertirse en un mar violento,

Tengo que decirlo, me detuve ante tu mirada

Frida Camarada Kahlo

Esa que pintaste una y otra vez como queriendo hablarme,

La misma mirada con la que te has convertido en la nereida

Del turbio mar que muchos quisieron conquistar

Pero que pocos han logrado.

.

Es cierto Frida algunos te buscan balo la sombra de un tal Rivera,

Otros ingenuos,

Te hallan en los postigos pasillos del sueño

Pobre de ellos, tristes…ciegos.

No se dan cuenta que vives en tu obra y tu obra en ti.

Ven Frida levántate y anda, cual si fueras el Lázaro bíblico

Muéstrate de nuevo y déjanos llamarte una vez más;

Mujer, Artista, Revolucionaria.

.     .     .

Hellen Chinchilla

“Between transgression and normalcy”

.

Why?

Why do you have to be along that line where there are no lines – no horizons?

Why are you not the same as all the others?

Why must you be seen as transgressive and not as normal?

Where is that fine line that keeps you apart?

Apart to be what you must be!

Forced by life, by decision, and by pain to be in that line off to one side,

where the others, even though they wanted not to be there,

are leaving behind the boundaries of the hetero…

Oh, you knew how to love…

You – different Woman,

Woman-transgressor,

Normal Woman – and then some.

Woman.

Hellen Chinchilla

“Entre la transgresión y la normalidad”

.

¿Por qué?

¿Por qué debes estar en la línea dónde no hay líneas?

¿Por qué no eres de las mismas?

¿Por qué tienes que ser vista como transgresora y no como normal?

¿Dónde está esa delgada línea que te mantiene al margen,

Al margen de ser lo que debes ser?

Obligada por vida, decisión y dolor a estar en la línea de al lado

En donde las otras, aunque quieran no pueden estar

Dejando atrás la frontera de lo hetero…

– Supiste amar…

Mujer diferente,

Mujer transgresora,

Mujer normal – o una más…

Mujer.

.     .     .     .     .

Traducciones del español al inglés / Translations from Spanish into English:   Alexander Best

“A Frida” y “Entre la transgresión y la normalidad” y “Poema para Diego Rivera”

©  José Pablo Sibaja Campos, Hellen Chinchilla, Eduardo Urueta

.     .     .     .     .

Retratos de Frida Kahlo:  dibujos hechos por unos adolescentes y niños en Toronto, Canadá, otoño de 2012:

1.Drawing by a Toronto teenager_Frida Kahlo2.Portrait of Frida Kahlo by a teenager in Toronto3.Frida Kahlo portrait by a Toronto teenager4.A Toronto child draws Frida Kahlo5.Frida Kahlo as drawn by a child in Toronto6.Frida Kahlo portrait by a Toronto child7.Frida Kahlo as drawn by a four year old in Toronto


Lupicínio Rodrigues: “Volta” / “Come back to me”

 

“Volta” 

(Letras/música:  Lupicínio Rodrigues, compositor brasileiro, 1914-1974:

canção cantada por Gal Costa, 1973)

.

Quantas noites não durmo

A rolar-me na cama

A sentir tantas coisas

Que a gente não pode explicar – quando ama.

.

O calor das cobertas

Não me aquece direito

Não há nada no mundo

Que possa afastar esse frio do meu peito.

.

Volta,

Vem viver outra vez ao meu lado

Não consigo dormir sem teu braço

Pois meu corpo está acostumado.

.

Volta,

Vem viver outra vez ao meu lado

Não consigo dormir sem teu braço

Porque meu coração está acostumado…

.     .     .

“Come back”

(words and music by Lupicínio Rodrigues, Brazilian composer, 1914-1974:

as sung by Brazilian singer Gal Costa, 1973)

.

How often I can’t sleep!

– tossing and turning in bed –

Feeling so many things

That people – who are in love – cannot explain.

.

The heat of the blankets

Doesn’t warm me well

And there’s no-one in this world

Can keep this chill from my breast.

.

Return to me,

Come live again at my side

I can’t keep sleeping without your arms around me

–  well, my body’s grown used to you!

.

Come back,

And live once more by my side

I can’t go on sleeping without your embrace

– and my heart’s accustomed to you now…

.

Translation/interpretation from the Portuguese:   Alexander Best


Dois poemas / dois fotos para o Dia das Crianças – Agradecimentos a Lourdes Neves Cúrcio / Vera Gonçalves

Lourdes Neves Cúrcio

“Ser Criança”

.

Ser criança é se entreter

Entre brinquedos e sonhos

É se alegrar, é viver

É expressar a candura

Respirar felicidade

Transmitir docilidade

Encantamento e ternura

.

Criança que tem alma pura

E tamanha espontaneidade

No agir e no falar,

Que sabe ter sinceridade

Que cativa com o sorriso

E traz a inocência no olhar

.

Saber viver é sentir

A alegria de ser criança

É deixar o coração

Se encher de felicidade

E transbordar esperança

.

Feliz é aquele que sabe

Interpretar o olhar

E o sorriso da criança,

Quem com ela é paciente

Quem valoriza o seu mundo

E a preserva do mal,

Fazendo com que ela possa

Vivenciar sua infância

Desfrutar de seu espaço

E ser simplesmente criança.

 

 

Lourdes Neves Cúrcio

“Súplica”

.

Proteja sempre, Senhor,

Todas as nossas crianças

Que elas sejam resguardadas

Dos atos de atrocidade,

São anjos, são indefesas,

Não devem ser hostilizadas.

Temos visto, ultimamente,

Seus sonhos interrompidos

Com frieza e crueldade,

Temos visto suas vidas

Ceifadas com precocidade.

Crianças são mimosas flores

Alegrando e ornamentando

Para a vida desabrochando,

Precisam ser bem cultivadas

Preservadas da violência

E não brutalmente arrancadas

Do jardim da existência.

Proteja sempre, Senhor,

As crianças do mundo inteiro

Queremos vê-las sorrindo

Brincando e acalentando

Seus sonhos mais verdadeiros.

Que a criança desfrute

Da infância em plenitude

Que possa viver e crescer

Cercada de muito amor

Sem dentro de si conviver

Com o estigma da dor.

 

.     .     .

“Ser Criança” & “Súplica”

© Lourdes Neves Cúrcio (Brasil)