Poemas para o Dia Mundial de Combate à AIDS / Poemas para el Día Mundial de la Lucha contra el SIDA / Poems for World AIDS Day / Poèmes pour la Journée mondiale de lutte contre le SIDA

Posted: December 1, 2013 | Author: Zócalo Poets | Filed under: English, French, Portuguese, Spanish, World AIDS Day: 25th Anniversary Poems in 4 Languages | Tags: World AIDS Day: 25th Anniversary: Poems | Comments Off on Poemas para o Dia Mundial de Combate à AIDS / Poemas para el Día Mundial de la Lucha contra el SIDA / Poems for World AIDS Day / Poèmes pour la Journée mondiale de lutte contre le SIDA

. . .

“Não ser amado é uma simples desventura; a verdadeira desgraça é não saber amar.” (Albert Camus)

.

“No ser amado es una simple desventura;
la verdadera desgracia es no saber amar.” (Albert Camus)

.

“To be unloved is merely misfortune; the true tragedy is in not loving.” (Albert Camus)

.

“Il y a seulement de la malchance à n’être pas aimé; il y a du malheur à ne point aimer.” (Albert Camus)

. . .

Liduina Felipe M. Fernandes (Mossoró, Brasil)

“Dia de Celebrar a Vida todos os dias”

.
1º de dezembro – dia de comemorar
O Dia Mundial de Combate à AIDS
Para que todos possam espalhar
Que a melhor solução
É sempre a informação
Educação e prevenção.
Dia de celebrar a vida.
Dia de socializar conhecimentos,
Respeitar, e não discriminar
Pois a vida pede dignidade,
Solidariedade e qualidade
E não apenas quantidade.
Dia de compreender que não basta falar
É preciso garantir condições para que a vida
Se possa resgatar e preservar.
Dia de gritar que direitos sociais legais
Carecem de aplicação no dia-a-dia,
Pois se forem “leis de papel”
Onde estará a garantia
De que tudo que foi escrito
É sinônimo real de cidadania?
1º de dezembro – dia de refletir
Que todo dia é dia de viver e de lutar
Pelo direito à vida,
Pelo respeito à saúde,
Pela consciência individual e coletiva
Para que todos, sem discriminação,
Respeitando as diferenças, possam desfrutar
De melhores dias sem AIDS.
E todas as armas violentas biológicas e “fabricadas”
Que nada mais fazem do que vidas, desrespeitar e ceifar.
1º de dezembro – dia de lembrar
De que todos os dias devemos, a vida, celebrar!

. . .

Maria do Rosário Lino (Brasil)

“Saudação à Vida” (2000)
.
Era um médico
e peregrinava
pelos templos
do mundo
onde a natureza
humana
lhe pedia ajuda.
.
Percorrendo aldeias
miseráveis
transportava
sua profissão
como um sacerdócio
onde o ócio
não havia.
.
Perplexo,
combatia
a mortandade social
que estagnava
as possibilidades
de nascedouros.
.
Paz e saúde
a toda a gente
era sua passagem
pelas cidadelas
e sua mensagem
era a superação
das mazelas
como produto
de uma fé
que se prova,
bebendo em pé,
no copo
da força de vontade.
Saciedade, nunca!
.
É preciso
epidemizar
o bem estar
de todos,
do café da manhã
ao jantar,
do deitar-se
ao levantar,
quando então
se pronunciará
a morte da decadência
ao bem da ciência
e um dia,
com a sapiência
e muita sorte,
a decadência
da morte.

. . .

Rui de Noronha (Maputo, Moçambique, 1909 – 1943)

“Mulher”

.

Chamam-te linda, chamam-te formosa,
Chamam-te bela, chamam-te gentil…
A rosa é linda, é bela, é graciosa,
Porém a tua graça é mais subtil.
.
A onda que na praia, sinuosa,
A areia enfeita com encantos mil,
Não tem a graça, a curva luminosa
Das linhas do teu corpo, amor e ardil.
.
Chamam-te linda, encantadora ou bela;
Da tua graça é pálida aguarela
Todo o nome que o mundo à graça der.
.
Pergunto a Deus o nome que hei-de dar-te,
E Deus responde em mim, por toda parte:
Não chames bela – Chama-lhe Mulher!

. . .

Rui de Noronha

“Amar”

.

Amar é um prazer, se nós amamos
Alguém que pode amar-nos e nos ama.
Amar é um prazer, se por nós chama
Continuamente alguém que nós chamamos.
.
Então a vida inteira a rir levamos,
O mesmo fogo ardente nos inflama,
E os ideais da vida, o bem, a fama,
Mãos dadas pelo mundo procuramos.
.
No encapelado mar desta existência,
O amor é compassiva indulgência
A culpa original dos nosso pais.
.
Que resta ao homem, suprimido o amor?
Buscar a morte p’ra fugir a dor,
Tristeza, indiferença – e nada mais.

. . .

Jaime Gil de Biedma (1929-1990, Barcelona, España – fallecido por el SIDA)

“Mañana de ayer, de hoy”

.

Es la lluvia sobre el mar.
En la abierta ventana,
contemplándola, descansas
la sien en el cristal.

.

Imagen de unos segundos,
quieto en el contraluz
tu cuerpo distinto, aún
de la noche desnudo.

.

Y te vuelves hacia mí,
sonriéndome. Yo pienso
en cómo ha pasado el tiempo,
y te recuerdo así.

. . .

S. Luz Teresa nació en San Jerónimo, Guerrero, México. En 1986 necesitó una cirugía, en la cual requirió de transfusiones –siendo alguna de éstas las que le causó su infección por VIH. Falleció en 1996.

S. Luz Teresa

“¡Auxilio!”

.

¡Auxilio! Se me está acabando el oxígeno, tengo SIDA,

soy un enfermo de SIDA

quiero gritarlo

para poder vivir en paz

y saber con quién cuento

y quién me rechazará.

¡Silencio! ¡Cállate!

Habla más bajo que te pueden oír

y me callo y me resigno

no por mí, por mi familia

porque la gente insensata

que, lamentablemente,

es mucha todavía,

por el simple hecho de saber

que conviven con una persona

como yo, los señalaría

¡me ahoga esta miseria!

¿Por qué a ellos que son

los únicos prudentes?

¡Maldición!

¿Cuándo aprenderán a distinguir

qué es lo que vale de la vida?

¿Cuándo aprenderán

a respetar el silencio?

¿Cuándo dejarán de cuestionarse

si estás o no infectado?

¿Cuándo cambiarán el morbo

por comprensión o cariño?

¿Cuándo?

¿Cuándo sabrán ser amigos?

Espero que no sea dentro de

mucho tiempo.

Porque si esto sucediera,

nadie más tendría que mentir

y ocultar su mal,

nos haría ciudadanos de nuevo,

nos cuidaríamos mutuamente,

porque como nosotros estamos

mucho más conscientes

de cuan dura

es nuestra enfermedad

quisiéramos que nadie

más sufriera

esta larga agonía,

igual que nuestras familias

y nuestros doctores,

aquellos que sabiendo la verdad

nos tocan, nos cuidan

y nos quieren

y no se infectan

y hacen que nos sintamos bien

y nos alientan a que,

por encima de nuestros problemas,

tracemos nuevas metas,

que en ocasiones

estemos contentos,

que no nos impacientemos

y que no olvidemos del todo

nuestra capacidad de amar.

No, no les estoy pidiendo amor,

seria una propuesta absurda,

sólo les pido comprensión

y eso es mucho más sencillo

soy un enfermo de SIDA

que simplemente,

quiere vivir en paz.

. . .

Jordi Demarto (España)

“No te duermas” (2005)

.

Cuando mi cuerpo invadiste
No fui capaz de evitar,
Sentirme sucio, muy triste
Hasta me hiciste llorar. 

.

¿Qué será ahora de mi vida,
Mis proyectos de futuro?
Ahora tenía el SIDA.
Fue un golpe tan fuerte y duro.

.

 Más tarde ya comprendí
“Gracias a la información”
Que mi vida no acababa
– No moriría mañana,
deshuesado y sin razón. 

.

Sentí la fuerza de un oso,
Y hasta ganas de volar,
cada año un lazo rojo
nos ayuda a no olvidar.

.

Que la guerra sigue en pie,
Que esta guerra ha de acabar,
En todos los continentes
“y sin África olvidar”. 

.

Que la vida no se acaba,
Que no hay que dejarse vencer
Por un virus despiadado
Que hoy no podemos vencer. 

.

Sigamos luchando en la vida
Sin confiar en la suerte.
¡No te quedes ahí sentado!
¡No des tu tiempo a la muerte! 

. . .

Arjona Delia (Argentina)

“Lucha contra el SIDA” (2011)

.

El cuerpo se daña en agonía,
pierden la esperanza y valentía,
lágrimas, sollozos y lamentos,
acerca la muerte día a día.
.
Cuida tu vida y la de los demás,
del virus letal, cruel enfermedad,
que te lo trasmiten al amar,
cuando no te saben cuidar.
.
Lucha, no te des por vencido,
si la herida te hace sangrar
yo te ofrezco mi mano para andar,
en mi corazón tendrás lugar.
.
No temas, aprende sobre el sida,
la ignorancia es la que contamina,
la mejor defensa es la prevención,
y contar con buena información.

.

http://www.arjonadelia.blogspot.com

. . .

Craig G. Harris (Black gay poet, U.S.A., died in 1991 of complications from AIDS)

“Alive after his passion” (for Elias)

.

green mangos

with salt and

vinegar,

hearts of palm

and holy ghosts

make me

speak in

tongues

with garlic breath,

dance to unheard

beats,

fall beneath your

holy temple,

inhaling grey

incense dust,

writhing in

shed snake skins,

purified in the

flame,

wrapped

in unspeakable

joy.

.

(1987)

.

Phillis Levin (New York City)

“What the Intern Saw” (1988)

.

I

He saw a face swollen beyond ugliness

Of one who just a year ago

Was Adonis

Practicing routines of rapture.

.

A boy who could appear

To dodge the touch of time,

Immortal or immune –

A patient in a gown,

Almost gone.

II

In the beautiful school of medicine

He read about human suffering,

A long horrible drama

Until the screen of anaesthesia

And penicillin’s manna.

.

But now, in myriad sheets

Of storefront glass refracting evening’s

Razor blue, in a land of the freely

Estranged from the dead, he meets

That face – and fear seizes his body.

III

His feet have carried him to bed.

He thinks he must be getting old

To so revise

His nature and his plan.

.

He shuts his eyes

And in his sleep he sees a gleaming bar,

The shore of pain.

It isn’t far.

People live there.

. . .

Adam Johnson (Gay U.K. poet, 1965-1993, died of complications from AIDS)

“December 1989”

.

The nascent winter turns

Each root into a nail,

And in the West there burns

A sun morbid and pale.

.

Now, from the city bars

We drift, into a cool

Gymnasium of stars –

The drunkard and the fool:

.

Into the night we go,

Finding our separate ways –

The darkness fraught with snow,

The leaves falling like days.

. . .

Clovis S. Palmer (Jamaica/Australia)

“Guilt”

.

Whoi! Mother, father, mi baby – gone

Whoi! Sister, brother, mi uncle – gone

Whoi! Daughter, mi son, mi family – gone

Whoi! What stain have I bestowed?

.

She held her son, the flesh melted from his bones,

Tears streamed down her cheeks, like raindrops down the window screen.

Unexplainable, undeniable, but beneath the ground he must go

– Singing, mourning, cries of pain –

Who next will suffer this dreadful stain?

.

The sunset kisses the Blue Mountain range,

Darkness covers the Kingston plains.

Tomorrow we shall start again –

Who next will suffer this dreadful stain?

.

The sun seeps over the Caribbean Sea,

Today my brother I shall not see.

Like the petals from roses – gone too soon –

Red ribbons I left on his tomb.

. . .

“HIV/AIDS is defined by people: their complex lives, their bravery, their fear, their sadness, their need, their laughter, their inconsistencies – basically, their rich humanity. These people taught me how to write about hope, and the beauty in the ordinariness of all of our lives.” (Kwame Dawes)

.

Kwame Dawes (born 1962, Ghana – raised in Jamaica)

“Coffee Break”

[This 2008 poem was inspired by caregiver John Marzouca of Jamaica]

.

It was Christmastime,
the balloons needed blowing,
and so in the evening
we sat together to blow
balloons and tell jokes,
and the cool air off the hills
made me think of coffee,
so I said, “Coffee would be nice,”
and he said, “Yes, coffee
would be nice,” and smiled
as his thin fingers pulled
the balloons from the plastic bags;
so I went for coffee,
and it takes a few minutes
to make the coffee
and I did not know
if he wanted cow’s milk
or condensed milk,
and when I came out
to ask him, he was gone,
just like that, in the time
it took me to think,
cow’s milk or condensed;
the balloons sat lightly
on his still lap.

.

“Coffee Break” © Kwame Dawes

.

. . .

Kwame Dawes

“Cleaning”

[This 2008 poem was inspired by Dr. Peter Figueroa of Jamaica]

.

After a while, you don’t bother
with the brief and the pajamas;
you leave him on the sheet,
make him shit himself, then
shift over to the other side
until I can come, lift up
the body, wipe his bottom
with a soft cotton cloth, bundle
up the sheet with two more
in the corner, straighten
out the plastic over the mattress—
sometimes you have to wipe
it, too, then put a towel
under him until the other
sheet dry, and all the time,
you don’t say a word,
you don’t ask for nothing.
You let your hand brush
against your father’s back
and pray his dignity will last
another day. This is how
a man must care for his father;
quiet, casual, and steady.

.

“Cleaning” © Kwame Dawes

.

. . .

“This is my dedication and tribute to my patients who live with HIV. I will never be the same because of the way you have touched me, seeing how you continue to move forward every day in this society – with its preconceptions and misbeliefs.” [Paula V. Reid, April 2013]

.

Paula V. Reid (Nurse, North Carolina, U.S.A.)

“The Unique Woman”

.

Hello, I am special just like you.
Why should anyone feel differently?

Is it because I may be
a drug abuser,
a prostitute,
a homeless person,
or do you believe I’m a nobody?

Have you ever thought I could be
your mother,
your sister,
your friend?
Would that make a difference?

But in the whole scheme of things, does it really matter?
Because the most important issue is
I am a woman that needs your help.
Are you in a position to give me that help?
I need to be loved.
I need to be cherished.
I need to be cared for.
I face extraordinary challenges every day
and many times face them alone.

Some women have children,
spouses and loved ones to care for.
Where do I get the strength
and energy to keep going?
Don’t I need compassion?

That is why I am the unique woman.

I hear you talk about me in the hallway and stairwells.
“I have to see that HIV lady down the hall.”
“Oh boy, I am the next one up for an HIV case.”

Treat me the way you would want to be treated.
That is what I ask of you.
Don’t ask me: “How did you get it?”
unless it is relevant to my care for that day.
When I cry, cry with me.
When I laugh, laugh with me.
Then, when I am alone it won’t be so bad.

My walk is hard and the road is tough,
but with your help it could be gentler.

I am reaching out to you.

. . .

Rory Kilalea / ‘Murungu’ (Zimbabwe)

“Prayer”

.

I do not know how to pray.
I only know how to talk
at you, God.
As a stillness supreme
evading my eyes,
avoiding my ears.
Yet I know You are there.
It is only the reflection I miss.

. . .

Senator Ihenyen (Nigeria)

“Is It Because…”

…you did not kiss my hand

like you used to

when with so much love in my eyes

I held it up to your lips

beaming with the crystals in my heart –

Is it because I now have HIV?

When you poured the red wine into the glasses

you did not hold yours to my waiting lips

like you used to

so that – as transparent as the two glasses –

we could see the colours in our hearts –

Is it because I now have HIV –

Or because you never really loved me?

.

(2013)

. . .

Senator Ihenyen (Nigeria)

“Stranger in the Mirror
of My Life”

.

Before me is a mirror
a mirror beside my bed
away from the sun
burning brightly outside the window-blinds
in my darksome room.

For a moment
before the mirror
I stand to see the face of the victim
whose result returned a death sentence
after a test,
and another test, and yet another,
but they kept coming back
one and the same
like the torrent of tears that keep returning to your eyes
when the heart remains wet with worries

Wavering worries of one’s life walking away from the door,
as the wall clock thcks unrestrained, untouched, unconcerned,
like the footsteps of the world moving on,
unaffected, unmoved, unstirred.

In the mirror
I found a face
a certain face too afraid to look at me.
The face of a stranger –
a strange face sketched in the shadows of my unlit room,
against the fiery fingers of the sun flicking the window-blinds on a fateful morning
to irradiate my day.

I know this face hiding in the mirror isn’t me –
It couldn’t be me!
I looked straight into her eyes,
and it was then she looked back at me –
petrified, she crept back into the closet of her life.

I walk slowly and gently towards her,
and the stranger suddenly steps closer and closer towards me.
And when my feet froze on the floor
Upon the freezing fear that gripped me,
the stranger in the mirror suddenly startles – faint-hearted, intimidated –

this stranger is not me,
No, not me!
She is just a shadow –
the shadow of someone too locked-up in her closet to open up to me.
She is a stranger too steeped in shame to stand up to herself
and say:

“I’m Hannah,
I’m HIV-positive –

but see how beautiful life could be
when I open the window-blinds in my heart
and let the rays of the sun
overshadow the stranger in the mirror of my life.”

.

(2013)

.

“Is It Because…” and “Stranger in the Mirror of My Life” © Senator Ihenyen

From his just-released 2013 e-book Stranger in the Mirror of My Life: Poems for Everyone Affected by HIV/AIDS

. . .

“[The poem below] came as result of belonging to what is sometimes called a “sero-discordant couple” – one partner HIV-negative, the other positive. It’s not a difference easy to negotiate, as perhaps the poem makes clear. Early on, my new lover offered me the choice to avoid commitment, citing his condition; but I chose instead to go forward with the relationship – a decision I don’t regret. I believe that medical research will find a fully satisfactory treatment for HIV and that this epidemic will come to an end. When that happens – what joy it will bring.” (Alfred Corn)

.

Alfred Corn (born 1943, Georgia, U.S.A.)

“To a Lover who is HIV-positive” (2002)

.

Grief; and a hope
that springs from your intention
to forward projects as assertive
or lasting as flesh ever upholds.

.

Love; and a fear
that the so far implacable
cunning of a virus will smuggle away
substantial warmth, the face, the response
telling us who we are and might be.

.

Guilt; and bewilderment
that, through no special virtue of mine
or fault of yours, a shadowed affliction
overlooked me and settled on you. As if
all, always, got what was theirs.

.

Anger; and knowledge
that our venture won’t be joined
in perfect safety. Still, it’s better odds
than the risk of not feeling much at all.
Until you see yourself well in them,
Love, keep looking in my eyes.

. . .

Mike Kwambo (Nairobi, Kenya)

“Positive”

.

Positive…
the status of my HIV.
Negative…
your attitude towards me.
Nonchalant…
is how I choose to be.
Pretenders…
you allegedly sympathize with me.
True colours…
you show them when I turn my back.
Pity…
I surely do not need it right now.
Life…
I am full of it and I am living>
Understanding…
I have a condition, like anyone else.
Positive…
the status of my attitude.
Determination…
is filled inside of me.
Oh yes…
I have the will to live.
I am positive…
in every aspect
of the word!

.

(2009)

. . .

Tikum Mbah Azonga (Le Cameroun)

“Venez vous voir (La séropositivité n`est pas la mort)”
.
Si vous êtes séropositif, mon ami,
Ne désesperez pas
Surtout pas!
Venez nous voir même en catinimi.
.
Nous sommes là pour vous tous
Les activités de conseil –
Pour les amis comme vous au conseil,
C`est notre affaire de toujours.
.
Venez nous voir en toute confidentialité –
Nos sessions de counseling se font en douceur.
Vous n`est pas seul car d`autres sont venus sans rancoeur
Et sont partis satisfaits et pleins de vitalité.

.

(2009)
. . .

Tikum Mbah Azonga (Le Cameroun)

“Les confidences d’une mère (La transmission mère-enfant)”

.
Je m`appelle Marthe.
Je suis mère de trois enfants
Dont le dernier a huit mois,
Les trois autres – que Dieu soit loué!
Ont trois, cinq et sept ans –
Je me suis fait dépister a chaque grossesse.
.
Dieu merci, tout a été négative,
Mais si j`avais été testé positive
J`aurais suivi les conseils du médicin,
J`aurais pris des médicaments
Pour ne pas contaminer mon bébé.
.
Avais-je peur du test? Jamais!
Car il y a le counseling.
Alors, si vous êtes enceinte
Comme moi, faîtes

–vous dépister protéger votre bébé.

.

(2009)

. . .

Alassane Ndiaye (Sénégal)

“Sous Le Soleil De L’Amour”

.

Notre premier baiser
A cette saveur lactée
Ce parfum de rose
Aux vapeurs poivrées
.
Et tes lévres douces
Et fermes comme la chaire
Fraiche d’une pomme
Croustillantes comme le pain nouveau
Embrassent ma bouche
Suscitant le désir coupable
.
Tu es une étoile qui chaque jour
Brille dans le ciel trouble de mon existence
Un soleil qui transperce le voile sombre de mon esprit
Une source où s’abreuvent les âmes en peine
– Je t’aime.

.

(2000)

.

. . .

Ibrahim Coulibaly (Côte d’Ivoire)

“Ton Sourire et Ta Voix”

.
Mon regard dans le vent
Je vois dans le ciel sourire ta beauté
Qui fait voyager mon esprit
Dans le train merveilleux de ton charme.
En moi luit la lumière du bonheur
Car ta voix d’or
Ta voix aux mille couleurs
Fait couler sur moi des mélodies de miel.
L’harmonie de ton corps est un tableau
Que jamais ne pourra effacer la force des mots.
Si j’étais une larme dans tes yeux
Jusque sur tes lèvres je coulerai
Si une larme dans mes yeux tu étais
Jamais je ne pleurerais
De peur de te perdre.

.

(2013)

.     .     .     .     .

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