Poetas dos anos 90: “A margem das coisas” / “On the edge of things”: Ricardo Corona

Ricardo Corona (born 1962, Curitiba, Paraná, Brazil)
On the Edge of All Things: A Song
(for Eliana)

.
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me.
Walt Whitman
.

   I am on the edge

                                                                                                                                                                and here – in the atrium

of encounters – between feeling and seeing:

                                                                                                                                                                it vibrates, it frightens. Nothing is

empty now. The camera-eye clicks and leaks

                                                                                                                                                                spilling forth dizziness in a clip

of happening & landscapes,

                                                                                                                                                                memory chips. Everything passing,

                                                                                                                             passing – movies

                                                                                                                                                               : ex-foam

                                                                                                                                                    birds

                                                                                                                                                               fish

                                                                                                                   now a house twinkles

                                                                                                                                                               a drunken boat dances

                                                                                                             the wind trembles a tree

                                                                                                                                                               wild waves rise up

smashing against the velvet rocks

                                                                                                                                                               wild waves slip away

                                                                                                                   licking my footprints

                                                                                                                                                               – I am no longer here –

                                                                                                                                            and love

                                                                                                                                                               is no greater

                                                                                                                                           or lesser

                                                                                                                                                               than the sea.

. . .

Na Margem de Todas as Coisas: Uma Canção
(para Eliana)
.
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me.
Walt Whitman
.
Estou na margem

e aqui – entre os, no atrito

dos encontros – sentir e ver:

vibra, apavora. Nada está

vazio agora. O olho-câmera clica e vaza

vertendo vertigens num clip

de lances & paisagens,

chips de memórias. Tudo passando,

passando – movies

: ex-espumas

pássaros

peixes

agora uma casa pisca

um barco bêbado dança

o vento arvora uma árvore

ondas loucas se erguem

despedaçando-se no veludo das pedras

ondas loucas deslizam

lambendo minhas pegadas

– não mais estou –

e o amor

não é maior

nem menor

que o mar.

.

Florianópolis, Praia dos Ingleses, 11.2.94

. . .

Translation from Portuguese to English © David William Foster and Maurício Arruda Mendonça

Photograph by Gordon Parks (1912-2006)
. . . . .