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)
. . . . .

Poetas dos anos 90: “O halo da lucidez” / “The halo of lucidity”: Claudia Roquette-Pinto

Claudia Roquette-Pinto (born 1963, Rio de Janeiro)
Space-Writing (after a photograph by Man Ray)
.
so write in space: the
arch of the arm more
agile than the startling
of ideas in flight (clip-
clop of hooves)
the trace
that hands on heels (madly
clipped wings) percourse:
circumvolutions of
improvisations inside the frame
after the lapse still
resting clear (i
tinerary of medusas)
writing that stays for the
spasm               the “set eye” the
rapture
of the sealant
. . .
Space-Writing (sobre foto de Man Ray)
.
para escrever no espaço: o
arco do braço mais
ágil que o sobressalto
das idéias em fuga (tinem
os cascos)
o traço
que as mãos no encalço (desa
tino de asas) percursam:
circunvoluções do
improviso na moldura
findo o lapso resta
em claro (i
tinerário de medusas)
a escrita que perdura para o
espasmo                   o “olho armado” o
rapto
do obturador
. . .
Flame
.
the tulips lit up – swords, crowns,
strands –
a noise in the room
in the restless bed
a face averse to the
intransigent face, of the mirror,
seeking balance
hovering, over the canyon
of the sheets, fire contained,
twin of the flowers’ blaze
burning in continuous
silence,
in the halo of lucidity
.
Translation from Portuguese to English: Charles A. Perrone
. . .
Chama
.
as tulipas acenderam

– espadas, coroas,
cabelos –
seu ruído no quarto
na cama sem repouso
um rosto avesso ao rosto
intransigente, do espelho,
busca equilíbrio
sobre o cânion dos lençóis
paira, fogo contido,
gêmeo do incêndio das flores
ardendo em contínuo
silêncio,
no halo da lucidez

. . . . .

Poetas dos anos 90: “A Palavra viva e paralisada” / “Poetry – alive – in paralyzed flow”: Carlito Azevedo

Bem Aqui, Bem Agora

Carlito Azevedo (born 1961, Rio de Janeiro)
Downstairs
.
I
.
In wind storms past a boyish one moved through,
a moment of epiphany passed too.
.
Does memory desire files, reserves?
expose itself in light and neon-nerves?
.
Is time, the childhood illness, to be aching
generating elders at their making?
.
If everything should pass, would it be naught?
as if to crave what still remains of bought
.
and sexy clothes of poetry fleeting
(their roles of true rhymes, light, and the beating
.
crown) even the drops of fine dew with a sheen
that in the dense air of open ravines
.
of vertigos, yes, in revolution
on the ground, explosive involution,
.
(as water soot in glittering sills belies),
recall, extralight, the final grey skies?
.
II
.
The plot was so simple, skies the same scale
without view without vision without veil
.
on the eyes… In an instant of power,
points in a circle, frozen the hour,
.
everything starts a slow lingering flow
outside the circle, a wider one now
.
opens on life’s normal process and streatm,
yet there appear more encompassing schemes
.
where everthing goes at such rapid speed
that we can’t quite perceive it, when the seed
.
and the birthplace undecidably spin:
if at birth all is quiet, then begins
.
to speed up to a vertiginous flat
or if, to the contrary, it’s just that
.
the flow self-detains when reaching its goal
in alacrity born, not by a soul?
.
III
.
The idea’s to resist the temptation
to write poems of this place of negation,
.
of this circle congealed in frigid state
so without vessels to communicate,
.
shut up in itself, its pose, waiting here,
idea being to reach that other sphere,
.
no one where all flows slowly in motion
nor one other of common commotion,
.
but the last one, the vertiginous spin
(whether in the end or the origin),
.
the idea must be to centre both hands
in the nervous delirium (those bands
.
of wind in the square), so words in action
might freeze life, an unaccustomed reaction,
.
despite in a paralytical throe,
Poetry – alive – in paralyzed flow.
.
IV
.
When rain and what the showers brought had passed
(nor did the thought of floods outlast),
.
the memory shrank like clear water lakes
that of themselves a puddle comes to make
.
and cease to be, a subtle set of sails
that, in dense light, evaporates in pails
.
of water blades. And then the flood recessed,
slow present in all spaces to invest:
.
each curve of space, and corner of a curve,
asbestos shores of fine and silky verve.
.
The flood did subside, and with what is quiet,
leading the chase, tumultuous riot.
.
(just like skin being smooth, the asperous
joyful surface of wood that lacerates
.
time, where all this will be grazed) did the day
take once again its thin thread of delay.
. . .
Translation from Portuguese to English: © Charles A. Perrone, 1998

. . .
Ao Rés Do Chão
.
I
.
Um menino passou na ventania,
um momento passou de epifanias.
.

É a memoria que quer, com seus acervos,
exoir-se em luminosos néon-nervos?
.
É, doendo, o tempo, essa doença
da infância, a gerar velhos de nascença?
.
É que tudo, se passa, vira nada?
.mesmo que anele ainda a alugada
.
e sexy roupa fátua do poema
(seu rol de rimas ricas, diadema
.
tremeluzente), e até as gotas finas,
que no ar denso, porém, abrem ravinas
.
vertiginosas e em revolução,
antes de explodirem ao rés do chão
.
(ciscos de água luzindo nos lancis),
relembrem, extraluzes, o céu gris?
.
II
.
A trama era tão simples, sob um céu
tão simples, sem visões e sem um véu
.
sobre os olhos… Num poderoso instante
um ponto se congela e, circundante,
.
tudo passa a fluir lento, arrastado,
e à volta desse círculo um mais largo
.
se abre onde prossegue normalmente
a vida e seu caudal; mais abrangente
.
há outro onde tudo é tão veloz
que nem o percebemos. Onde a foz
.
e onde a nascente é algo indecidível:
se tudo nasce quieto e até um nível
.
vertiginoso vai-se acelerando,
ou se, ao contrário, é justamente quando
.
chega ao seu film que o fluxo se detém,
nascido acelerado e por ninguém?
.
III
.
A idéia é não ceder à tentação
de escrever o poema desse não-
.
lugar, desse círculo congelado
sem vasos comunicantes, fechado
.
em si, em sua pose, sua espera,
a idéia é alcançar a outra esfera,
.
não aquela onde tudo flui tão lento,
nem a outra, comum no movimento,
.
mas a última, a roda da vertigem
(esteja ela no fim ou na origem),
.
a idéia é  pôr as duas mãos no centro
nervoso do delirio (aquele vento
.
na praça), para que a Palavra ativa
congele a vida, como soi, mas viva
.
mesmo ferida da paralisia,
fluxo paralisado, a poesia.
.
IV
.
Quando a chuva passou (quando assentou-se
a idéia do dilúvio) e o que ela trouxe,
.
a memória encolheu-se como poça
de água limpa que em si mesma se empoça
.
e deixa de existir, sutil velame
na densa luz que se evapora à lâmina
.
d’água. Assentou-se o dilúvio, o presente
investiu todo espaço lentamente:
.
cada curva de espaço, cada canto
de curva, cada praia de amianto.
.
Assentou-se o dilúvio. Sob o acosso
da quietude, que é toda um alvoroço
.
(tal como é lisa a pele onde se roça
a superficie áspera e lenhosa
.
do gozo, que lacera o tempo), a hora
retomou seu fiapo de demora.
. . . . .

Poetas dos anos 90: “A possibilidade mas não a totalidade” / “The possibility but not the totality”: Maurício Arruda Mendonça

Maurício Arruda Mendonça

(born 1964, Londrina, Paraná, Brazil)

The Best View
.
The best view
is from a window
where you may have
the possibility
but not the totality.
.
Its essence
is a contingency
a minimum concealed
in unity and therefore
direct knowledge
is almost perspective.
.
The introspection
of the landscape:
an ideal shared
by strategic winds
cracked tiles
crumbling walls
the game of hide and seek
between nevers and always.
.
Knowing how to be eternal
intentionally omits
the time to say goodbye
five minutes before
and five minutes after.
What remains
is a happiness in Aries
a porcelain sky.
.
Here is the matrix
of all lamp factories
where the experts weave
every possible climate:
cosmetic tears
heroines sinking
in quicksand.
.
The best view
is this one
but when night falls
suddenly –
I prefer it yet
with no reference point
with no hesitation.
<<<. . .>>>
A Melhor Vista
.
A melhor vista
é a da janela
onde você pode
ter a possibilidade
mas não a totalidade.
.
Sua essência
é uma contingência
um mínimo oculto
na unidade e portanto
um conhecimento direto
e quase perspectivo.
.
A introspecção
da paisagem:
um ideal partilhado
por ventos estratégicos
telhas trincadas
paredes por caiar
esconde-esconde
entre nuncas e sempres.
.
Sabendo ser eterna
omite propositadamente
a hora de dizer adeus
cinco minutos antes
e cinco depois.
O que remanesce
é uma alegria em Áries
um céu de porcelana.
.
Aqui é matriz
de todas as fábricas
de abajur
onde os técnicos tramam
todos os climas possíveis:
lágrimas de laquê
heroinas em areia movediça.
.
A melhor vista
é esta
mas quando a noite
cai de súbito –
assim eu a prefiro
sem pontos de referência
sem hesitação.
<<<. . .>>>
blossoming sun-bird, humming-flower in dew
meticulously sips the blood from lips
morning and gathering the green eyes
sometimes vegetable gases
innumerable vagabonds branches emerge
in the clouds and hair and their dawn
become entangled among the thorns
while faded flowers rave at her feet
<<<. . .>>>
a florir beija-sol gira-flor no orvalho
sorve o sangue dos lábios minuciosamente
manhã e colhendo os verdes olhos
por vezes gazes vegetais
nas nuvens surgem inúmeros vagabundos
galhos e os cabelos e suas albas
embaraçam-se entre espinhos
enquanto flores murchas deliram em seus pés
<<<. . .>>>
Drunk she licked the night dew
the lip of the moon
over the petals of September.
.
But I, drinking the rainwater,
knew how to be honey its absinthe
all the symbols of a yes.
.
I touch the shadows
with my grapevine fingers,
touching the error of my whole life.
.
Blame the cement of the spittle,
word that goes nowhere,
if one escaped from me, it was empty.
<<<. . .>>>
Ela ébria lambia o sereno
o lábio em lua
sobre as pétalas de setembro.
.
Mas eu, bebendo água da chuva
sabia ser mel seu absinto
todos os símbolos de um sim.
.
Toco as sombras
com meus dedos de videira
tateio o erro a vida inteira.
.
Culpa ao cimento da saliva,
palavra que não vai a parte alguma,
se alguma me escapou, partiu vazia.
<<<. . .>>>
Translation from Portuguese into English: the poet

Direitos autorais / © Maurício Arruda Mendonça

<<<. . . . .>>>