Education by Stone
Joao Cabral de Melo Neto








Imagine making poems the way an architect designs buildings or an engineer builds bridges. Such was the ambition of João Cabral de Melo Neto. Though a great admirer of the thing-rich poetries of Francis Ponge and of Marianne Moore, what interested him even more, as he remarked in his acceptance speech for the 1992 Neustadt International Prize for Literature, was "the exploration of the materiality of words," the "rigorous construction of (. .) lucid objects of language." His poetry, hard as stone and light as air, is like no other.






Joao Cabral de Melo




Education by Stone





About the Selection and Translation


João Cabral de Melo Neto’s poetry was at its strongest between 1950 and 1980, and the selection presented here is weighted accordingly. His last book, Sevilha Andando, was published in 1989. João Cabral said he imagined writing poems that could only be read silently, and he claimed to be incapable of writing poetry without seeing the words on the page. In fact he quit writing it after he went blind, in the 1990s, and he described himself to reporters as an “ex-writer.”

Rather than offering excerpts from the author’s various long narrative poems, two such poems are presented in their entirety. Elizabeth Bishop’s translation of sections from Morte e Vida Severina [The Death and Life of a Severino] are included in her The Complete Poems (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1969) and in João Cabral’s Selected Poetry, 1937–1990 (Wesleyan, 1994).

The Afterword examines João Cabral’s poetics and discusses a number of the poems translated here. Lest readers imagine that some words were accidentally left out, let it be noted that a few poems —“The Dog without Feathers,” “Weaving the Morning” and “Banks and Cathedrals” are examples — employ syntactical ellipses, a device that I have usually tried to replicate in the translation.

Ten of the translations in this volume were first published, with some significant differences, in the Wesleyan Selected. Others were published in Paris Review, Grand Street, The Atlantic, Partisan, The New England Review, Chicago Review, and World Literature Today. Much of the Afterword was adapted from an article on João Cabral de Melo Neto published in Latin American Writers, Supplement I, Scribner’s, 2002. Readers may refer to that article for a fuller treatment of the poet and his work, as well as a bibliography.




Acknowledgments


I thank the National Endowment for the Humanities for supporting this project with a translation grant in 1985. I also thank the Endowment for its patience. The John Anson Kittredge Educational Fund kindly provided a supplementary grant. It was David Haberly who encouraged me to do an entire book and to apply for funding.

Dora Feiguin, Elizabeth Marques, Manuela Rocha and Marcia Rodrigues graciously clarified difficult passages. Several people who provided practical help or moral support are no longer with us: Frank MacShane, Haroldo de Campos, and the poet himself, João Cabral de Melo Neto, who said he hated to see translations of his poetry into languages he knew. He tolerated me anyway.

R.Z.




Education by Stone

Selected Poems





from Pedra do sono / Stone of Sleep 1942

		Janelas



		Há um homem sonhando



		numa praia; um outro



		que nunca sabe as datas;



		há um homem fugindo



		de uma árvore; outro que perdeu



		seu barco ou seu chapéu;



		há um homem que é soldado;



		outro que faz de avião;



		outro que vai esquecendo



		sua hora seu mistério



		seu medo da palavra véu;



		e em forma de navio



		há ainda um que adormeceu.







		Windows



		There’s a man dreaming



		on a beach, another



		who never remembers dates.



		There’s a man running away



		from a tree, another missing



		his boat or his hat.



		There’s a man who’s a soldier,



		another who acts like an airplane,



		another who keeps forgetting



		his time his mystery



		his fear of the word veil.



		And there’s yet another who,



		stretched out like a ship, fell asleep.







		Poesia



		Ó jardins enfurecidos,



		pensamentos palavras sortilégio



		sob uma lua contemplada;



		jardins de minha ausência



		imensa e vegetal;



		ó jardins de um céu



		viciosamente freqüentado:



		onde o mistério maior



		do sol da luz da saúde?







		Poetry



		O raging gardens,



		thoughts words sorcery



		under a contemplated moon,



		O gardens of my vast



		vegetable absence,



		gardens of an enchanting,



		addictive sky:



		where is the larger mystery



		of light the sun health?







		O poema e a água



		As vozes líquidas do poema



		convidam ao crime



		ao revólver.



		Falam para mim de ilhas



		que mesmo os sonhos



		não alcançam.



		O livro aberto nos joelhos



		o vento nos cabelos



		olho o mar.



		Os acontecimentos de água



		põem-se a se repetir



		na memória.







		Water and the Poem



		The poem’s liquid voices



		lure me to crime



		to a revolver.



		They tell me of islands



		not even dreams



		can reach.



		With open book on my knees



		and wind in my hair



		I look at the sea.



		What happens in water



		starts repeating



		in memory.










from O engenheiro / The Engineer 1945

		A bailarina



		A bailarina feita



		de borracha e pássaro



		dança no pavimento



		anterior do sonho.



		A três horas de sono,



		mais além dos sonhos,



		nas secretas câmaras



		que a morte revela.



		Entre monstros feitos



		a tinta de escrever,



		a bailarina feita



		de borracha e pássaro.



		Da diária e lenta



		borracha que mastigo.



		Do inseto ou pássaro



		que não sei caçar.







		The Dancer



		The dancer made



		of rubber and bird



		dances on the floor



		before the dream.



		Three hours into sleep,



		beyond all dreams,



		in the secret chambers



		which death reveals.



		Among monsters made



		with writing ink,



		the dancer made



		of rubber and bird.



		Of the slow and daily



		eraser I chew.



		Of the insect or bird



		I cannot catch.







		O engenheiro



		A luz, o sol, o ar livre



		envolvem o sonho do engenheiro.



		O engenheiro sonha coisas claras:



		superfícies, tênis, um copo de água.



		O lápis, o esquadro, o papel;



		o desenho, o projeto, o número:



		o engenheiro pensa o mundo justo,



		mundo que nenhum véu encobre.



		(Em certas tardes nós subíamos



		ao edifício. A cidade diária,



		como um jornal que todos liam,



		ganhava um pulmão de cimento e vidro.)



		A água, o vento, a claridade,



		de um lado o rio, no alto as nuvens,



		situavam na natureza o edifício



		crescendo de suas forças simples.







		The Engineer



		Light, sun and the open air



		surround the dream of the engineer.



		The engineer dreams clear things:



		surfaces, tennis, a glass of water.



		A pencil, a T-square, paper;



		designs, projects, numbers.



		The engineer sees the world just



		as it is, without any veils.



		(On certain days we went up



		the building. The daily city,



		like a daily paper read by all,



		was gaining a lung of cement and glass.)



		The water, the wind, the brightness,



		the river on one side and the clouds on high



		made a place in nature for the building,



		growing by its own simple strength.







		A mesa



		O jornal dobrado



		sobre a mesa simples;



		a toalha limpa,



		a louça branca



		e fresca como o pão.



		A laranja verde:



		tua paisagem sempre,



		teu ar livre, sol



		de tuas praias; clara



		e fresca como o pão.



		A faca que aparou



		teu lápis gasto;



		teu primeiro livro



		cuja capa é branca



		e fresca como o pão.



		E o verso nascido



		de tua manhã viva,



		de teu sonho extinto,



		ainda leve, quente



		e fresco como o pão.







		The Table



		The folded newspaper



		on the simple table;



		the tablecloth clean,



		the dishes white



		and fresh like bread.



		The green-skinned orange:



		your unfailing landscape,



		your open air, the sun



		of your beaches: bright



		and fresh like bread.



		The knife that sharpened



		your spent pencil;



		your first book



		whose cover is white



		and fresh like bread.



		And the verse born



		of your living morning,



		of your finished dream:



		still warm, light



		and fresh like bread.







		O funcionário



		No papel de serviço



		escrevo teu nome



		(estranho à sala



		como qualquer flor)



		mas a borracha



		vem e apaga.



		Apaga as letras,



		o carvão do lápis,



		não o nome,



		vivo animal,



		planta viva



		a arfar no cimento.



		O macio monstro



		impõe enfim o vazio



		à página branca;



		calma à mesa,



		sono ao lápis,



		aos arquivos, poeira;



		fome à boca negra



		das gavetas, sede



		ao mata-borrão;



		a mim, a prosa



		procurada, o conforto



		da poesia ida.







		The Office Clerk



		I write your name



		(alien to this office



		like any flower)



		on the paper for official



		business, but the eraser



		comes and deletes it.



		It deletes the letters,



		the pencil lead,



		but not your name,



		the live animal,



		the live plant



		panting in the cement.



		The soft monster



		finally imposes



		emptiness on the page,



		stillness on the table,



		sleep on the pencil,



		and dust on the files;



		hunger on the black



		mouths of drawers, thirst



		on the blotting paper,



		and on me the prose



		of effort, my consolation



		for the poetry that fled.







		A lição da poesia



		1



		Toda a manhã consumida



		como um sol imóvel



		diante da folha em branco:



		princípio do mundo, lua nova.



		Já não podias desenhar



		sequer uma linha;



		um nome, sequer uma flor



		desabrochava no verão da mesa:



		nem no meio-dia iluminado,



		cada dia comprado,



		do papel, que pode aceitar,



		contudo, qualquer mundo.







		2



		A noite inteira o poeta



		em sua mesa, tentando



		salvar da morte os monstros



		germinados em seu tinteiro.



		Monstros, bichos, fantasmas



		de palavras, circulando,



		urinando sobre o papel,



		sujando-o com seu carvão.



		Carvão de lápis, carvão



		da idéia fixa, carvão



		da emoção extinta, carvão



		consumido nos sonhos.







		3



		A luta branca sobre o papel



		que o poeta evita,



		luta branca onde corre o sangue



		de suas veias de água salgada.



		A física do susto percebida



		entre os gestos diários;



		susto das coisas jamais pousadas



		porém imóveis — naturezas vivas.



		E as vinte palavras recolhidas



		nas águas salgadas do poeta



		e de que se servirá o poeta



		em sua máquina útil.



		Vinte palavras sempre as mesmas



		de que conhece o funcionamento,



		a evaporação, a densidade



		menor que a do ar.







		The Lesson of Poetry



		1



		The whole morning spent



		like a motionless sun



		before the blank page:



		beginning of the world, new moon.



		You could no longer trace



		so much as a line;



		not one name, not one flower



		bloomed in the table’s summer,



		not even in the bright midday



		purchased daily in the form



		of paper, which can accept



		any kind of world.







		2



		All night long the poet



		at his desk, trying to save



		from death the monsters



		germinated in his inkwell.



		Monsters, animals, phantoms



		of words — meandering,



		urinating over the paper,



		smearing it with their lead.



		Pencil lead, the lead



		of obsessions, lead



		of dead emotions, lead



		consumed in dreams.







		3



		White struggle on the paper



		which the poet avoids,



		white struggle of blood



		flowing from his saltwater veins.



		The physics of fear discerned



		in daily gestures; fear



		of things that never rest and yet



		are immobile — unstill still lifes.



		And the twenty words collected



		in the saltwater of the poet,



		to be used by the poet



		in his efficient machine.



		Always the same twenty words



		he knows so well: how they work,



		their evaporation, their density



		less than the air’s.










from Psicologia da composição / Psychology of Composition 1947

		Psicologia da Composição



		II



		Esta folha branca



		me proscreve o sonho,



		me incita ao verso



		nítido e preciso.



		Eu me refugio



		nesta praia pura



		onde nada existe



		em que a noite pouse.



		Como não há noite



		cessa toda fonte;



		como não há fonte



		cessa toda fuga;



		como não há fuga



		nada lembra o fluir



		de meu tempo, ao vento



		que nele sopra o tempo.







		 VI



		Não a forma encontrada



		como uma concha, perdida



		nos frouxos areais



		como cabelos;



		não a forma obtida



		em lance santo ou raro,



		tiro nas lebres de vidro



		do invisível;



		mas a forma atingida



		como a ponta do novelo



		que a atenção, lenta,



		desenrola,



		aranha; como o mais extremo



		desse fio frágil, que se rompe



		ao peso, sempre, das mãos



		enormes.







		 VII



		É mineral o papel



		onde escrever



		o verso; o verso



		que é possível não fazer.



		São minerais



		as flores e as plantas,



		as frutas, os bichos



		quando em estado de palavra.



		É mineral



		a linha do horizonte,



		nossos nomes, essas coisas



		feitas de palavras.



		É mineral, por fim,



		qualquer livro:



		que é mineral a palavra



		escrita, a fria natureza



		da palavra escrita.







		Psychology of Composition



		II



		The blank page



		won’t let me dream;



		it incites me to clear



		and exact poetry.



		I take refuge



		on this pristine shore



		where nothing exists



		for night to fall on.



		Without any night,



		all fountains cease;



		without any fountain,



		there is no flight;



		without any flight,



		nothing recalls the flowing



		of my time, in the wind



		wherein time blows.







		 VI



		Not the form found



		like a seashell, lost



		among sands as limp



		as hair;



		not the form obtained



		by a lucky or divine throw,



		by shooting at glass rabbits



		of the invisible;



		but the form attained



		like the end of a skein



		which the spider



		of careful attention



		unrolls; like the furthest



		point of that fragile thread,



		inevitably snapped



		by the weight of huge hands.







		 VII



		Mineral



		the paper used



		for poetry, the poetry



		it is possible not to write.



		Mineral



		the flowers and plants,



		fruits and animals,



		when in the state of words.



		Mineral



		the distant horizon,



		our names, all things



		made of words.



		Mineral



		the book, any book, because



		the written word is mineral,



		mineral the cold nature



		of the written word.







		Antiode



		(



		contra a poesia dita profunda



		)







		 A



		Poesia, te escrevia:



		flor! conhecendo



		que és fezes. Fezes



		como qualquer,



		gerando cogumelos



		(raros, frágeis cogu —



		melos) no úmido



		calor de nossa boca.



		Delicado, escrevia:



		flor! (Cogumelos



		serão flor? Espécie



		estranha, espécie



		extinta de flor, flor



		não de todo flor,



		mas flor, bolha



		aberta no maduro.)



		Delicado, evitava



		o estrume do poema,



		seu caule, seu ovário,



		suas intestinações.



		Esperava as puras,



		transparentes florações,



		nascidas do ar, no ar,



		como as brisas.







		 B



		Depois, eu descobriria



		que era lícito



		te chamar: flor!



		(Pelas vossas iguais



		circunstâncias? Vossas



		gentis substâncias? Vossas



		doces carnações? Pelos



		virtuosos vergéis



		de vossas evocações?



		Pelo pudor do verso



		— pudor de flor —



		por seu tão delicado



		pudor de flor



		que só se abre



		quando a esquece o



		sono do jardineiro?)



		Depois eu descobriria



		que era lícito



		te chamar: flor!



		(flor, imagem de



		duas pontas, como



		uma corda). Depois



		eu descobriria



		as duas pontas



		da flor; as duas



		bocas da imagem



		da flor: a boca



		que come o defunto



		e a boca que orna



		o defunto com outro



		defunto, com flores,



		— cristais de vômito.







		 C



		Como não invocar o



		vício da poesia: o



		corpo que entorpece



		ao ar de versos?



		(Ao ar de águas



		mortas, injetando



		na carne do dia



		a infecção da noite.)



		Fome de vida? Fome



		de morte, freqüentação



		da morte, como de



		algum cinema.



		O dia? Árido.



		Venha, então, a noite,



		o sono. Venha,



		por isso, a flor.



		Venha, mais fácil e



		portátil na memória,



		o poema, flor no



		colete da lembrança.



		Como não invocar,



		sobretudo, o exercício



		do poema, sua prática,



		sua lânguida horti —



		cultura? Pois estações



		há, do poema, como



		da flor, ou como



		no amor dos cães;



		e mil mornos



		enxertos, mil maneiras



		de excitar negros



		êxtases; e a morna



		espera de que se



		apodreça em poema,



		prévia exalação



		da alma defunta.







		 D



		Poesia, não será esse



		o sentido em que



		ainda te escrevo:



		flor! (Te escrevo:



		flor! Não uma



		flor, nem aquela



		flor-virtude — em



		disfarçados urinóis.)



		Flor é a palavra



		flor, verso inscrito



		no verso, como as



		manhãs no tempo.



		Flor é o salto



		da ave para o vôo;



		o salto fora do sono



		quando seu tecido



		se rompe; é uma explosão



		posta a funcionar,



		como uma máquina,



		uma jarra de flores.







		 E



		Poesia, te escrevo



		agora: fezes, as



		fezes vivas que és.



		Sei que outras



		palavras és, palavras



		impossíveis de poema.



		Te escrevo, por isso,



		fezes, palavra leve,



		contando com sua



		breve. Te escrevo



		cuspe, cuspe, não



		mais; tão cuspe



		como a terceira



		(como usá-la num



		poema?) a terceira



		das virtudes teologais.







		Antiode



		(



		against so-called profound poetry



		)







		 A



		Poetry, I wrote you



		flower! knowing



		you are feces



		like any other feces,



		generating mushrooms



		(rare, delicate mush —



		rooms) in the damp



		heat of our mouths.



		Squeamish, I wrote



		flower! (Are mushrooms



		flowers? Curious



		species, extinct



		species of flower,



		not entirely flower



		but still flower, a blister



		opening on ripeness.)



		Squeamish, I avoided



		the poem’s dung,



		its stem, its ovary,



		its intestinations.



		I waited for pure



		transparent flowerings



		born, like a breeze,



		in the air, of the air.







		 B



		Later I discovered



		that it was all right



		to call you flower!



		(Because of your similar



		circumstances? Your



		soft substances? Your



		gentle hues? Because



		of the virtuous gardens



		of images you evoke?



		Because a verse, like



		a flower, is modest,



		so delicately modest



		with its flowerish



		modesty that it only



		opens when forgotten



		by the gardener’s sleep?)



		Later I discovered



		that it was all right



		to call you flower!



		(flower, image of



		two points, like



		a chord). Later



		I discovered



		the flower’s two points,



		the two mouths



		of the image



		of the flower: the mouth



		that eats the deceased



		and the mouth that adorns



		the deceased with another



		deceased, with flowers



		— crystals of vomit.







		 C



		How not invoke



		the vice of poetry —



		the body that numbs



		in the air of verses?



		(In the air of dead



		waters, injecting



		into the day’s flesh



		the night’s infection.)



		Thirst for life? Thirst



		for death, attending



		death as one



		attends a movie.



		The day? Arid.



		So let the night come



		with sleep. So let



		the flower come.



		Let the poem come, easier



		and more portable



		in memory, flower



		in the vest of remembrance.



		How not invoke,



		above all, the practice



		of the poem, its method,



		its languid horti —



		culture? There are



		seasons for the poem



		as for the flower, as



		for love between dogs;



		and a thousand tedious



		grafts, a thousand ways



		to arouse black



		ecstasies; and the tepid



		waiting for these



		to rot into a poem,



		precocious emanation



		of the deceased soul.







		 D



		Poetry, this is not



		the sense in which



		I still write you



		flower! (I write



		flower! Not a



		flower, nor that



		flower of virtue — in



		dissembled urinals.)



		Flower is the word



		flower, verse



		inscribed in verse,



		like mornings in time.



		Flower is the leap



		of a bird into flight,



		the leap out of slumber



		when its tissue



		is broken — an explosion



		made to work



		like a machine,



		a vase of flowers.







		 E



		Poetry, now I write



		you feces, the living



		feces you are.



		I know you are



		other words, words



		impossible in poems.



		That’s why I write



		feces, a light word,



		counting on its



		brevity. I write you



		spit, plain spit,



		just as much spit



		as the third



		(how use it in



		a poem?) the third



		theological virtue.







		O cão sem plumas /







		The Dog without Feathers



		1950







		O cão sem plumas







		 1



		(



		Paisagem do Capibaribe



		)



		§A cidade é passada pelo rio



		como uma rua



		é passada por um cachorro;



		uma fruta



		por uma espada.



		§O rio ora lembrava



		a língua mansa de um cão,



		ora o ventre triste de um cão,



		ora o outro rio



		de aquoso pano sujo



		dos olhos de um cão.



		§Aquele rio



		era como um cão sem plumas.



		Nada sabia da chuva azul,



		da fonte cor-de-rosa,



		da água do copo de água,



		da água de cântaro,



		dos peixes de água,



		da brisa na água.



		§Sabia dos caranguejos



		de lodo e ferrugem.



		Sabia da lama



		como de uma mucosa.



		Devia saber dos polvos.



		Sabia seguramente



		da mulher febril que habita as ostras.



		§Aquele rio



		jamais se abre aos peixes,



		ao brilho,



		à inquietação de faca



		que há nos peixes.



		Jamais se abre em peixes.



		§Abre-se em flores



		pobres e negras



		como negros.



		Abre-se numa flora



		suja e mais mendiga



		como são os mendigos negros.



		Abre-se em mangues



		de folhas duras e crespos



		como um negro.



		§Liso como o ventre



		de uma cadela fecunda,



		o rio cresce



		sem nunca explodir.



		Tem, o rio,



		um parto fluente e invertebrado



		como o de uma cadela.



		§E jamais o vi ferver



		(como ferve



		o pão que fermenta).



		Em silêncio,



		o rio carrega sua fecundidade pobre,



		grávido de terra negra.



		§Em silêncio se dá:



		em capas de terra negra,



		em botinas ou luvas de terra negra



		para o pé ou a mão



		que mergulha.



		§Como às vezes



		passa com os cães,



		parecia o rio estagnar-se.



		Suas águas fluíam então



		mais densas e mornas;



		fluíam com as ondas



		densas e mornas



		de uma cobra.



		§Ele tinha algo, então,



		da estagnação de um louco.



		Algo da estagnação



		do hospital, da penitenciária, dos asilos,



		da vida suja e abafada



		(de roupa suja e abafada)



		por onde se veio arrastando.



		§Algo da estagnação



		dos palácios cariados,



		comidos



		de mofo e erva-de-passarinho.



		Algo da estagnação



		das árvores obesas



		pingando os mil açúcares



		das salas de jantar pernambucanas,



		por onde se veio arrastando.



		§(É nelas,



		mas de costas para o rio,



		que “as grandes famílias espirituais” da cidade



		chocam os ovos gordos



		de sua prosa.



		Na paz redonda das cozinhas,



		ei-las a revolver viciosamente



		seus caldeirões



		de preguiça viscosa.)



		§Seria a água daquele rio



		fruta de alguma árvore?



		Por que parecia aquela



		uma água madura?



		Por que sobre ela, sempre,



		como que iam pousar moscas?



		§Aquele rio



		saltou alegre em alguma parte?



		Foi canção ou fonte



		em alguma parte?



		Por que então seus olhos



		vinham pintados de azul



		nos mapas?







		 II



		(



		Paisagem do Capibaribe



		)



		§Entre a paisagem



		o rio fluía



		como uma espada de líquido espesso.



		Como um cão



		humilde e espesso.



		§Entre a paisagem



		(fluía)



		de homens plantados na lama;



		de casas de lama plantadas em ilhas



		coaguladas na lama;



		paisagem de anfíbios



		de lama e lama.



		§Como o rio



		aqueles homens



		são como cães sem plumas



		(um cão sem plumas



		é mais



		que um cão saqueado;



		é mais



		que um cão assassinado.



		§Um cão sem plumas



		é quando uma árvore sem voz.



		É quando de um pássaro



		suas raízes no ar.



		É quando a alguma coisa



		roem tão fundo



		até o que não tem).



		§O rio sabia



		daqueles homens sem plumas.



		Sabia de suas barbas expostas,



		de seu doloroso cabelo



		de camarão e estopa.



		§Ele sabia também



		dos grandes galpões da beira dos cais



		(onde tudo



		é uma imensa porta



		sem portas)



		escancarados



		aos horizontes que cheiram a gasolina.



		§E sabia



		da magra cidade de rolha,



		onde homens ossudos,



		onde pontes, sobrados ossudos



		(vão todos



		vestidos de brim)



		secam



		até sua mais funda caliça.



		§Mas ele conhecia melhor



		os homens sem pluma.



		Estes



		secam



		ainda mais além



		de sua caliça extrema;



		ainda mais além



		de sua palha;



		mais além



		da palha de seu chapéu;



		mais além



		até



		da camisa que não tem;



		muito mais além do nome



		mesmo escrito na folha



		do papel mais seco.



		§Porque é na água do rio



		que eles se perdem



		(lentamente



		e sem dente).



		Ali se perdem



		(como uma agulha não se perde).



		Ali se perdem



		(como um relógio não se quebra).



		§Ali se perdem



		como um espelho não se quebra.



		Ali se perdem



		como se perde a água derramada:



		sem o dente seco



		com que de repente



		num homem se rompe



		o fio de homem.



		§Na água do rio,



		lentamente,



		se vão perdendo



		em lama; numa lama



		que pouco a pouco



		também não pode falar:



		que pouco a pouco



		ganha os gestos defuntos



		de lama;



		o sangue de goma,



		o olho paralítico



		da lama.



		§Na paisagem do rio



		difícil é saber



		onde começa o rio;



		onde a lama



		começa do rio;



		onde a terra



		começa da lama;



		onde o homem,



		onde a pele



		começa da lama;



		onde começa o homem



		naquele homem.



		§Difícil é saber



		se aquele homem



		já não está



		mais aquém do homem;



		mais aquém do homem



		ao menos capaz de roer



		os ossos do ofício;



		capaz de sangrar



		na praça;



		capaz de gritar



		se a moenda lhe mastiga o braço;



		capaz



		de ter a vida mastigada



		e não apenas



		dissolvida



		(naquela água macia



		que amolece seus ossos



		como amoleceu as pedras).







		 III



		(



		Fábula do Capibaribe



		)



		§A cidade é fecundada



		por aquela espada



		que se derrama,



		por aquela



		úmida gengiva de espada.



		§No extremo do rio



		o mar se estendia,



		como camisa ou lençol,



		sobre seus esqueletos



		de areia lavada.



		§(Como o rio era uma cachorro,



		o mar podia ser uma bandeira



		azul e branca



		desdobrada



		no extremo do curso



		— ou do mastro — do rio.



		§Uma bandeira



		que tivesse dentes:



		que o mar está sempre



		com seus dentes e seu sabão



		roendo suas praias.



		§Uma bandeira



		que tivesse dentes:



		como um poeta puro



		polindo esqueletos,



		como um roedor puro,



		um polícia puro



		elaborando esqueletos,



		o mar,



		com afã,



		está sempre outra vez lavando



		seu puro esqueleto de areia.



		§O mar e seu incenso,



		o mar e seus ácidos,



		o mar e a boca de seus ácidos,



		o mar e seu estômago



		que come e se come,



		o mar e sua carne



		vidrada, de estátua,



		seu silêncio, alcançado



		à custa de sempre dizer



		a mesma coisa,



		o mar e seu tão puro



		professor de geometria.)



		§O rio teme aquele mar



		como um cachorro



		teme uma porta entretanto aberta,



		como um mendigo,



		a igreja aparentemente aberta.



		§Primeiro,



		o mar devolve o rio.



		Fecha o mar ao rio



		seus brancos lençóis.



		O mar se fecha



		a tudo o que no rio



		são flores de terra,



		imagem de cão ou mendigo.



		§Depois,



		o mar invade o rio.



		Quer



		o mar



		destruir no rio



		suas flores de terra inchada,



		tudo o que nessa terra



		pode crescer e explodir,



		como uma ilha,



		uma fruta.



		§Mas antes de ir ao mar



		o rio se detém



		em mangues de água parada.



		Junta-se o rio



		a outros rios



		numa laguna, em pântanos



		onde, fria, a vida ferve.



		§Junta-se o rio



		a outros rios.



		Juntos,



		todos os rios



		preparam sua luta



		de água parada,



		sua luta



		de fruta parada.



		§(Como o rio era um cachorro,



		como o mar era uma bandeira,



		aqueles mangues



		são uma enorme fruta:



		§A mesma máquina



		paciente e útil



		de uma fruta;



		a mesma força



		invencível e anônima



		de uma fruta



		— trabalhando ainda seu açúcar



		depois de cortada —.



		§Como gota a gota



		até o açúcar,



		gota a gota



		até as coroas de terra;



		como gota a gota



		até uma nova planta,



		gota a gota



		até as ilhas súbitas



		aflorando alegres.)







		 IV



		(



		Discurso do Capibaribe



		)



		§Aquele rio



		está na memória



		como um cão vivo



		dentro de uma sala.



		Como um cão vivo



		dentro de um bolso.



		Como um cão vivo



		debaixo dos lençóis,



		debaixo da camisa,



		da pele.



		§Um cão, porque vive,



		é agudo.



		O que vive



		não entorpece.



		O que vive fere.



		O homem,



		porque vive,



		choca com o que vive.



		Viver



		é ir entre o que vive.



		§O que vive



		incomoda de vida



		o silêncio, o sono, o corpo



		que sonhou cortar-se



		roupas de nuvens.



		O que vive choca,



		tem dentes, arestas, é espesso.



		O que vive é espesso



		como um cão, um homem,



		como aquele rio.



		§Como todo o real



		é espesso.



		Aquele rio



		é espesso e real.



		Como uma maçã



		é espessa.



		Como um cachorro



		é mais espesso do que uma maçã.



		Como é mais espesso



		o sangue do cachorro



		do que o próprio cachorro.



		Como é mais espesso



		um homem



		do que o sangue de um cachorro.



		Como é muito mais espesso



		o sangue de um homem



		do que o sonho de um homem.



		§Espesso



		como uma maçã é espessa.



		Como uma maçã



		é muito mais espessa



		se um homem a come



		do que se um homem a vê.



		Como é ainda mais espessa



		se a fome a come.



		Como é ainda muito mais espessa



		se não a pode comer



		a fome que a vê.



		§Aquele rio



		é espesso



		como o real mais espesso.



		Espesso



		por sua paisagem espessa,



		onde a fome



		estende seus batalhões de secretas



		e íntimas formigas.



		§ E espesso



		por sua fábula espessa;



		pelo fluir



		de suas geléias de terra;



		ao parir



		suas ilhas negras de terra.



		§Porque é muito mais espessa



		a vida que se desdobra



		em mais vida,



		como uma fruta



		é mais espessa



		que sua flor;



		como a árvore



		é mais espessa



		que sua semente;



		como a flor



		é mais espessa



		que sua árvore,



		etc. etc.



		§Espesso,



		porque é mais espessa



		a vida que se luta



		cada dia,



		o dia que se adquire



		cada dia



		(como uma ave



		que vai cada segundo



		conquistando seu vôo).







		The Dog Without Feathers







		 1



		(



		Landscape of the Capibaribe River



		)



		§The city is crossed by the river



		as a street



		is crossed by a dog,



		a fruit



		by a sword.



		§The river called to mind



		a dog’s gentle tongue,



		or a dog’s sad belly,



		or that other river



		which is the dirty wet cloth



		of a dog’s two eyes.



		§The river



		was like a dog without feathers.



		It knew nothing of the blue rain,



		of the pink fountain,



		of the water in a water glass,



		of the water in pitchers,



		of the fish in the water,



		of the breeze on the water.



		§It knew the crabs



		of mud and rust.



		It knew sludge



		like a mucous membrane.



		It must have known the octopus,



		and surely knew



		the feverish woman living in oysters.



		§The river



		never opens up to fish,



		to the shimmer,



		to the knifelike nervousness



		existing in fish.



		It never opens up in fish.



		§It opens up in flowers,



		poor and black



		like black men and women.



		It opens up into a flora



		as squalid and beggarly



		as the blacks who must beg.



		It opens up in hard-leafed



		mangroves, kinky



		as a black man’s hair.



		§Smooth like the belly



		of a pregnant dog,



		the river swells



		without ever bursting.



		The river’s childbirth



		is like a dog’s,



		fluid and invertebrate.



		§And I never saw it seethe



		(as bread when rising



		seethes).



		In silence



		the river carries its fertile poverty,



		pregnant with black earth.



		§In silence it gives itself:



		in capes of black earth,



		in boots or gloves of black earth



		for the foot or hand



		that plunges in.



		§As happens with dogs,



		sometimes the river



		seemed to stagnate.



		Then its waters flowed



		thicker and warmer;



		they flowed with the thick



		warm waves



		of a snake.



		§Then it had something



		of a madman’s stagnation.



		Something of the stagnation



		of hospitals, prisons, asylums,



		of the dirty and smothered life



		(dirty, smothering laundry)



		past which it slowly flowed.



		§Something of the stagnation



		of decayed palaces,



		eaten



		by mold and mistletoe.



		Something of the stagnation



		of obese trees



		dripping a thousand sugars



		from the Pernambuco dining rooms



		past which it slowly flowed.



		§(It is there,



		with their backs to the river,



		that the city’s “cultured families”



		brood over the fat eggs



		of their prose.



		In the round peace of their kitchens



		they viciously stir



		their pots



		of viscid indolence.)



		§Could the river’s water



		be the fruit of some tree?



		Why did it seem



		like ripened water?



		Why the flies always



		above it, as if about to land?



		§Did any part of the river



		ever jump for joy?



		Was it ever, anywhere,



		a song or fountain?



		Why then



		were its eyes painted blue



		on maps?







		 II



		(



		Landscape of the Capibaribe



		)



		§Through the landscape



		the river flowed



		like a sword of thick liquid.



		Like a humble



		thickset dog.



		§Through the landscape



		(it flowed)



		of men planted in mud;



		of houses of mud



		planted on islands



		congealed in mud;



		a landscape of mud



		and mud amphibians.



		§Like the river



		those men



		are like dogs without feathers.



		(A dog without feathers



		is more



		than a dog that’s been stripped,



		is more



		than a dog that’s been killed.



		§A dog without feathers



		is when a tree without voice.



		It is when like a bird



		its roots in the air.



		It is when something is so deeply



		gnawed it is gnawed



		to what it doesn’t have.)



		§The river knew



		about those men without feathers.



		It knew



		about their stark beards



		and their painful hair



		of shrimp and cotton shreds.



		§It also knew



		about the warehouses on the wharf



		(where everything is



		a huge door



		without doors)



		opened wide



		to horizons reeking of gas.



		§And it knew



		about the lean, corklike city,



		where bony men,



		bridges and bony buildings



		(everyone



		dressed in duck cloth)



		wither



		to their intimate rubble.



		§But it knew much better



		the men without feathers



		who wither



		even beyond



		their deepest rubble,



		even beyond



		their straw,



		beyond



		the straw in their hats,



		beyond



		even



		the shirts they don’t have,



		and far beyond their names,



		even when written



		on the driest sheet of paper.



		§For it’s in the water of the river



		that those men are lost



		(slowly



		and with no teeth).



		There they are lost



		(as a needle is not lost).



		There they are lost



		(as a clock does not break).



		§There they are lost



		as a mirror does not break.



		There they are lost



		as spilled water is lost:



		without the sharp tooth



		which in an instant snaps



		the thread of man



		in a man.



		§In the water of the river



		slowly



		they are lost



		in mud, a mud



		which little by little



		also cannot speak,



		which little by little



		acquires the cadaverous features



		of mud;



		the gummy blood,



		the paralytic eye



		of mud.



		§In the river landscape



		it is hard to know



		where the river begins,



		where the mud



		begins from the river,



		where the land



		begins from the mud,



		where man,



		where his skin



		begins from the mud,



		where man begins



		in that man.



		§It is hard to know



		whether that man



		isn’t already



		less than man



		— less than the man



		who can at least gnaw



		at the bones of his work,



		who can bleed



		in the public square,



		who can scream



		if the millstone chews his arm,



		who can have a life



		that is chewed



		and not just



		dissolved



		(in that smooth water



		that softens his bones



		as it softened the stones).







		 III



		(



		Fable of the Capibaribe



		)



		§The city is fertilized



		by that flowing



		sword,



		by the moist gums



		of that sword.



		§At the end of the river



		the sea extended



		like a shirt or sheet



		over its skeletons



		of washed sand.



		§(As the river was a dog,



		the sea could be a flag,



		blue and white



		and unfurled



		at the end of the journey



		— or mast — of the river.



		§A flag



		that would have teeth



		— for with its teeth and its soap



		the sea is always



		gnawing its beaches.



		§A flag



		that would have teeth



		— for like a pure poet



		polishing skeletons,



		like a pure rodent,



		a pure policeman



		arranging skeletons,



		the diligent sea



		never stops



		washing and rewashing



		its pure skeleton of sand.



		§The sea and its incense,



		the sea and its acids,



		the sea and the mouth of its acids,



		the sea and its stomach



		that eats, and eats itself,



		the sea and its flesh



		glazed like a statue’s,



		its silence, achieved



		at the price of always



		saying the same thing,



		the sea and its pure



		teacher of geometry.



		§The river fears the sea



		as a dog fears



		a door that’s cracked open,



		as a beggar fears



		an apparently open church.



		§First



		the sea pushes back the river.



		The sea shuts the river out



		of its white sheets.



		The sea shuts its doors to all



		the river’s flowers



		of earth, to all its images



		of dogs or beggars.



		§Then



		the sea invades the river.



		The sea



		wants



		to destroy in that river



		its flowers of swollen earth,



		whatever in that earth



		can grow and burst,



		like an island,



		a fruit.



		§But before going to the sea



		the river lingers



		in stagnant mangrove swamps.



		The river unites



		with other rivers



		in a lagoon, in swamps



		where life coldly seethes.



		§The river unites



		with other rivers.



		United,



		all the rivers



		prepare their fight



		of stagnant water,



		their fight



		of stagnant fruit.



		§(As the river was a dog,



		as the sea was a flag,



		those mangrove swamps



		are an enormous fruit:



		§The same patient



		and useful machine



		of a fruit,



		the same anonymous,



		invincible force



		of a fruit



		— still forging its sugar



		when already cut.



		§As drop by drop



		until sugar,



		so drop by drop



		until the crowns of earth;



		as drop by drop



		until a new plant,



		so drop by drop



		until the sudden islands



		joyously emerging.)







		 IV



		(



		Discourse of the Capibaribe



		)



		§The river



		exists in memory



		like a living dog



		inside a room.



		Like a living dog



		inside one’s pocket.



		Like a living dog



		under the sheets,



		under one’s shirt,



		one’s skin.



		§A dog, because it lives,



		is sharp.



		Whatever lives



		doesn’t numb.



		Whatever lives wounds.



		Man,



		because he lives,



		clashes with the living.



		To live



		is to wend among the living.



		§Whatever lives



		inflicts life



		on silence, on sleep, on the body



		that dreamed of cutting itself



		clothes out of clouds.



		Whatever lives clashes,



		has teeth, edges, is heavy.



		Whatever lives is heavy



		like a dog, a man,



		like the river.



		§Heavy



		like everything real.



		The river



		is heavy and real.



		As an apple



		is heavy.



		As a dog



		is heavier than an apple.



		As the blood of a dog



		is heavier



		than the dog itself.



		As a man



		is heavier



		than the blood of a dog.



		As the blood of a man



		is much heavier



		than the dream of a man.



		§Heavy



		as an apple is heavy.



		As an apple



		is much heavier



		if a man eats it



		than if a man sees it.



		As it is even heavier



		if hunger eats it.



		As it is yet heavier still



		if hunger sees



		but cannot eat it.



		§The river



		is heavy



		like the heaviest reality.



		Heavy



		because of its heavy landscape,



		where hunger



		deploys its secret battalions



		of visceral ants.



		§And heavy



		because of its fable’s heavy plot,



		because of the flowing



		of its earthen jellies,



		heavy when it gives birth



		to its islands of black earth.



		§Because life that multiplies



		itself in more life



		is much heavier,



		as a fruit



		is heavier



		than its flower,



		as the tree



		is heavier



		than its seed,



		as the flower



		is heavier



		than its tree,



		etc. etc.



		§Heavy,



		because life is heavier



		when it is fought for



		each day,



		because the day is heavier



		when it is won



		each day



		(like a bird



		conquering each second



		its flight).










from Paisagens com figuras / Landscapes with Figures 1956

		Pregão turístico do Recife



		Aqui o mar é uma montanha



		regular redonda e azul,



		mais alta que os arrecifes



		e os mangues rasos ao sul.



		Do mar podeis extrair,



		do mar deste litoral,



		um fio de luz precisa,



		matemática ou metal.



		Na cidade propriamente



		velhos sobrados esguios



		apertam ombros calcários



		de cada lado de um rio.



		Com os sobrados podeis



		aprender lição madura:



		um certo equilíbrio leve,



		na escrita, da arquitetura.



		E neste rio indigente,



		sangue-lama que circula



		entre cimento e esclerose



		com sua marcha quase nula,



		e na gente que se estagna



		nas mucosas deste rio,



		morrendo de apodrecer



		vidas inteiras a fio,



		podeis aprender que o homem



		é sempre a melhor medida.



		Mais: que a medida do homem



		não é a morte mas a vida.







		Tourist Pitch for Recife



		Here the sea is a mountain



		smooth and blue and round,



		taller than the coral reefs



		and shallow swamps to the south.



		From the sea you can extract



		(from the sea that laps our coast)



		a thread of precise light,



		mathematical or metallic.



		In the city itself



		old lanky row houses



		rub their limestone shoulders



		on both sides of a river.



		From these houses you can learn



		a lesson of long experience:



		a delicate equilibrium



		in writing, as in architecture.



		And from this indigent river,



		this blood-mud that meanders



		with its almost static march



		through sclerosis and cement,



		and from the people who stagnate



		in the river’s mucous membranes,



		entire lives rotting



		one by one to death,



		you can learn that man



		is always the best measure,



		and that the measure of man



		is not death but life.







		O vento no canavial



		Não se vê no canavial



		nenhuma planta com nome,



		nenhuma planta maria,



		planta com nome de homem.



		É anônimo o canavial,



		sem feições, como a campina;



		é como um mar sem navios,



		papel em branco de escrita.



		É como um grande lençol



		sem dobras e sem bainha;



		penugem de moça ao sol,



		roupa lavada estendida.



		Contudo há no canavial



		oculta fisionomia:



		como em pulso de relógio



		há possível melodia,



		ou como de um avião



		a paisagem se organiza,



		ou há finos desenhos nas



		pedras da praça vazia.



		Se venta no canavial



		estendido sob o sol



		seu tecido inanimado



		faz-se sensível lençol,



		se muda em bandeira viva,



		de cor verde sobre verde,



		com estrelas verdes que



		no verde nascem, se perdem.



		Não lembra o canavial



		então, as praças vazias:



		não tem, como têm as pedras,



		disciplina de milícias.



		É solta sua simetria:



		como a das ondas na areia



		ou as ondas da multidão



		lutando na praça cheia.



		Então, é da praça cheia



		que o canavial é a imagem:



		vêem-se as mesmas correntes



		que se fazem e desfazem,



		voragens que se desatam,



		redemoinhos iguais,



		estrelas iguais àquelas



		que o povo na praça faz.







		The Wind in the Canefield



		There is in the canefield



		no plant with a name,



		no plant called Maria,



		no plant with a man’s name.



		The canefield is anonymous,



		plain-faced like the prairie,



		like an ocean without ships,



		a blank sheet of paper.



		It is like a large bedsheet



		without folds or hems,



		a girl’s downy skin in the sun,



		clothes spread out to dry.



		Yet hidden in the canefield



		there is a physiognomy,



		as in a watch’s ticking



		there is a potential melody,



		as from a plane the landscape



		reveals an organization,



		as the stones of an empty square



		delineate graceful patterns.



		When wind blows in the canefield



		spread out under the sun,



		its inanimate fabric



		becomes a sensitive bedsheet:



		it changes into a living



		flag of green on green,



		with green stars born



		and lost in the greenness.



		Then the canefield no longer



		resembles an empty square:



		it does not have, like the stones,



		the discipline of armies.



		Its symmetry is jagged,



		like that of waves on sand



		or of the waves of people



		vying in the crowded square.



		Yes, the crowded square



		is what the canefield mirrors,



		with the same kinds of currents



		arising and subsiding,



		the same eddies and whirlpools



		that can break out anywhere,



		the same stars as those formed



		by the people in the square.







		Cemitério pernambucano



		(



		Toritama



		)



		Para que todo este muro?



		Por que isolar estas tumbas



		do outro ossário mais geral



		que é a paisagem defunta?



		A morte nesta região



		gera dos mesmos cadáveres?



		Já não os gera de caliça?



		Terão alguma umidade?



		Para que a alta defesa,



		alta quase para os pássaros,



		e as grades de tanto ferro,



		tanto ferro nos cadeados?



		— Deve ser a sementeira



		o defendido hectare,



		onde se guardam as cinzas



		para o tempo de semear.







		Cemetery in Pernambuco



		(



		Toritama



		)



		Why this great wall?



		Why shut off these graves



		from the other, larger



		charnel, the dead landscape?



		In this region do the corpses



		themselves breed death? Does death



		no longer breed them, dry as rubble?



		Do they contain some moisture?



		Why this high defense,



		almost too high for the birds,



		and the gates with so much iron,



		so much iron in the locks?



		This must be the seedbed,



		the well-defended acre,



		where the ashes are preserved



		until the time for sowing.







		Encontro com um poeta



		Em certo lugar da Mancha,



		onde mais dura é Castela,



		sob as espécies de um vento



		soprando armado de areia,



		vim surpreender a presença,



		mais do que pensei, severa,



		de certo Miguel Hernández,



		hortelão de Orihuela.



		A voz desse tal Miguel,



		entre palavras e terra



		indecisa, como em Fraga



		as casas o estão da terra,



		foi um dia arquitetura,



		foi voz métrica de pedra,



		tal como, cristalizada,



		surge Madrid a quem chega.



		Mas a voz que percebi



		no vento da parameira



		era de terra sofrida



		e batida, terra de eira.



		Não era a voz expurgada



		de suas obras seletas:



		era uma edição do vento,



		que não vai às bibliotecas,



		era uma edição incômoda,



		a que se fecha a janela,



		incômoda porque o vento



		não censura mas libera.



		A voz que então percebi



		no vento da parameira



		era aquela voz final



		de Miguel, rouca de guerra



		(talvez ainda mais aguda



		no sotaque da poeira;



		talvez mais dilacerada



		quando o vento a interpreta).



		Vi então que a terra batida



		do fim da vida do poeta,



		terra que de tão sofrida



		acabou virando pedra,



		se havia multiplicado



		naquelas facas de areia



		e que, se multiplicando,



		multiplicara as arestas.



		Naquela edição do vento



		senti a voz mais direta:



		igual que árvore amputada,



		ganhara gumes de pedra.







		Encounter with a Poet



		In a certain place in La Mancha



		where the Castilian plain is hardest,



		in the midst of a stiff blowing



		wind armed with sand,



		I happened upon the presence,



		severer than I had imagined,



		of one Miguel Hernández,



		a farmer of Orihuela.



		The voice of this Miguel,



		hanging between word and earth,



		the same uncertain earth



		houses in Fraga are made of,



		was once an architecture,



		a metric voice of stone,



		crystallized the way Madrid



		appears when you first arrive.



		But the voice I discerned



		in the highland wind



		was of tortured, beaten earth,



		the earth of a threshing floor —



		not the expurgated voice



		of the poet’s selected works



		but an edition of the wind



		not found in libraries.



		It was a disturbing edition,



		to which many shut the window



		(disturbing because the wind



		frees rather than censures).



		The voice which I heard



		in the wind of the highland



		was Miguel’s final voice



		gone hoarse from war



		(perhaps even harsher



		in the dialect of dust;



		perhaps more mutilated



		in the wind’s interpretation).



		I saw that the beaten land



		of the end of the poet’s life,



		land turned to stone



		from so much suffering,



		had multiplied itself



		in those knives of sand



		and in that multiplication



		had multiplied its edges.



		In that edition of the wind



		the voice directly touched me —



		it had gained blades of stone,



		like an amputated tree.







		Cemitério pernambucano



		(



		São Lourenço da Mata



		)







		É cemitério marinho



		mas marinho de outro mar.



		Foi aberto para os mortos



		que afoga o canavial.



		As covas no chão parecem



		as ondas de qualquer mar,



		mesmo as de cana, lá fora,



		lambendo os muros de cal.



		Pois que os carneiros de terra



		parecem ondas de mar,



		não levam nomes: uma onda



		onde se viu batizar?



		Também marinho: porque



		as caídas cruzes que há



		são menos cruzes que mastros



		quando a meio naufragar.







		Cemetery in Pernambuco



		(



		São Lourenço da Mata



		)







		This is a marine cemetery,



		but marine of a different sea.



		It was opened for the dead



		who drown in the canefield.



		The mounds of dirt resemble



		the waves of any sea,



		even the waves of cane, outside,



		lapping these whitewashed walls.



		Since these graves of earth



		look like waves of sea,



		they have no names; where



		was a wave ever christened?



		A marine cemetery because



		its fallen crosses serve



		not as crosses but masts



		— masts of ships that are sinking.







		Alguns toureiros



		Eu vi Manolo González



		e Pepe Luís, de Sevilha:



		precisão doce de flor,



		graciosa, porém precisa.



		Vi também Julio Aparicio,



		de Madrid, como Parrita:



		ciência fácil de flor,



		espontânea, porém estrita.



		Vi Miguel Báez, Litri,



		dos confins da Andaluzia,



		que cultiva uma outra flor,



		angustiosa de explosiva.



		E também Antonio Ordóñez,



		que cultiva flor antiga:



		perfume de renda velha,



		de flor em livro dormida.



		Mas eu vi Manuel Rodríguez,



		Manolete, o mais deserto,



		o toureiro mais agudo,



		mais mineral e desperto,



		o de nervos de madeira,



		de punhos secos de fibra,



		o de figura de lenha,



		lenha seca de caatinga,



		o que melhor calculava



		o fluido aceiro da vida,



		o que com mais precisão



		roçava a morte em sua fímbria,



		o que à tragédia deu número,



		à vertigem, geometria,



		decimais à emoção



		e ao susto, peso e medida,



		sim, eu vi Manuel Rodríguez,



		Manolete, o mais asceta,



		não só cultivar sua flor



		mas demonstrar aos poetas:



		como domar a explosão



		com mão serena e contida,



		sem deixar que se derrame



		a flor que traz escondida,



		e como, então, trabalhá-la



		com mão certa, pouca e extrema:



		sem perfumar sua flor,



		sem poetizar seu poema.







		A Few Matadors



		I saw Manolo González



		and Pepe Luis of Seville:



		sweet precision of flowers,



		gracefully meticulous.



		I also saw Julio Aparicio,



		from Madrid, like “Parrita”:



		simple science of flowers,



		spontaneous yet strict.



		I saw Miguel Báez, “Litri,”



		from down in Andalusia,



		who grows a different flower:



		anguished and explosive.



		And also Antonio Ordóñez,



		whose ancient flower exudes



		the fragrance of old lace,



		of flowers that sleep in books.



		But then I saw Manuel Rodríguez,



		“Manolete,” the arid one,



		the most mineral of all matadors,



		the sharpest and most awake,



		the one with wooden nerves,



		with dry and fibrous fists,



		and a figure like a stick,



		a stick of dried-out brush,



		the one who could best calculate



		the steely fluid of life,



		who with the greatest precision



		brushed with death on the fringe,



		who gave a number to tragedy,



		decimals to feelings,



		to vertigo a geometry,



		and height and weight to fear.



		Yes I saw Manuel Rodríguez,



		“Manolete,” the most ascetic,



		not only nurture his flower



		but demonstrate to poets:



		how to tame the explosion



		with a quiet, restrained hand,



		being careful not to spill



		his flower, hidden from view,



		and how, then, to use that force



		with sure hand, swift and fierce,



		without perfuming his flower,



		without poetizing his poem.







		Cemitério pernambucano



		(



		Nossa Senhora da Luz



		)







		Nesta terra ninguém jaz,



		pois também não jaz um rio



		noutro rio, nem o mar



		é cemitério de rios.



		Nenhum dos mortos daqui



		vem vestido de caixão.



		Portanto, eles não se enterram,



		são derramados no chão.



		Vêm em redes de varandas



		abertas ao sol e à chuva.



		Trazem suas próprias moscas.



		O chão lhes vai como luva.



		Mortos ao ar-livre, que eram,



		hoje à terra-livre estão.



		São tão da terra que a terra



		nem sente sua intrusão.







		Cemetery in Pernambuco



		(



		Nossa Senhora da Luz



		)



		Here no one lies at rest,



		even as a river does not rest



		in another river, nor is



		the sea a cemetery of rivers.



		None of these dead



		comes dressed in a coffin,



		which is why they aren’t buried



		but spilled into the ground.



		They come in hammocks that swung



		on porches open to rain and sun.



		They bring their own flies.



		The ground fits them like a glove.



		Dead when they walked in the open air,



		now they inhabit the open earth,



		and so earthly are they that the earth



		does not even feel their intrusion.










from Quaderna / Four-spot 1960

		Cemitério alagoano



		(



		Trapiche da Barra



		)



		Sobre uma duna da praia



		o curral de um cemitério,



		que o mar todo o dia, todos,



		sopra com vento antissético.



		Que o mar depois desinfeta



		com água de mar, sanativa,



		e depois, com areia seca,



		ele enxuga e cauteriza.



		O mar, que só preza a pedra,



		que faz de coral suas árvores,



		luta por curar os ossos



		da doença de possuir carne,



		e para curá-los da pouca



		que de viver ainda lhes resta,



		lavadeira de hospital,



		o mar esfrega e reesfrega.







		Cemetery in Alagoas



		(



		Trapiche da Barra



		)



		On a dune next to the beach



		lies this corral of a cemetery,



		which the sea each day, all day long,



		sweeps with an antiseptic wind,



		and which then it disinfects



		with its salubrious saltwater,



		and then, with arid sand,



		dries and cauterizes.



		The ocean, prizing only stones



		and taking coral for its trees,



		fights to cure the bones



		of the disease of having flesh,



		and to cure them of the shreds



		left over from their life,



		an untiring hospital maid,



		it scrubs and scrubs and scrubs.







		A mulher e a casa



		Tua sedução é menos



		de mulher do que de casa:



		pois vem de como é por dentro



		ou por detrás da fachada.



		Mesmo quando ela possui



		tua plácida elegância,



		esse teu reboco claro,



		riso franco de varandas,



		uma casa não é nunca



		só para ser contemplada;



		melhor: somente por dentro



		é possível contemplá-la.



		Seduz pelo que é dentro,



		ou será, quando se abra;



		pelo que pode ser dentro



		de suas paredes fechadas;



		pelo que dentro fizeram



		com seus vazios, com o nada;



		pelos espaços de dentro,



		não pelo que dentro guarda;



		pelos espaços de dentro:



		seus recintos, suas áreas,



		organizando-se dentro



		em corredores e salas,



		os quais sugerindo ao homem



		estâncias aconchegadas,



		paredes bem revestidas



		ou recessos bons de cavas,



		exercem sobre esse homem



		efeito igual ao que causas:



		a vontade de corrê-la



		por dentro, de visitá-la.







		The Woman and the House



		Your seductive charm is more



		like that of a house than of a woman,



		coming as it does from within,



		from what is behind the façade.



		Even when it exhibits



		your quiet elegance,



		your sheer plaster glow



		and frank laughter of verandas,



		a house never exists



		merely to be contemplated;



		or rather, only from within



		can one really contemplate it.



		It seduces by what is within



		or will be, when it is opened;



		by what it might turn out to be



		inside its closed walls;



		by what has been done inside



		with its emptiness, the nothingness;



		by its interior spaces,



		not by what it contains;



		by the interior spaces



		— its divisions, its areas,



		how they are organized



		into rooms and hallways —



		which, suggesting to man



		comfortable quarters,



		smoothly finished walls



		or hiding places in cellars,



		arouse in that man



		the same feeling you do:



		the desire to go inside



		and explore all through.







		Cemitério paraibano



		(



		entre Flores e Princesa



		)



		Uma casa é o cemitério



		dos mortos deste lugar.



		A casa só, sem puxada,



		e casa de um só andar.



		E da casa só o recinto



		entre a taipa lateral.



		Nunca se usou o jardim;



		muito menos, o quintal.



		E casa pequena: própria



		menos a hotel que a pensão:



		pois os inquilinos cabem



		no cemitério saguão,



		os poucos que, por aqui



		recusaram o privilégio



		de cemitérios cidades



		em cidades cemitérios.







		Cemetery in Paraíba



		(



		between Flores and Princesa



		)



		This cemetery is a house



		for those who herein lie.



		A house without attachments,



		a house of just one story.



		And only the part of a house



		enclosed by the stucco walls.



		No one ever used the garden,



		much less the surrounding yard.



		Too small to be a hotel,



		it’s more like a boardinghouse,



		with a cemetery lobby



		just big enough to hold



		those few residents who,



		coming here, refused



		the privilege of city cemeteries



		in cemetery cities.







		A palavra seda



		A atmosfera que te envolve



		atinge tais atmosferas



		que transforma muitas coisas



		que te concernem, ou cercam.



		E como as coisas, palavras



		impossíveis de poema:



		exemplo, a palavra ouro,



		e até este poema, seda.



		É certo que tua pessoa



		não faz dormir, mas desperta;



		nem é sedante, palavra



		derivada da de seda.



		E é certo que a superfície



		de tua pessoa externa,



		de tua pele e de tudo



		isso que em ti se tateia,



		nada tem da superfície



		luxuosa, falsa, acadêmica,



		de uma superfície quando



		se diz que ela é “como seda”.



		Mas em ti, em algum ponto,



		talvez fora de ti mesma,



		talvez mesmo no ambiente



		que retesas quando chegas



		há algo de muscular,



		de animal, carnal, pantera,



		de felino, da substância



		felina, ou sua maneira,



		de animal, de animalmente,



		de cru, de cruel, de crueza,



		que sob a palavra gasta



		persiste na coisa seda.







		The Word Silk



		The atmosphere surrounding you



		reaches heights in which



		it changes many things



		concerning you or near you.



		And as well as things, words



		impossible in poems:



		for instance, the word gold



		and, until this poem, silk.



		True, your person arouses



		rather than inducing sleep;



		nor is it a sedative, a word



		derived from the word for silk.



		And it’s true that the surface



		of your outward person,



		of your skin and of all



		that gropes inside you,



		has nothing of the luxurious,



		false, academic surface



		— that surface designated



		by the phrase “like silk.”



		But in you, somewhere,



		or perhaps outside you,



		perhaps in the ambience



		made tense by your presence,



		there’s something muscular,



		animal, carnal, pantherish,



		catlike — catlike in substance



		or in a cat’s way of being —



		something animal, animalistic,



		crude, cruel — a cruelty — which



		beneath the worn-out word



		persists in the thing silk.







		Cemitério pernambucano



		(



		Floresta do Navio



		)



		Antes de se ver Floresta



		se vê uma Constantinopla



		complicada com barroco,



		gótico e cenário de ópera.



		É o cemitério. E esse estuque



		tão retórico e florido



		é o estilo doutor, do gosto



		do orador e do político,



		de um político orador



		que em vez de frases, com tumbas



		quis compor esta oração



		toda em palavras esdrúxulas,



		esdrúxula, na folha plana



		do Sertão, onde, desnuda,



		a vida não ora, fala,



		e com palavras agudas.







		Cemetery in Pernambuco



		(



		Floresta do Navio



		)



		Before seeing Floresta



		one sees a Constantinople



		with touches of baroque,



		gothic, and opera scenery.



		It’s the cemetery, with its



		florid and rhetorical plaster



		cast in the orotund style



		of the speaker or politician,



		of a political speaker



		who instead of sentences



		used tombs to make this speech,



		all in grandiloquent language —



		grandiloquence, on the flat sheet



		of the backlands, where naked



		life does not make speeches



		but talks with short sharp words.







		Cemitério pernambucano



		(



		Custódia



		)



		É mais prático enterrar-se



		em covas feitas no chão:



		ao sol daqui, mais que covas,



		são fornos de cremação.



		Ao sol daqui, as covas logo



		se transformam nas caieiras



		onde enterrar certas coisas



		para, queimando-as, fazê-las:



		assim, o tijolo ainda cru,



		as pedras que dão a cal



		ou a capoeira raquítica



		que dá o carvão vegetal.



		Só que nas covas caieiras



		nenhuma coisa é apurada:



		tudo se perde na terra,



		em forma de alma, ou de nada.







		Cemetery in Pernambuco



		(



		Custódia



		)



		It’s more practical to be buried



		in graves dug in the ground:



		under this sun, more than graves



		they are crematory ovens.



		Under this sun soon the graves



		are transformed into kilns



		where certain things are buried



		to burn into finished form:



		so it is with still raw bricks,



		the stones that become lime,



		and the slashed and burnt brush



		that changes into charcoal.



		But in these graves-turned-kilns



		the contents are not refined:



		all is lost in the earth,



		in the form of a soul, or nothing.










from Dois parlamentos / Two Parliaments 1961

		Festa na casa-grande



		(



		ritmo deputado; sotaque nordestino



		)







		I



		— O cassaco de engenho,



		o cassaco de usina:



		— O cassaco é um só



		com diferente rima.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		bangüê ou fornecedor:



		— A condição cassaco



		é o denominador.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		de qualquer Pernambuco:



		— Dizendo-se cassaco



		se terá dito tudo.



		— Seja qual for seu nome,



		seu trabalho, seu soldo:



		— Dizendo-se cassaco



		se terá dito todos.







		6



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando é criança:



		— Parece cruzamento



		de caniço com cana.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		criança é mais caniço:



		— Puxa mais bem ao pai



		porque não é maciço.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando é criança:



		— Não só puxa ao caniço,



		puxa também à cana.



		— Mas à cana de soca,



		repetida e sem força:



		— A cana fim de raça,



		de quarta ou quinta folha.







		II



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando é mulher:



		— É um saco vazio



		mas que se tem de pé.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		mulher é como um saco:



		— De açúcar, mas sem ter



		açúcar ensacado.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando é mulher:



		— Não é um saco capaz



		de conservar, conter.



		— É um saco como feito



		para se derramar:



		— De outros que não se sabe



		como se fazem lá.







		16



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando é um velho:



		— Somente por acaso



		ele alcança esse teto.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		velho nem é acaso:



		— É que um cassaco novo



		apressou-se no prazo.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando é um velho:



		— Então, chegado aí,



		se apressa em esqueleto.



		— Se apressa a descarnar



		como taipa em ruína:



		— E como ele é de taipa



		seu esqueleto é faxina.







		2



		— O cassaco de engenho



		de longe é como gente:



		— De perto é que se vê



		o que há de diferente.



		— O cassaco de engenho,



		de perto, ao olho esperto:



		— Em tudo é como homem,



		só que de menos preço.



		— Não há nada de homem



		que não tenha, em detalhe,



		e tudo por inteiro,



		nada pela metade.



		— É igual, mas apesar,



		parece recortado



		com a tesoura cega



		de alfaiate barato.







		7



		— O cassaco de engenho



		de longe é de osso e carne:



		— De perto é que se vê



		que de outra qualidade.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		se se chega a tocá-lo:



		— É outra a consistência



		de seu corpo, é mais ralo.



		— Tem a textura bruta



		e ao mesmo tempo frouxa,



		menos que algodãozinho,



		sim própria das estopas.



		— E dos panos puídos



		chegados ao estado



		em que, no português,



		pano passa a ser trapo.







		12



		— O cassaco de engenho



		de longe é o mesmo barro:



		— De perto é que se vê



		que o dele foi mais baço.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		é opaco e mortiço:



		— Nunca aprende com os aços



		de uma usina, seu brilho.



		— Nem com o brilho mais cego



		do cobre que ele vê



		nas tachas em que mexe



		nos engenhos bangüê.



		— Sequer aprende o brilho



		do cabo das enxadas



		que ele enverniza em seco



		com a lixa da mão áspera.







		17



		— O cassaco de engenho



		de longe é branco ou negro:



		— De perto é que se vê



		que é amarelo mesmo.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		é amarelo sempre:



		— Mas do amarelo inchado



		que é verde levemente.



		— Desse verde amarelo



		em que o azul não entra



		e que não fosse nele



		se diria doença.



		— Um verde especial,



		espécie de auriverde,



		só dele, branco ou negro,



		de receita só dele.







		3



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando está dormindo:



		— Se vê que é incapaz



		de sonhos privativos.



		— Nele não há esse ar



		distante ou distraído



		de quem detrás das pálpebras



		um filme está assistindo.



		— Detrás de suas pálpebras



		haverá apenas treva



		e de certo nenhum



		sonho ali se projeta.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		dorme em sala deserta:



		— A nenhum sonho-filme



		assiste, nem tem tela.







		8



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando não está dormindo:



		— É como se seu sono



		ainda o encharcasse, limo.



		— Quando não está dormindo



		não é que está acordado,



		é apenas que caminha



		onde o sono é mais raso.



		— Não tem como evitar



		que o marasmo o embeba



		e o impeça de subir



		à consciência seca.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		nunca acorda de todo:



		— Anda sempre nos pântanos



		do sono, por seu lodo.







		13



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando no trabalho:



		— Tudo com que trabalha



		lhe parece pesado.



		— É como se seu sangue,



		que entretanto é mais ralo,



		lhe pesasse no corpo,



		espesso como caldo.



		— Como o caldo de cana



		já muito cozinhado



		e que vai-se espessando



		no gesto do melaço.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		tem o ritmo pesado:



		— O do gesto do mel



		deixando o último tacho.







		18



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando não trabalha:



		— As coisas continuam



		sendo-lhe bem pesadas.



		— Por sua pouca roupa



		está sempre esmagado



		e pesa-lhe no pé



		inexistente sapato.



		— Pesa-lhe a mão que leva



		e se não leva nada,



		e pesa-lhe igualmente



		se se move ou parada.



		— Ao cassaco de engenho



		pesa o ar que respira:



		— E até mesmo lhe pesa



		o chão sobre que pisa.







		4



		— O cassaco de engenho



		faz amarelamente



		toda coisa que toca



		tocando-a, simplesmente.



		— É o contrário do barro



		das casas-de-purgar



		que se bota no açúcar



		a fim de o branquear.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		purga tudo ao contrário:



		— Como o barro, se infiltra,



		mas deixa tudo barro.



		— Limpa tudo do limpo



		e deixa em tudo nódoa:



		— A que há em sua camisa,



		em sua vida, no que toca.







		9



		— O cassaco de engenho



		vai amarelamente



		entre todo esse azul



		que é Pernambuco sempre.



		— Mesmo contra o amarelo



		da palha canavial,



		ainda é mais amarelo



		o seu, porque moral.



		— O cassaco de engenho



		é o amarelo tipo:



		— É amarelo de corpo



		e de estado de espírito.



		— De onde a calma que às vezes



		parece sabedoria:



		— Mas não é calma, nada,



		é o nada, é calmaria.







		14



		— O cassaco de engenho



		é amarelamente



		mesmo no mundo em cor



		que bebe na aguardente.



		— Primeiro, a aguardente



		lhe dá um certo azul



		e esquecido o amarelo,



		ele quer ir-se ao Sul.



		— Ao cassaco de engenho



		depois o azul é roxo:



		— Já em vez de ir-se ao Sul



		deseja é ir-se morto.



		— Por fim, inevitável,



		volta a vida amarela:



		— No amargor amarelo



		da ressaca que o espera.







		19



		— O cassaco de engenho



		vê amarelamente



		todo o rosa-Brasil



		que ele habita e não sente.



		— Para ele, a água do rio



		não é azul mas barro,



		e as nuvens, aniagem,



		pardas, de pano saco.



		— Ao cassaco de engenho



		nunca a terra é de vargem:



		— E o dia mostra sempre



		desbotada folhagem.



		— E outra é a morte que vem



		retratar seu trespasse:



		— Não usa pano preto,



		cobre-se, sim, de cáqui.







		5



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando doente-com-febre:



		— Não de febre amarela



		mas da de sezões, verde.



		— Por fora, se se toca



		no seu corpo de gente:



		— Se pensa que a caldeira



		dele afinal se acende.



		— Contudo se se toca



		esse corpo por dentro:



		— Se vê que, se é caldeira,



		nem tem assentamento.



		— Que se é engenho, é



		de fogo frio ou morto:



		— Engenho que não mói,



		que só fornece aos outros.







		10



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando vai morrendo:



		— Então seu amarelo



		se ilumina por dentro.



		— Adquire a transparência



		própria ao cristal anêmico:



		— Aquela de que a cera



		dá o melhor exemplo.



		— Adquire a transparência



		própria de qualquer vela:



		— Da mesma em cuja ponta



		plantam a chama que o vela.



		— A dele, então, é igual



		à carne dessa vela:



		— E a chama se pergunta



		por que não a acendem nela.







		15



		— O cassaco de engenho



		quando o carregam, morto:



		— É um caixão vazio



		metido dentro de outro.



		— É morte de vazio



		a que carrega dentro:



		— E como é de vazio,



		ei-lo que não tem dentros.



		— Do caixão alugado



		nem chega a ser miolo:



		— Pois como ele é vazio,



		se muito, será forro.



		— O enterro do cassaco



		é o enterro de um coco:



		— Uns poucos envoltórios



		em volta do centro oco.







		20



		— O cassaco de engenho



		defunto e já no chão:



		— Para rápido acabá-lo



		tudo faz mutirão.



		— O massapê, piçarra,



		e a Mata faz Sertão.



		— E o sol, para ajudar,



		se é inverno faz verão.



		— Para roer os ossos



		os vermes viram cão:



		— E outra vez vermes, vendo



		o giz que os ossos são.



		— E o vento canavial



		dá também sua demão:



		— Varre-lhe os gases da alma,



		levando-a (lavando), são.







		Party at the Manor House



		(



		Congressional rhythm; Northeast accent



		)







		1



		— The sugar mill worker



		in a large or small mill



		— Is the same mill worker



		with a different rhyme.



		— The sugar mill worker



		in a raw mill or refinery:



		— “Sugar mill worker”



		is the crucial denominator.



		— Any sugar mill worker



		from any Pernambuco:



		— When he says “sugar mill worker”



		will have said everything.



		— Whatever his name,



		position or salary:



		— By saying “sugar mill worker,”



		he will have said it all.







		6



		— The sugar mill worker



		in child form



		— Looks like a cross



		between reed and cane.



		— The child mill worker



		has more of the reed:



		— Is more like his father,



		because he is lean.



		— The sugar mill worker



		in child form



		— Is not only reed,



		he is also cane.



		— But cane that is weak



		from overharvesting:



		— A degenerate breed



		of the fourth or fifth cutting.







		II



		— The sugar mill worker



		in female form



		— Is an empty sack



		that stands on two feet.



		— The female mill worker



		is essentially a sack



		— Of sugar without



		any sugar inside.



		— The sugar mill worker



		in female form



		— Is a sack that cannot



		conserve or contain.



		— She’s a sack made



		just to be emptied



		— Of other sacks made in her



		nobody knows how.







		16



		— The sugar mill worker



		in the form of an old man:



		— Only by chance



		does he get that far.



		— The old mill worker



		isn’t old by chance:



		— He’s a young mill worker



		who hurried up his age.



		— The sugar mill worker



		in the form of an old man:



		— Having gotten that far,



		he hurries to become a skeleton.



		— He hurriedly grows lean



		like a mud wall in ruins:



		— His flesh is the mud,



		his skeleton the frame.







		2



		— The sugar mill worker



		looks like us from a distance:



		— Looking closer one sees



		what sets him apart.



		— The sugar mill worker



		up close, to a sharp eye:



		— Is in all respects human



		but at half the price.



		— He is missing nothing



		that you and I have,



		down to every detail,



		like any normal man.



		— He’s the same, yet seems



		to have been cut out



		by the dull scissors



		of a third-rate tailor.







		7



		— The sugar mill worker



		looks like flesh and blood:



		— Looking closer one sees



		just what substance he is.



		— The mill worker’s body



		when actually touched



		— Proves to be different,



		of a thinner consistence.



		— Its texture is rough



		and at the same time slack,



		like cheap cotton cloth



		or like cotton scraps.



		— Like well-worn cloths



		torn and tattered



		to where, in our language,



		cloths become rags.







		12



		— The sugar mill worker



		seems to be of our clay:



		— Looking closer one sees



		that his clay was grayer.



		— The sugar mill worker



		is shadowy and dim:



		— He never learns to shine



		like the sugar mill’s steels.



		— He can’t even shine



		like the duller copper



		of the vats he stirs



		in the smaller mills.



		— He never even learns



		to shine like the hoe handles



		he dry polishes daily



		with his sandpaper hand.







		17



		— The sugar mill worker



		looks white or black:



		— Looking closer one sees



		he is actually yellow.



		— The sugar mill worker



		is always yellow:



		— A swollen yellow,



		slightly green.



		— That yellowish green



		without any blue,



		which in anyone else



		would be called disease.



		— A special green,



		a kind of greenish gold,



		be he black or white,



		a color all his own.







		3



		— The sugar mill worker



		when he is sleeping



		— Is obviously incapable



		of private dreams.



		— He’s missing that faraway



		look of enchantment



		of those who watch films



		behind their eyelids.



		— Behind his eyelids



		there is only a darkness



		where surely no dream



		is being projected.



		— The mill worker sleeps



		in an empty cinema



		— Where there is no film-dream,



		nor even a screen.







		8



		— The sugar mill worker



		when he’s not sleeping



		— Looks like seaweed,



		as if sleep still drenched him.



		— When he’s not sleeping,



		he isn’t really awake;



		he merely walks



		in a shallower sleep.



		— He cannot escape



		the marasmus that soaks him



		and keeps him from rising



		to a dry consciousness.



		— The sugar mill worker



		is never fully awake:



		— He still walks in the swamps



		of sleep, through their mire.







		13



		— The sugar mill worker



		when he’s at work:



		— Everything he works with



		feels heavy to him.



		— It’s as if his blood,



		though thinner than ours,



		weighed on his body



		like juice when thick.



		— Like sugarcane juice which,



		after much cooking,



		gets thicker and thicker



		until it’s molasses.



		— The sugar mill worker



		has a heavy rhythm:



		— Like the final molasses



		leaving the final vat.







		18



		— The sugar mill worker



		when not at work



		— Continues to feel



		that things are quite heavy.



		— He is constantly crushed



		by his scanty clothing,



		and his nonexistent shoes



		weigh heavy on his feet.



		— His hand weighs heavy



		lifting something or nothing,



		and it weighs on him whether



		it’s moving or still.



		— To the sugar mill worker



		his very breath is heavy:



		— And he even feels the weight



		of the ground he walks on.







		4



		— The sugar mill worker



		yellowishly tinges



		all that he touches



		merely by touching it.



		— He’s the converse of the clay



		in the bleaching chambers



		added to the sugar



		to make it turn white.



		— The sugar mill worker



		bleaches in reverse:



		— He penetrates, like the clay,



		but turns everything dirty.



		— He cleans off the cleanness



		and leaves behind a smudge:



		— The smudge on his shirt,



		on his life, on what he touches.







		9



		— The sugar mill worker



		yellowishly lives



		among all that blue



		which is always Pernambuco.



		— Even against the yellow



		of the canefield straw,



		his yellow is still yellower,



		for it reaches his morale.



		— The sugar mill worker



		is the quintessential yellow:



		— Yellow in his body



		and in his state of mind.



		— This explains his calm,



		which can appear as wisdom:



		— But it’s not calmness at all,



		it’s nothingness, inertia.







		14



		— The sugar mill worker



		yellowishly exists



		even in the colored world



		he enters with cane liquor.



		— In the beginning the liquor



		makes him somewhat rosy



		and, forgetting his yellow,



		he thinks of heading south.



		— In the sugar mill worker



		the rose turns to purple:



		— Instead of heading south,



		he wants to pass away.



		— Finally, inevitably,



		his yellow life returns



		— In the yellow bitterness



		of the next day’s hangover.







		19



		— The sugar mill worker



		yellowishly sees



		the rose-colored Brazil



		he lives in but doesn’t feel.



		— For him the river water



		is not blue but muddy,



		and clouds are burlap-colored,



		the grayish brown of sackcloth.



		— To the sugar mill worker



		the land is never a meadow:



		— And each day shows him



		the same faded foliage.



		— And different is the death



		that comes to paint his end:



		— Instead of using black,



		it dresses up in khaki.







		5



		— The sugar mill worker



		when sick with fever:



		— It isn’t yellow fever



		but malaria, green.



		— If you touch the outside



		of his human-looking body:



		— It feels as if his furnace



		has finally fired up.



		— If, however, you touch



		this body on the inside:



		— You see that, if a furnace,



		it has no foundation.



		— And if it is a sugar mill,



		its fire is cold or dead:



		— A mill that doesn’t refine,



		that only supplies to others.







		10



		— The sugar mill worker



		when he is dying:



		— His yellow begins



		to glow from inside.



		— He gains a transparency



		that suggests anemic crystal:



		— Of which candle wax



		is the best example.



		— He gains the transparency



		of a common candle:



		— Of the candle they’ve lit



		to watch over his last hour.



		— The flesh of this candle



		is just like his own:



		— And the flame wonders why



		they don’t light his too.







		15



		— The sugar mill worker



		when carried away, dead:



		— He’s one empty coffin



		inside another.



		— A death of emptiness



		is what’s carried inside:



		— And since the death is empty,



		it has no insides.



		— He can’t even be the contents



		of the rented coffin:



		— Since he is empty,



		at most he’ll be the lining.



		— The burial of a mill worker



		is the burial of a coconut:



		— A handful of wrappings



		around a hollow core.







		20



		— The sugar mill worker



		dead and in the ground:



		— Everything pitches in



		to finish him off quickly.



		— Black earth becomes gravel,



		the woods become dry plains:



		— And the sun gives a hand



		by making winter summer.



		— To better gnaw the bones,



		the worms turn into dogs:



		— Then back again into worms,



		when they see the bones are chalk.



		— And the wind of the canefield



		also helps to make him final:



		— By sweeping away the gases



		(his soul) to purify him.










from Serial / Serial 1961

		O sim contra o sim



		Marianne Moore, em vez de lápis,



		emprega quando escreve



		instrumento cortante:



		bisturi, simples canivete.



		Ela aprendeu que o lado claro



		das coisas é o anverso



		e por isso as disseca:



		para ler textos mais corretos.



		Com mão direta ela as penetra,



		com lápis bisturi,



		e com eles compõe,



		de volta, o verso cicatriz.



		E porque é limpa a cicatriz,



		econômica, reta,



		mais que o cirurgião



		se admira a lâmina que opera.



		Francis Ponge, outro cirurgião,



		adota uma outra técnica:



		gira-as nos dedos, gira



		ao redor das coisas que opera.



		Apalpa-as com todos os dez



		mil dedos da linguagem:



		não tem bisturi reto



		mas um que se ramificasse.



		Com ele envolve tanto a coisa



		que quase a enovela



		e quase a enovelando,



		se perde, enovelado nela.



		E no instante em que até parece



		que já não a penetra,



		ela entra sem cortar:



		saltou por descuidada fresta.



		Miró sentia a mão direita



		demasiado sábia



		e que de saber tanto



		já não podia inventar nada.



		Quis então que desaprendesse



		o muito que aprendera,



		a fim de reencontrar



		a linha ainda fresca da esquerda.



		Pois que ela não pôde, ele pôs-se



		a desenhar com esta



		até que, se operando,



		no braço direito ele a enxerta.



		A esquerda (se não se é canhoto)



		é mão sem habilidade:



		reaprende a cada linha,



		cada instante, a recomeçar-se.



		Mondrian, também da mão direita



		andava desgostado;



		não por ser ela sábia:



		porque, sendo sábia, era fácil.



		Assim, não a trocou de braço:



		queria-a mais honesta



		e por isso enxertou



		outras mais sábias dentro dela.



		Fez-se enxertar réguas, esquadros



		e outros utensílios



		para obrigar a mão



		a abandonar todo improviso.



		Assim foi que ele, à mão direita,



		impôs tal disciplina:



		fazer o que sabia



		como se o aprendesse ainda.







		Yes Against Yes



		Marianne Moore, refusing a pen,



		writes her stanzas



		with a cutting edge,



		a common jackknife or scalpel.



		She discovered that the clear side



		of things is the obverse,



		and therefore dissects them



		to read texts more accurately.



		She enters with unswerving hand



		and a scalpel pen



		to produce, on leaving,



		a neatly stitched poem.



		And since the scar is clean,



		sparse and straight,



		more than the surgeon



		one admires the surgical blade.



		Francis Ponge, also a surgeon,



		uses a different technique, turning



		the things he operates on



		in his fingers, and himself around them.



		He handles them with all ten



		thousand fingers of language;



		his is not a straight scalpel



		but one that’s always branching.



		With it he so wraps and wraps



		the thing that he almost winds it



		into a ball and loses



		himself, wound up inside it.



		And just when it would seem



		he can no longer penetrate,



		he enters without cutting,



		through a crack that went unseen.



		Miró felt that his right hand



		was too intelligent



		and that knowing so much



		it could no longer invent.



		He wanted it to unlearn



		all it had learned



		to recover the fresh line



		of his left hand, still pure.



		This being impossible, he began



		to draw with the left hand,



		attaching it at last



		to his right arm by a graft.



		Unless one is left-handed,



		the left hand lacks ability:



		every line is a relearning,



		every moment a new beginning.



		Mondrian regarded his right hand



		with just as much distrust,



		not for being intelligent,



		but because it was easy as such.



		He did not give it a new arm;



		he wanted it to be truer.



		So he grafted other



		more intelligent hands on to it.



		He grafted rulers, T-squares



		and other instruments



		that forced his hand



		to quit all improvisation.



		He imposed on his right hand



		this discipline:



		to do what it already knew



		as if it were still learning.







		O ovo de galinha







		1



		Ao olho mostra a integridade



		de uma coisa num bloco, um ovo.



		Numa só matéria, unitária,



		maciçamente ovo, num todo.



		Sem posssuir um dentro e um fora,



		tal como as pedras, sem miolo:



		e só miolo: o dentro e o fora



		integralmente no contorno.



		No entanto, se ao olho se mostra



		unânime em si mesmo, um ovo,



		a mão que o sopesa descobre



		que nele há algo suspeitoso:



		que seu peso não é o das pedras,



		inanimado, frio, goro;



		que o seu é um peso morno, túmido,



		um peso que é vivo e não morto.







		II



		O ovo revela o acabamento



		a toda mão que o acaricia,



		daquelas coisas torneadas



		num trabalho de toda a vida.



		E que se encontra também noutras



		que entretanto mão não fabrica:



		nos corais, nos seixos rolados



		e em tantas coisas esculpidas



		cujas formas simples são obra



		de mil inacabáveis lixas



		usadas por mãos escultoras



		escondidas na água, na brisa.



		No entretanto, o ovo, e apesar



		da pura forma concluída,



		não se situa no final:



		está no ponto de partida.







		III



		A presença de qualquer ovo,



		até se a mão não lhe faz nada,



		possui o dom de provocar



		certa reserva em qualquer sala.



		O que é difícil de entender



		se se pensa na forma clara



		que tem um ovo, e na franqueza



		de sua parede caiada.



		A reserva que um ovo inspira



		é de espécie bastante rara:



		é a que se sente ante um revólver



		e não se sente ante uma bala.



		É a que se sente ante essas coisas



		que conservando outras guardadas



		ameaçam mais com disparar



		do que com a coisa que disparam.







		IV



		Na manipulação de um ovo



		um ritual sempre se observa:



		há um jeito recolhido e meio



		religioso em quem o leva.



		Se pode pretender que o jeito



		de quem qualquer ovo carrega



		vem da atenção normal de quem



		conduz uma coisa repleta.



		O ovo porém está fechado



		em sua arquitetura hermética



		e quem o carrega, sabendo-o,



		prossegue na atitude regra:



		procede ainda da maneira



		entre medrosa e circunspecta,



		quase beata, de quem tem



		nas mãos a chama de uma vela.







		The Egg







		1



		To the eye an egg suggests



		the integrity of a block.



		A single, uniform substance,



		wholly and compactly eggish.



		Without an inside and outside,



		pulpless as a stone, or pulp



		all in all: inside and outside



		one and the same throughout.



		But if to the eye an egg



		appears to be unanimous,



		the hand which holds it



		discovers something suspicious:



		that its weight is not the cold,



		inanimate, addled weight of stones



		— not a dead weight — but the tumid,



		warm weight of something living.







		II



		To any hand that caresses it



		an egg reveals the smooth



		finish of things whose shaping



		required a lifetime of labor,



		a finish found in other things



		not made by human hands:



		in corals, rounded pebbles,



		and all sorts of sculpted objects



		whose simple forms are the work



		of inexhaustible sandpapers held



		by a thousand sculpting hands



		hidden in water and wind.



		And yet the egg, despite



		its pure, finished form,



		hasn’t reached an end;



		it is only now beginning.







		III



		The mere presence of an egg,



		even if no hand comes near,



		can provoke a certain reserve



		in whoever is in the room,



		which is hard to understand



		in light of the clear, clean



		shape of an egg and the candor



		of its whitewashed wall.



		The reserve an egg inspires



		is of a peculiar kind,



		like that which a revolver



		but not a bullet causes.



		It’s the reserve felt before objects



		which, concealing another inside,



		threaten with the act of discharging



		more than with what they discharge.







		IV



		Whenever an egg is handled,



		a ritual is observed:



		it is treated in a diffident,



		quasi-religious manner.



		One might argue that the care



		of the person carrying an egg



		is the usual care one takes



		with anything that’s full.



		The egg, however, is closed



		in its hermetic architecture,



		and whoever carries it, knowing this,



		persists in the usual way,



		still proceeding with caution,



		a bit fearful, wary, and almost



		pious, as one whose hands



		bear the flame of a candle.










from A educação pela pedra / Education by Stone 1966

		O mar e o canavial



		O que o mar sim aprende do canavial:



		a elocução horizontal de seu verso;



		a geórgica de cordel, ininterrupta,



		narrada em voz e silêncio paralelos.



		O que o mar não aprende do canavial:



		a veemência passional da preamar;



		a mão-de-pilão das ondas na areia,



		moída e miúda, pilada do que pilar.







		*



		O que o canavial sim aprende do mar:



		o avançar em linha rasteira da onda;



		o espraiar-se minucioso, de líquido,



		alagando cova a cova onde se alonga.



		O que o canavial não aprende do mar:



		o desmedido do derramar-se da cana;



		o comedimento do latifúndio do mar,



		que menos lastradamente se derrama.







		The Sea and the Canefield



		What the sea learns from the canefield:



		the horizontal style of its verse;



		the georgics of street poets, uninterrupted,



		chanted out loud and in parallel silence.



		What the sea doesn’t learn from the canefield:



		the passion of a rising tide;



		the pestle-pounding of waves on sand,



		ground ever finer, repesteled, repounded.







		*



		What the canefield learns from the sea:



		the quiet rhythm of advancing waves;



		its meticulous liquid spreading



		that fills every hollow where it passes.



		What the canefield doesn’t learn from the sea:



		the sugarcane’s unbridled flowing;



		the moderation of the plantation-sea,



		which flows less rampantly.







		A educação pela pedra



		Uma educação pela pedra: por lições;



		para aprender da pedra, freqüentá-la;



		captar sua voz inenfática, impessoal



		(pela de dicção ela começa as aulas).



		A lição de moral, sua resistência fria



		ao que flui e a fluir, a ser maleada;



		a de poética, sua carnadura concreta;



		a de economia, seu adensar-se compacta:



		lições da pedra (de fora para dentro,



		cartilha muda), para quem soletrá-la.







		*



		Outra educação pela pedra: no Sertão



		(de dentro para fora, e pré-didática).



		No Sertão a pedra não sabe lecionar,



		e se lecionasse não ensinaria nada;



		lá não se aprende a pedra: lá a pedra,



		uma pedra de nascença, entranha a alma.







		Education by Stone



		An education by stone: lesson by lesson;



		learning from the stone by going to its school,



		grasping its impersonal, unstressed voice



		(it begins its classes with one in diction).



		The lesson in morals — its cold resistance



		to what flows and to flowing, to being molded;



		a lesson in poetics — its concrete flesh;



		another in economics — its compact weight:



		lessons from the stone (from the outside in,



		a speechless primer) to learn how to spell it.







		*



		Another education by stone: in the backlands



		(from the inside out, and predidactic).



		In the backlands the stone does not give lessons,



		and if it gave them, nothing would be taught;



		there the stone is not something you learn



		but is a stone from birth, penetrating the soul.







		Sobre o sentar- /estar-no-mundo



		Ondequer que certos homens se sentem



		sentam poltrona, qualquer o assento.



		Sentam poltrona: ou tábua-de-latrina,



		assento além de anatômico, ecumênico,



		exemplo único de concepção universal,



		onde cabe qualquer homem e a contento.







		*



		Ondequer que certos homens se sentem



		sentam bancos ferrenhos, de colégio;



		por afetuoso e diplomata o estofado,



		os ferem nós debaixo, senão pregos,



		e mesmo a tábua-de-latrina lhes nega



		o abaulado amigo, as curvas de afeto.



		A vida toda, se sentam mal sentados,



		e mesmo de pé algum assento os fere:



		eles levam em si os nós-senão-pregos,



		nas nádegas da alma, em efes e erres.







		On Sitting/Being-in-the-World



		When certain men sit, no matter where



		they sit, they sit in an easy chair.



		An easy chair, or a toilet seat:



		not only functional but ecumenical,



		the only universally agreed-upon seat,



		where all can fit and feel at home.







		*



		Wherever certain men sit, they sit



		at hard desks, the kind used in schools;



		however large and well-cushioned the seat,



		they are hurt underneath by knots or nails,



		and even the toilet seat denies them



		the convex comfort of its friendly curves.



		All their lives they sit uncomfortably,



		and even when standing, some seat hurts them;



		they carry in themselves the knots or nails,



		in the buttocks of the soul, in p’s and q’s.







		Tecendo a manhã



		Um galo sozinho não tece uma manhã:



		ele precisará sempre de outros galos.



		De um que apanhe esse grito que ele



		e o lance a outro; de um outro galo



		que apanhe o grito que um galo antes



		e o lance a outro; e de outros galos



		que com muitos outros galos se cruzem



		os fios de sol de seus gritos de galo,



		para que a manhã, desde uma teia tênue,



		se vá tecendo, entre todos os galos.







		2



		E se encorpando em tela, entre todos,



		se erguendo tenda, onde entrem todos,



		se entretendendo para todos, no toldo



		(a manhã) que plana livre de armação.



		A manhã, toldo de um tecido tão aéreo



		que, tecido, se eleva por si: luz balão.







		Weaving the Morning



		One rooster cannot weave a morning.



		He will always need other roosters:



		one to catch the cry that he



		and toss it to another, another rooster



		to catch the cry that a rooster before him



		and toss it to another, and other roosters



		that with many other roosters crisscross



		the sun threads of their rooster cries,



		so that the morning, from a tenuous tissue,



		will grow by the weaving of all the roosters.







		2



		And enlarging into a fabric involving all,



		erecting itself into a tent where all may enter,



		extending itself for all, in the canopy



		(the morning) that floats without any frame:



		the morning, a canopy made of a weave so airy



		that, once woven, it rises by itself: balloon light.







		Fábula de um arquiteto



		A arquitetura como construir portas,



		de abrir; ou como construir o aberto;



		construir, não como ilhar e prender,



		nem construir como fechar secretos;



		construir portas abertas, em portas;



		casa exclusivamente portas e teto.



		O arquiteto: o que abre para o homem



		(tudo se sanearia desde casas abertas)



		portas por-onde, jamais portas-contra;



		por onde, livres: ar luz razão certa.







		2



		Até que, tantos livres o amedrontando,



		renegou dar a viver no claro e aberto.



		Onde vãos de abrir, ele foi amurando



		opacos de fechar; onde vidro, concreto;



		até refechar o homem: na capela útero,



		com confortos de matriz, outra vez feto.







		Tale of an Architect



		Architecture: the art of building doors



		to open up — the building of openness;



		building not to isolate and confine



		nor to shut up secrets, but building



		every door an open door — building



		houses made only of doors and roofs.



		Architect: the one who opens to man



		(in open houses all would be cleansed)



		doors-leading-to, never doors-against;



		doors for freeing: air light sure reason.







		2



		Until, intimidated by so many free things,



		he stopped letting life be transparent.



		Where there were openings he put in



		opacities; instead of glass, concrete —



		resealing man in the chapel-uterus



		with the old comforts, once more a fetus.







		Rios sem discurso



		Quando um rio corta, corta-se de vez



		o discurso-rio de água que ele fazia;



		cortado, a água se quebra em pedaços,



		em poços de água, em água paralítica.



		Em situação de poço a água equivale



		a uma palavra em situação dicionária:



		isolada, estanque no poço dela mesma,



		e porque assim estanque, estancada;



		e mais: porque assim estancada, muda,



		e muda porque com nenhuma comunica,



		porque cortou-se a sintaxe desse rio,



		o fio de água por que ele discorria.







		*



		O curso de um rio, seu discurso-rio,



		chega raramente a se reatar de vez;



		um rio precisa de muito fio de água



		para refazer o fio antigo que o fez.



		Salvo a grandiloqüência de uma cheia



		lhe impondo interina outra linguagem,



		um rio precisa de muita água em fios



		para que todos os poços se enfrasem:



		se reatando, de um para outro poço,



		em frases curtas, então frase e frase,



		até a sentença-rio do discurso único



		em que se tem voz a seca ele combate.







		Speechless Rivers



		When a river cuts, it cuts completely



		the discourse its water was speaking;



		cut, the water breaks into pieces,



		into pools of water, paralyzed water.



		Situated in a pool, water resembles



		a word in its dictionary situation:



		isolated, standing in the pool of itself



		and, because it is standing, stagnant.



		Because it is standing, it is mute,



		and mute because it doesn’t communicate,



		because this river’s syntax, the current



		of water on which it ran, was cut.







		*



		The course of a river, its river-discourse,



		can rarely be swiftly restored;



		a river needs considerable water current



		to recreate the current that created it.



		Unless the grandiloquence of a flood



		imposes a different, interim language,



		a river needs many currents of water



		for all of its pools to be phrased —



		being restored from one pool to the next



		in short phrases, then phrase to phrase,



		until the river-sentence of the only discourse



		in which it can speak will defy the drought.







		O canavial e o mar



		O que o mar sim ensina ao canavial:



		o avançar em linha rasteira da onda;



		o espraiar-se minucioso, de líquido,



		alagando cova a cova onde se alonga.



		O que o canavial sim ensina ao mar:



		a elocução horizontal de seu verso;



		a geórgica de cordel, ininterrupta,



		narrada em voz e silêncio paralelos.







		2



		O que o mar não ensina ao canavial:



		a veemência passional da preamar;



		a mão-de-pilão das ondas na areia,



		moída e miúda, pilada do que pilar.



		O que o canavial não ensina ao mar:



		o desmedido do derramar-se da cana;



		o comedimento do latifúndio do mar,



		que menos lastradamente se derrama.







		The Canefield and the Sea



		What the sea teaches the canefield:



		the quiet rhythm of advancing waves;



		its meticulous liquid spreading



		that fills every hollow where it passes.



		What the canefield teaches the sea:



		the horizontal style of its verse;



		the georgics of street poets, uninterrupted,



		chanted out loud and in parallel silence.







		2



		What the sea doesn’t teach the canefield:



		the passion of a rising tide;



		the pestle-pounding of waves on sand,



		ground ever finer, repesteled, repounded.



		What the canefield doesn’t teach the sea:



		the sugarcane’s unbridled flowing;



		the moderation of the plantation-sea,



		which flows less rampantly.







		Os rios de um dia



		Os rios, de tudo o que existe vivo,



		vivem a vida mais definida e clara;



		para os rios, viver vale se definir



		e definir viver com a língua da água.



		O rio corre; e assim viver para o rio



		vale não só ser corrido pelo tempo:



		o rio o corre; e pois que com sua água,



		viver vale suicidar-se, todo o tempo.







		2



		Pois isso, que ele define com clareza,



		o rio aceita e professa, friamente,



		e se procuram lhe atar a hemorragia,



		ou a vida suicídio, o rio se defende.



		O que um rio do Sertão, rio interino,



		prova com sua água, curta nas medidas:



		ao se correr torrencial, de uma vez,



		sobre leitos de hotel, de um só dia;



		ao se correr torrencial, de uma vez,



		sem alongar seu morrer, pouco a pouco,



		sem alongá-lo, em suicídio permanente



		ou no que todos, os rios duradouros;



		esses rios do Sertão falam tão claro



		que induz ao suicídio a pressa deles:



		para fugir na morte da vida em poças



		que pega quem devagar por tanta sede.







		Rivers for a Day



		Of all the living things there are, rivers



		lead the clearest, most well-defined life;



		to live, for a river, means to define itself,



		and define means to live with its watery tongue.



		The river flows; and so to live, for the river,



		doesn’t just mean to endure time’s flowing;



		it flows through time, and so to live also means



		to commit suicide with its water, all the time.







		2



		What the river clearly defines



		it coldly accepts and professes,



		defending itself against all attempts



		to stop its suicide life, its hemorrhaging.



		Rivers in the Sertão, transient rivers,



		prove this with their intermittent water:



		by flowing torrentially, all at once,



		over hotel beds used just for a day;



		by flowing torrentially, all at once,



		without slowly dragging out their dying,



		without dragging it out in endless



		suicide, like the rivers that endure.



		Those Sertão rivers speak so clearly



		that their rushing induces suicide: flight



		into death from the life of shallow pools



		that holds those who slowly, from thirst, slowly.







		Psicanálise do açúcar



		O açúcar cristal, ou açúcar de usina,



		mostra a mais instável das brancuras:



		quem do Recife sabe direito o quanto,



		e o pouco desse quanto, que ela dura.



		Sabe o mínimo do pouco que o cristal



		se estabiliza cristal sobre o açúcar,



		por cima do fundo antigo, de mascavo,



		do mascavo barrento que se incuba;



		e sabe que tudo pode romper o mínimo



		em que o cristal é capaz de censura:



		pois o tal fundo mascavo logo aflora



		quer inverno ou verão mele o açúcar.







		*



		Só os bangüês que-ainda purgam ainda



		o açúcar bruto com barro, de mistura;



		a usina já não o purga: da infância,



		não de depois de adulto, ela o educa;



		em enfermarias, com vácuos e turbinas,



		em mãos de metal de gente indústria,



		a usina o leva a sublimar em cristal



		o pardo do xarope: não o purga, cura.



		Mas como a cana se cria ainda hoje,



		em mãos de barro de gente agricultura,



		o barrento da pré-infância logo aflora



		quer inverno ou verão mele o açúcar.







		Psychoanalysis of Sugar



		Sugar crystals (the sugar from refineries)



		exhibit the most unstable whiteness:



		people from Recife know just how much,



		and how very little, it will endure.



		They know the slightness of how little



		the crystals can keep the sugar crystallized



		over its ancient past as raw sugar,



		the clayish raw sugar that latently seethes;



		and they know that anything can break



		the slight power of crystals to inhibit,



		for that raw-sugar past soon surfaces



		when winter or summer melts sugar back to syrup.







		*



		Only the older sugar mills still in use



		still purify raw sugar by mixing in clay;



		refineries educate it from an early age



		rather than purify it when already adult.



		In infirmaries, with vacuums and turbines



		run by metal hands of industry people,



		refineries make it sublimate its turbid syrup



		into crystals: they don’t purify, they cure it.



		But since sugarcane is still raised today



		by the clay hands of agriculture people,



		its clayish, preschool past soon surfaces



		when winter or summer melts sugar back to syrup.







		Os reinos do amarelo



		A terra lauta da Mata produz e exibe



		um amarelo rico (se não o dos metais):



		o amarelo do maracujá e os da manga,



		o do oiti-da-praia, do caju e do cajá;



		amarelo vegetal, alegre de sol livre,



		beirando o estridente, de tão alegre,



		e que o sol eleva de vegetal a mineral,



		polindo-o, até um aceso metal de pele.



		Só que fere a vista um amarelo outro,



		e a fere embora baço (sol não o acende):



		amarelo aquém do vegetal, e se animal,



		de um animal cobre: pobre, podremente.







		2



		Só que fere a vista um amarelo outro:



		se animal, de homem: de corpo humano;



		de corpo e vida; de tudo o que segrega



		(sarro ou suor, bile íntima ou ranho),



		ou sofre (o amarelo de sentir triste,



		de ser analfabeto, de existir aguado):



		amarelo que no homem dali se adiciona



		o que há em ser pântano, ser-se fardo.



		Embora comum ali, esse amarelo humano



		ainda dá na vista (mais pelo prodígio):



		pelo que tardam a secar, e ao sol dali,



		tais poças de amarelo, de escarro vivo.







		The Kingdoms of Yellow



		The lush earth of the Mata yields and displays



		an opulent yellow (though not that of metals):



		the yellows of mango and of passion fruit,



		of oiti-da-praia and cajá and cashew;



		a vegetable yellow so joyous in the sunlight



		it almost shouts for joy, the bright sun



		raising it from vegetable into mineral,



		polishing it until its skin gleams metallic.



		But there’s another yellow that hurts the eyes,



		even though it’s dull (doesn’t gleam in the sun):



		a less-than-vegetable yellow which, if it’s animal,



		the animal’s of copper: the shoddy kind, corroded.







		2



		But there’s another yellow that hurts the eyes:



		if it’s animal, it’s of man: of human bodies;



		of bodies and of life; of all that they secrete



		(sweat or pus, bile or snot)



		or suffer (the yellow of feeling sad,



		of being illiterate, of hardly existing):



		a yellow which in those men includes



		being swampy, being their own burden.



		Though common there, this human yellow



		still stands out (for being such a wonder):



		for the sun, though bright, takes forever to dry up



		those shallow, yellow pools of living spit.







		Num monumento à aspirina



		Claramente: o mais prático dos sóis,



		o sol de um comprimido de aspirina:



		de emprego fácil, portátil e barato,



		compacto de sol na lápide sucinta.



		Principalmente porque, sol artificial,



		que nada limita a funcionar de dia,



		que a noite não expulsa, cada noite,



		sol imune às leis de meteorologia,



		a toda hora em que se necessita dele



		levanta e vem (sempre num claro dia):



		acende, para secar a aniagem da alma,



		quará-la, em linhos de um meio-dia.







		*



		Convergem: a aparência e os efeitos



		da lente do comprimido de aspirina:



		o acabamento esmerado desse cristal,



		polido a esmeril e repolido a lima,



		prefigura o clima onde ele faz viver



		e o cartesiano de tudo nesse clima.



		De outro lado, porque lente interna,



		de uso interno, por detrás da retina,



		não serve exclusivamente para o olho



		a lente, ou o comprimido de aspirina:



		ela reenfoca, para o corpo inteiro,



		o borroso de ao redor, e o reafina.







		On a Monument to Aspirin



		Clearly the most practical of suns:



		the sun in the form of an aspirin.



		Easy to use, cheap and portable,



		this succinct stone is always full



		of sun since, being artificial,



		its efficacy is not limited



		to daytime — night does not nightly



		banish it. Immune to meteorological



		laws, this sun rises when needed



		(always bringing a clear day with it):



		shining brightly, it dries and bleaches



		the soul’s sackcloth into midday linens.







		*



		The shape and the effect of an aspirin



		lens converge; the clean finish



		of this crystal, polished with emery



		and repolished with files, prefigures



		the climate it generates, and the Cartesian



		nature of everything in that climate.



		And since it is an internal lens,



		for internal use, behind the retina,



		the aspirin does not serve only



		the eye but refocuses for the whole



		body the surrounding obscurity,



		bringing it back into clear view.







		Habitar o tempo



		Para não matar seu tempo, imaginou:



		vivê-lo enquanto ele ocorre, ao vivo;



		no instante finíssimo em que ocorre,



		em ponta de agulha e porém acessível;



		viver seu tempo: para o que ir viver



		num deserto literal ou de alpendres;



		em ermos, que não distraiam de viver



		a agulha de um só instante, plenamente.



		Plenamente: vivendo-o de dentro dele;



		habitá-lo na agulha de cada instante,



		em cada agulha instante: e habitar nele



		tudo o que habitar cede ao habitante.







		2



		E de volta de ir habitar seu tempo:



		ele corre vazio, o tal tempo ao vivo;



		e como além de vazio, transparente,



		o instante a habitar passa invisível.



		Portanto: para não matá-lo, matá-lo;



		matar o tempo, enchendo-o de coisas;



		em vez do deserto, ir viver nas ruas



		onde o enchem e o matam as pessoas;



		pois como o tempo ocorre transparente



		e só ganha corpo e cor com seu miolo



		(o que não passou do que lhe passou),



		para habitá-lo: só no passado, morto.







		Inhabiting Time



		To avoid killing his time, he imagined:



		living it while it’s in progress, live,



		in the precision-instant when it passes,



		like a needlepoint and yet accessible.



		Living his time: by going to live



		in a literal desert or a desert of porches —



		deserted places that wouldn’t distract him



		from living the needle of a single instant



		to the full. Fully living it on the inside,



		inhabiting it in the needle of each instant,



		in each needle-instant, and inhabiting it



		with all that inhabiting offers the inhabitant.







		2



		Back from inhabiting his time, he thought:



		time in progress, live time, is empty,



		and not only empty but also transparent,



		so that the instant to be inhabited passes unseen.



		Therefore: to avoid killing it, we have to kill it,



		to kill time by filling it with things,



		to live not in the desert but in the streets,



		where people fill it up and kill it.



		Since time goes by transparently



		and only gains body and color by what’s in it



		(whatever passed it and hasn’t all passed),



		we can only inhabit it in the past, where it’s dead.







		Para a feira do livro



		Folheada, a folha de um livro retoma



		o lânguido e vegetal da folha folha,



		e um livro se folheia ou se desfolha



		como sob o vento a árvore que o doa;



		folheada, a folha de um livro repete



		fricativas e labiais de ventos antigos,



		e nada finge vento em folha de árvore



		melhor do que vento em folha de livro.



		Todavia a folha, na árvore do livro,



		mais do que imita o vento, profere-o:



		a palavra nela urge a voz que é vento,



		ou ventania varrendo o podre a zero.







		*



		Silencioso: quer fechado ou aberto,



		inclusive o que grita dentro; anônimo:



		só expõe o lombo, posto na estante,



		que apaga em pardo todos os lombos;



		modesto: só se abre se alguém o abre,



		e tanto oposto do quadro na parede,



		aberto a vida toda, quanto da música,



		viva apenas enquanto voam suas redes.



		Mas apesar disso e apesar de paciente



		(deixa-se ler onde queiram), severo:



		exige que lhe extraiam, o interroguem;



		e jamais exala: fechado, mesmo aberto.







		For the Book Fair



		When leafed, the leaf of a book regains



		the vegetable lassitude of green leaves,



		and a book is leafed or loses its leaves



		like the tree it came from, blown by the wind;



		when leafed, the leaf of a book repeats



		fricatives and labials of ancient winds,



		and nothing feigns wind in the leaves of a tree



		as well as wind in the leaves of a book.



		And yet the leaf in the tree of the book,



		more than mimicking, utters the wind;



		its words move the voice, which is wind:



		a gale that blows what is rotten away.







		*



		Silent whether closed or open,



		including what shouts inside it; anonymous,



		it shows only its spine when on the shelf,



		which annuls all the spines in gray; modest,



		it opens only when someone opens it,



		unlike a hanging picture, which is open



		all its life, and unlike music,



		alive only while its lines are flying.



		But despite this and despite its patience



		(lets anyone, anywhere, read it), severe,



		requiring that you dig in, interrogate it;



		and even when open, closed: it never gives vent.










from Museu de tudo / Catchall Museum 1975

		A insónia de Monsieur Teste



		Uma lucidez que tudo via,



		como se à luz ou se de dia;



		e que, quando de noite, acende



		detrás das pálpebras o dente



		de uma luz ardida, sem pele,



		extrema, e que de nada serve:



		porém luz de uma tal lucidez



		que mente que tudo podeis.







		The Insomnia of Monsieur Teste



		A lucidity which sees everything,



		as if by lamp- or daylight,



		and which, at nightfall, turns on



		behind the eyelids the tooth



		of a sharp and skinless light,



		extreme and serving for nothing:



		a light so lucid it fools you



		into thinking you can do everything.







		W. H. Auden



		(



		1905–1973



		)



		Se morre da morte que ela quer.



		É ela que escolhe seu estilo,



		sem cogitar se a coisa que mata



		rima com sua morte ou faz sentido.



		Mas ela certo te respeitava,



		de muito ler reler teus livros,



		pois matou-te com a guilhotina,



		fuzil limpo, do ataque cardíaco.







		W. H. Auden



		(



		1905–1973



		)



		We die the death death decides.



		Death itself selects its method,



		without caring whether the weapon



		fits or rhymes with the victim.



		But death apparently respected you



		after reading and rereading your stanzas,



		for it killed you with the guillotine,



		the clean gun of a heart attack.







		O artista inconfessável



		Fazer o que seja é inútil.



		Não fazer nada é inútil.



		Mas entre fazer e não fazer



		mais vale o inútil do fazer.



		Mas não, fazer para esquecer



		que é inútil: nunca o esquecer.



		Mas fazer o inútil sabendo



		que ele é inútil, e bem sabendo



		que é inútil e que seu sentido



		não será sequer pressentido,



		fazer: porque ele é mais difícil



		do que não fazer, e dificil —



		mente se poderá dizer



		com mais desdém, ou então dizer



		mais direto ao leitor Ninguém



		que o feito o foi para ninguém.







		The Unconfessing Artist



		Doing this or that is useless.



		Not doing anything is useless.



		But between doing and not doing,



		better the uselessness of doing.



		But no, doing to forget



		is what’s useless — no one should forget.



		But one can do what’s useless knowing



		it’s useless, and although knowing



		it’s useless and that its sense



		cannot in any way be sensed,



		still do: for it is harder



		than not doing, and hardly



		will one be able to say



		with more disdain or say



		more plainly to the reader Nobody



		that what was done was for nobody.







		Catecismo de Berceo



		1. Fazer com que a palavra leve



		pese como a coisa que diga,



		para o que isolá-la de entre



		o folhudo em que se perdia.



		2. Fazer com que a palavra frouxa



		ao corpo de sua coisa adira:



		fundi-la em coisa, espessa, sólida,



		capaz de chocar com a contígua.



		3. Não deixar que saliente fale:



		sim, obrigá-la à disciplina



		de proferir a fala anônima,



		comum a todas de uma linha.



		4. Nem deixar que a palavra flua



		como rio que cresce sempre:



		canalizar a água sem fim



		noutras paralelas, latente.







		Berceo’s Catechism



		1. Make the light word weigh



		as much as the thing it tells



		by isolating it from among



		all the leaves it was lost in.



		2. Make the loose word adhere



		to the body of its referent,



		fusing it into a solid, dense thing,



		able to clash with the one next to it.



		3. Don’t let its speech stick out



		but impose the discipline



		of speaking anonymously —



		just another word in the line.



		4. And don’t let the word flow,



		like a river that keeps growing,



		but channel the endless water



		into parallel, unseen streams.







		As águas do Recife



		Os dois







		touros



		1. O mar e os rios do Recife



		são touros de índole distinta:



		o mar estoura no arrecife,



		o rio é um touro que rumina.



		Quando o touro mar bate forte



		nele há o medo de não ficar,



		de ter saído, de estar fora,



		de quem se recusa a ser mar.



		E há no outro touro, o rio,



		entre mangues, remansamente,



		mil manhas para não partir:



		anda e desanda, ainda, sempre.



		Mas se são distintos na ação,



		mesma é a razão de seu atuar:



		tentam continuar a ser da água



		de aquém do arrecife, antemar.







		A queda







		de braço



		2. Eis por que dentro do Recife



		as duas águas vivem lutando,



		jogando de queda de braço



		entre os muros dos cais urbanos.



		A que é mar porque, obrigada,



		saltou o quebra-mar do porto



		vem, cada maré, desafiar



		a água ainda rio para o jogo.



		A água que remonta e a que desce



		travam então uma queda de braço:



		aplicadamente e em silêncio,



		equilibradas por espaços.



		Um certo instante estão imóveis,



		nem maré alta nem baixa, ao par;



		até que uma derruba e vence,



		e ao vencer, perder: se exilar.







		The Waters of Recife







		The two







		bulls



		1. The sea and the rivers of Recife



		are bulls with different temperaments:



		the sea stampedes against the reef,



		the river is a bull that ruminates.



		The bull that is sea beats hard



		because it escaped, it is free



		and dreads being pulled back in;



		it no longer wants to be sea.



		Standing in coastal swamps,



		the other bull, the river,



		has a thousand tricks for lingering:



		it starts and stops, over and over.



		Although their actions are different,



		their reason for acting is the same:



		they try to continue as water



		on the reef’s near side, before sea.







		The arm







		wrestle



		2. That is why inside Recife



		the two waters live in conflict,



		engaging in a daily arm-wrestle



		between the walls of the city docks.



		The water that’s sea, forced



		to jump the jetty of the port,



		comes with each tide to challenge



		the water that’s still river to fight.



		One rising and the other falling,



		the waters begin their arm-wrestle,



		assiduously and in silence,



		now gaining, now losing, by turns.



		For a moment they stand off, immobile



		— neither high nor low water, but tied —



		until one of them finally prevails,



		and in winning, loses: it is exiled.







		A arquitetura da cana-de-açúcar



		Os alpendres das casas-grandes,



		de par em par abertos, anchos,



		cordiais como a hora do almoço,



		apesar disso não são francos.



		O aberto alpendre acolhedor



		no casarão sem acolhimento



		tira a expressão amiga, amável,



		do que é de fora e não de dentro:



		dos lençóis de cana, tendidos,



		postos ao sol até onde a vista,



		e que lhe dão o sorriso aberto



		que disfarça o que dentro é urtiga.







		The Architecture of Sugarcane



		The porch of the manor house,



		extending into the open air



		and as cordial as lunch hour,



		is not genuinely open-hearted.



		The inviting porch of the mansion



		(where no one is ever invited)



		owes its friendly expression



		to what is not inside:



		to the white sheets of sugarcane



		that wave in the sun, giving



		the porch a welcome smile,



		disguising the nettle within.







		Rilke nos



		Novos Poemas



		Preferir a pantera ao anjo,



		condensar o vago em preciso:



		nesse livro se inconfessou:



		ainda se disse, mas sem vício.



		Nele, dizendo-se de viés,



		disse-se sempre, porém limpo;



		incapaz de não se gozar,



		disse-se, mas sem onanismo.







		Rilke in



		New Poems



		Replacing the angel with the panther



		and making what was vague precise,



		this was a book of unconfessions,



		still telling, but not as a vice.



		Here, by expressing at an angle,



		he told his own self, yet kept clean.



		Unable to resist consummation,



		he told all, but without masturbation.







		O autógrafo



		Calma ao copiar estes versos



		antigos: a mão já não treme



		nem se inquieta; não é mais a asa



		no vôo interrogante do poema.



		A mão já não devora



		tanto papel; nem se refreia



		na letra miúda e desenhada



		com que canalizar sua explosão.



		O tempo do poema não há mais;



		há seu espaço, esta pedra



		indestrutível, imóvel, mesma:



		e ao alcance da memória



		até o desespero, o tédio.







		The Autograph



		Calmly the hand copies these



		old verses, no longer restlessly



		trembling, no longer the wing



		in the poem’s searching flight.



		The hand no longer devours



		so much paper, nor forces



		its explosion to fit



		into tiny, florid letters.



		The time of the poem is over;



		there is its space, this unmoving,



		unbreaking, unchanging stone,



		and within the reach of memory



		even desperation, tedium.







		Proust e seu livro



		De certo o sabia, quem viveu



		com a vida e a obra emaranhadas,



		que viveu fazendo-as, refazendo-as,



		elastecendo-a em tempo e páginas,



		que vestiu sua obra, por dentro,



		percorrendo-a, viajando em seu barco,



		de certo viu que um dia acabá-la



		era matar-se em livro, suicidá-lo.







		Proust and His Book



		He whose work and life



		were inexorably entwined,



		who lived to make and remake them,



		stretching them in time and pages,



		who wore his work inside himself,



		exploring it, sailing in its ship,



		must have known its final line



		would spell a double suicide.










from A escola das facas / The School of Knives 1980

		Menino de engenho



		A cana cortada é uma foice.



		Cortada num ângulo agudo,



		ganha o gume afiado da foice



		que a corta em foice, um dar-se mútuo.



		Menino, o gume de uma cana



		cortou-me ao quase de cegar-me,



		e uma cicatriz, que não guardo,



		soube dentro de mim guardar-se.



		A cicatriz não tenho mais;



		o inoculado, tenho ainda;



		nunca soube é se o inoculado



		(então) é vírus ou vacina.







		Plantation Boy



		The cut sugar stalk is a sickle.



		Cut at a sharp angle it gains



		the whetted edge of the sickle



		that cut it to a sickle: a mutual giving.



		When I was a boy, the edge of a stalk



		once cut and almost blinded me,



		and a scar, which left no visible mark,



		knew how to make its mark inside me.



		Though I no longer have the scar,



		what was inoculated is in me still;



		I have never discovered



		if it is a virus or vaccine.







		Horácio



		O bêbado cabal.



		Quando nós, de meninos,



		vivemos a doença



		de criar passarinhos,



		e as férias acabadas



		o horrível outra-vez



		do colégio nos pôs



		na rotina de rês,



		deixamos com Horácio



		um dinheiro menino



		que pudesse manter



		em vida os passarinhos.



		Poucos dias depois



		as gaiolas sem língua



		eram tumbas aéreas



		de morte nordestina.



		Horácio não comprara



		alpiste; e tocar na água



		gratuita, para os cochos,



		certo lhe repugnava.



		Gastou o que do alpiste



		com o alpiste-cachaça,



		alma do passarinho



		que em suas veias cantava.







		Horácio



		The perfect drunk. .



		When we as children



		went through the craze



		of raising birds



		and, vacation ended,



		the here-we-go-again



		of school had pulled us back



		to the hated grindstone,



		we left with Horácio



		our childish savings,



		enough to keep



		alive the birds.



		A few days later



		the songless cages



		were aerial graves



		of Northeast death.



		Horácio bought no seed,



		and to refill dishes



		with water that cost nothing



		must have disgusted him.



		He spent what was for birdseed



		on alcoholic seed,



		soul of the bird



		which in his blood was singing.







		A voz do canavial



		Voz sem saliva da cigarra,



		do papel seco que se amassa,



		de quando se dobra o jornal:



		assim canta o canavial,



		ao vento que por suas folhas,



		de navalha a navalha, soa,



		vento que o dia e a noite toda



		o folheia, e nele se esfola.







		The Voice of the Canefield



		Spitless voice of the cicada,



		of dry crumpling paper,



		of the newspaper when it folds:



		so is the singing of the canefield



		in the wind which through its leaves



		from razor to razor breathes,



		wind which all night and day



		leafs through it and is flayed.







		Forte de Orange, Itamaracá



		A pedra bruta da guerra,



		seu grão granítico, hirsuto,



		foi toda sitiada por



		erva-de-passarinho, musgo.



		Junto da pedra que o tempo



		rói, pingando como um pulso,



		inroído, o metal canhão



		parece eterno, absoluto.



		Porém o pingar do tempo



		pontual, penetra tudo;



		se seu pulso não se sente,



		bate sempre, e pontiagudo,



		e a guerrilha vegetal



		no seu infiltrar-se mudo,



		conta com o tempo, suas gotas



		contra o ferro inútil, viúvo.



		E um dia os canhões de ferro,



		sua tesão vã, dedos duros,



		se renderão ante o tempo



		e seu discurso, ou decurso:



		ele fará, com seu pingo



		inestancável e surdo,



		que se abracem, se penetrem,



		se possuam, ferro e musgo.







		Fort Orange, Itamaracá



		The rough stone of war,



		its rugged, granitic grain,



		was besieged and overrun



		by moss and mistletoe.



		Next to the stone which time



		erodes, beating like a pulse,



		the uneroded cannon metal



		seems eternal, absolute.



		But the punctual trickling



		of time penetrates all;



		even if not felt, its pulse



		continues its pointed beating,



		and the vegetal guerrillas



		can count on time’s trickle



		in their silent infiltration



		against the widowed iron.



		And one day the hard fingers,



		the cannons’ vain rigidity,



		will also surrender to time



		and its rhetoric, its regularity;



		trickling, unheard and unchecked,



		it will force them to embrace,



		penetrate and possess



		each other, iron and moss.







		A voz do coqueiral



		O coqueiral tem seu idioma:



		não o de lâmina, é voz redonda:



		é em curvas sua reza longa,



		decerto aprendida das ondas,



		cujo sotaque é o da sua fala,



		côncava, curva, abaulada:



		dicção do mar com que convive



		na vida alísia do Recife.







		The Voice of the Coconut Grove



		The language of the coconut grove



		is not of the blade but round:



		in curves it voices its long prayer,



		which it must have learned from the waves,



		whose accent, like its speech,



		is concave, curved, arched:



		diction of the sea with which it lives



		the wind-whipped life of Recife.







		A escola das facas



		O alísio ao chegar ao Nordeste



		baixa em coqueirais, canaviais;



		cursando as folhas laminadas,



		se afia em peixeiras, punhais.



		Por isso, sobrevoada a Mata,



		suas mãos, antes fêmeas, redondas,



		ganham a fome e o dente da faca



		com que sobrevoa outras zonas.



		O coqueiro e a cana lhe ensinam,



		sem pedra-mó, mas faca a faca,



		como voar o Agreste e o Sertão:



		mão cortante e desembainhada.







		The School of Knives



		On reaching the Northeast the trade wind



		sweeps through coconut and cane fields;



		coursing through the green blades,



		it whets itself on cleavers, on daggers.



		Flying over the fertile Mata,



		its hands, which were round and female,



		acquire the appetite and teeth of knives,



		with which it flies over other regions.



		The coconut tree and cane stalk teach it,



		not with the grindstone but knife to knife,



		how to fly through the Sertão backlands,



		sharp hand drawn and ready to strike.







		Barra do Sirinhaém







		1



		Se alguém se deixa, se deita,



		numa praia do Nordeste,



		ao sempre vento de leste,



		mais que se deixa, se deita,



		se se entrega inteiro ao mar,



		se fecha o corpo, se isola



		dentro da própria gaiola



		e menos que existe, está;



		se além disso a brisa alísia



		que o mar sopra (ou sopra o mar)



		faça com que o coqueiral



		entoe sua única sílaba:



		esse alguém pode que ouvisse,



		assim cortado, e vazio,



		no seu só estar-se, o assovio



		do tempo a fluir, seu fluir-se.







		2



		Se alguém se deixa, se deita,



		numa praia do Nordeste



		ao sempre vento de leste;



		mais que se deita, se deixa,



		sente com o corpo que a terra



		roda redonda em seu eixo,



		pois que pode sentir mesmo



		que as suas pernas se elevam,



		que há um subir do horizonte,



		que mais alto que a cabeça



		seu corpo também se eleva,



		vem sobre ele o mar mais longe.



		Essas praias permitem



		que o corpo sinta seu tempo,



		o espaço no rodar lento,



		sua vida como vertigem.







		The Sandbank at Sirinhaém







		1



		If you let go and you lie down



		under the steady eastern wind



		of a beach in Northeast Brazil,



		more than letting go, you lie;



		if you give yourself up to the sea,



		your body closes in, isolates



		itself inside its own cage,



		and less than existing, you are;



		if furthermore the trade wind



		stirred by the sea (or stirring it)



		makes the coconut trees



		intone their single syllable,



		you may be able to hear,



		in this detached and empty



		state, just being, the whistling



		of time flowing, your flowing.







		2



		If you let go and you lie down



		under the steady eastern wind



		of a beach in Northeast Brazil,



		more than lying, you let go,



		you feel with your body that



		the Earth turns round your axis,



		and you can even feel



		that your legs are lifting,



		that the horizon is rising,



		that higher than your mind



		your body also rises,



		covered by the furthest sea.



		These beaches make it possible



		for the body to feel its time,



		space in its slow turning,



		your life as revolution.







		A cana-de-açúcar menina



		A cana-de-açúcar, tão pura,



		se recusa, viva, a estar nua:



		desde cedo, saias folhudas



		milvestem-lhe a perna andaluza.



		É tão andaluza em si mesma



		que cresce promíscua e honesta:



		cresce em noviça, sem carinhos,



		sem flores, cantos, passarinhos.







		Sugarcane Girl



		Sugarcane is too virtuous



		to be seen, alive, in the nude:



		leafy skirts from a young age dress



		and re-dress her Andalusian leg.



		Because she is so Andalusian,



		she grows up promiscuous and pure:



		as a novice, without caresses,



		without songs or birds or flowers.







		A cana e o século dezoito



		A cana-de-açúcar, tão mais velha,



		que o século dezoito, é que o expressa.



		A cana é pura enciclopedista,



		no geométrico, no ser-de-dia,



		na incapacidade de dar sombras,



		mal-assombrados, coisas medonhas,



		no gosto das várzeas ventiladas,



		das cabeleiras bem penteadas,



		de certa esbelteza linear,



		porte incapaz de se desleixar,



		e que vivendo em mares, anônima,



		nunca se entremela como as ondas:



		mas guardam a elegância pessoal,



		postura e compostura formal,



		muito embora exposta à devassada



		luz sem pudor, sem muros, de várzea.







		Sugarcane and the Eighteenth Century



		Much older than the eighteenth century,



		sugarcane can tell its history.



		Sugarcane is a pure encyclopedist



		in its fondness for daytime and geometry,



		in its refusal to make shadows,



		frightful things, phantoms,



		in its taste for lowlands well aired,



		for well-combed heads of hair,



		for a certain linear grace,



		a bearing that’s never careless;



		and living by the sea it remains



		anonymous, never making waves.



		But it has an elegance all its own,



		a sense of proportion, a formal pose,



		despite its exposure to the wide-open,



		unwalled, shameless light of the lowlands.










from Agrestes / Rough & Rude 1985

		O nada que é



		Um canavial tem a extensão



		ante a qual todo metro é vão.



		Tem o escancarado do mar



		que existe para desafiar



		que números e seus afins



		possam prendê-lo nos seus sins.



		Ante um canavial a medida



		métrica é de todo esquecida,



		porque embora todo povoado



		povoa-o o pleno anonimato



		que dá esse efeito singular:



		de um nada prenhe como o mar.







		The Nothing That Is



		A sugarcane field is so vast



		that all measures of it are vain.



		It has the sea’s unending



		wide-openness, defying



		numbers and their ilk



		to trap it in their assertions.



		In the canefield one forgets



		to measure anything at all,



		for although it is populous,



		its population is anonymous,



		making it resemble a pregnancy



		of nothingness, like the sea’s.







		Bancos & catedrais



		Quando de carro comigo



		por Sevilha, Andaluzia,



		passando por cada igreja,



		recolhida, te benzias.



		Pela larga Andaluzia



		ninguém se engana de igreja:



		amplas paredes caiadas



		com portais pardos, de pedra.



		Contudo, quando comigo



		pela Vila de Madrid



		notei que tu te benzias



		passando o que, para ti,



		lembrava vulto de igreja.



		O que era monumental



		fazia-te imaginar:



		eis mais outra catedral.



		Sem querer, não te enganavas:



		se não eram catedrais



		eram matrizes de bancos,



		o verbo de onde as filiais.



		Só erravas pela metade



		benzendo-te em frente a bancos;



		quem sabe foram construídos



		para lucrar desse engano?







		Banks & Cathedrals



		Traveling with me by car



		through Seville, in Andalusia,



		before every church we passed



		you quietly crossed yourself.



		Nowhere in Andalusia



		could a church ever be mistaken;



		all have broad, whitewashed walls



		with doorways of gray stone.



		But when we were in the city



		Madrid, I noticed you still



		crossed yourself each time



		we passed what to your mind



		recalled the form of a church.



		The monumental features



		made you think immediately:



		ah! another cathedral.



		You were not far off the mark,



		for although not cathedrals



		they were central banks,



		the Word from which the branches.



		You were only half in error



		to cross yourself before banks.



		Weren’t they built in the first place



		to profit from that mistake?







		Homenagem renovada a Marianne Moore



		Cruzando desertos de frio



		que a pouca poesia não ousa,



		chegou ao extremo da poesia



		quem caminhou, no verso, em prosa.



		E então mostrou, sem pregação,



		com a razão de sua obra pouca,



		que a poesia não é de dentro,



		que é como casa, que é de fora;



		que embora se viva de dentro



		se há de construir, que é uma coisa



		que quem faz faz para fazer-se



		— muleta para a perna coxa.







		Renewed Homage to Marianne Moore



		Crossing deserts of coldness



		which slight poetry will not risk,



		she who walked through verse



		in prose arrived at poetry’s limit.



		She was able to show, without preaching,



		by the reason of her spare work,



		that poetry is not on the inside



		but is, like a house, something outside,



		and before one lives inside it



		it must be built — this something



		one makes to make oneself able,



		this crutch for the one who is lame.







		A água da areia



		Podem a ablução, os muçulmanos,



		com areia, se não têm água;



		fazem da areia um outro líquido,



		eficaz igual no que lava.



		A areia pode lavar neles



		qualquer espécie de pecado;



		na ablução ela flui como a água,



		dissolve o mal mais empedrado.







		Sandwater



		Muslims may perform their ablutions



		with sand when there is no water;



		they treat the sand as another liquid



		just as effective for their washings.



		The sand is able to wash



		any kind of sin from their souls;



		for ablutions it flows like water,



		dissolving evils as hard as stone.







		No Páramo



		No Páramo, passada Riobamba,



		a quatro mil metros de altura,



		a geografia do Chimborazo



		entra em coma: está surda e muda.



		A grama não é grama, é musgo;



		e a luz é de lã, não de agulha:



		é a luz pálida, sonolenta,



		de um sol roncolho, quase lua.







		In the Páramo



		In the Páramo, past Riobamba,



		some fourteen thousand feet high,



		the geography of Chimborazo



		goes into coma, deaf and mute.



		The grass isn’t grass, it’s moss,



		and the light has no needles, it’s woolen:



		it is the pallid, somnolent light



		of a castrated sun, almost moon.







		A cama e um automóvel



		Morrer é andar de automóvel:



		tem todas as marchas, tem breques,



		e o motor que vai mansamente



		pode que sem mais se acelere



		para cumprir o diagnóstico



		de algum doutor acelerado



		que previu a morte a tal hora,



		ela, que se é certa é sem prazo.



		Se demora, a morte é a viagem



		de automóvel liso na estrada:



		a cama do doente é o automóvel:



		viaja sem chegar, sem mapas.







		The Bed and the Car



		Death is like riding in a car:



		it has various gears, and brakes,



		and the softly running motor



		can unexpectedly accelerate



		the fatal diagnosis of a doctor



		who spoke too quickly when he set



		a day for death, which, even if



		imminent, obeys no schedule.



		When it delays, death is an outing



		on the highway in a smooth-riding car,



		the sickbed is the car, traveling



		without maps, and without ever arriving.







		Direito à morte



		Viver é poder ter consigo



		certo passaporte no bolso



		que dá direito a sair dela,



		com bala ou veneno moroso.



		Ele faz legal o que quer



		sem policiais e sem lamentos:



		fechar a vida como porta



		contra um fulano ou contra o vento;



		fazer, num dia que foi posto



		na mesa em toalha de linho,



		fazer de seu vivo esse morto,



		de um golpe, ou gole, do mais limpo.







		Right to Death



		To live is to be able to carry



		a passport in one’s pocket



		that confers the right to get out,



		with a bullet or a slow poison.



		It makes it legal to act



		without policemen or laments:



		to shut life as one shuts a door



		to the wind or an unwanted visitor;



		to make of one’s life (on the day



		this passport is placed



		on the linen-covered table) a corpse,



		with a clean sharp bang, or swallow.







		Questão de pontuação



		Todo mundo aceita que ao homem



		cabe pontuar a própria vida:



		que viva em ponto de exclamação



		(dizem: tem alma dionisíaca);



		viva em ponto de interrogação



		(foi filosofia, ora é poesia);



		viva equilibrando-se entre vírgulas



		e sem pontuação (na política):



		o homem só não aceita do homem



		que use a só pontuação fatal:



		que use, na frase que ele vive



		o inevitável ponto final.







		A Question of Punctuation



		No one rejects man’s right



		to punctuate his own life —



		to live as an exclamation mark



		(they say he has a Dionysian heart),



		or to live as a question mark



		(formerly philosophy, now poetry),



		or to balance oneself between commas



		without final punctuation (politics);



		man only rejects that a man



		himself write the fatal mark —



		affixing to the sentence of his person



		the inevitable period, period.










from Crime na Calle Relator / Crime on the Calle Relator 1987

		O ferrageiro de Carmona



		Um ferrageiro de Carmona



		que me informava de um balcão:



		“Aquilo? É de ferro fundido,



		foi a fôrma que fez, não a mão.



		Só trabalho em ferro forjado



		que é quando se trabalha ferro;



		então, corpo a corpo com ele,



		domo-o, dobro-o, até o onde quero.



		O ferro fundido é sem luta,



		é só derramá-lo na fôrma.



		Não há nele a queda-de-braço



		e o cara-a-cara de uma forja.



		Existe grande diferença



		do ferro forjado ao fundido;



		é uma distância tão enorme



		que não pode medir-se a gritos.



		Conhece a Giralda em Sevilha?



		Decerto subiu lá em cima.



		Reparou nas flores de ferro



		dos quatro jarros das esquinas?



		Pois aquilo é ferro forjado.



		Flores criadas numa outra língua.



		Nada têm das flores de fôrma



		moldadas pelas das campinas.



		Dou-lhe aqui humilde receita,



		ao senhor que dizem ser poeta:



		o ferro não deve fundir-se



		nem deve a voz ter diarréia.



		Forjar: domar o ferro à força,



		não até uma flor já sabida,



		mas ao que pode até ser flor



		se flor parece a quem o diga.”







		The Ironware Shop in Carmona



		In an ironware shop in Carmona



		the man at the counter answered me:



		“That thing there? It’s cast iron,



		made by a mold, not the hand.



		“I only work in forged iron,



		the kind of iron that’s wrought;



		body against body I subdue it,



		bending it into what I want.



		“Cast iron requires no struggle:



		you just pour it in the mold,



		without any of the face-to-face



		or arm-wrestle of a forge.



		“There’s a vast difference



		between cast iron and forged;



		the distance is so great



		that no shouting can bridge it.



		“Do you know the Giralda in Seville?



		No doubt you climbed to the top.



		And did you notice the iron flowers



		in the vases on all four corners?



		“Well, they are made of forged iron.



		Flowers created in another language.



		Not at all like cast-iron flowers



		molded after those of the fields.



		“Let me give a bit of advice



		to you whom they call a poet:



		iron should never be cast,



		nor your voice be diarrhea.



		“Forge your iron; shape it by force,



		not into a flower you already know



		but into what can also be a flower



		if you think it is and say it is so.”










Notes


A Few Matadors

Manuel Rodríguez, “Manolete,” perhaps the most legendary matador of the twentieth century, was born in Córdoba in 1917 and died, gored, in 1947.




The Word Silk

Although the Portuguese word for silk, seda, seems like it could be related to sedante, “sedative” (third stanza), in fact there is no etymological connection.




Yes Against Yes

Only the first half the poem is included here. Two more poets — Portugal’s Cesário Verde and Brazil’s Augusto dos Anjos — and two more painters — Juan Gris and Jean Dubuffet — are considered in the second half.




Rivers for a Day

The Sertão is the arid and impoverished hinterland of Northeast Brazil.




Psychoanalysis of Sugar

In primitive, unmechanized sugar mills, clay was added to the sugar as part of the bleaching process.




The Kingdoms of Yellow

The Mata is the fertile coastal region of Pernambuco where sugarcane is grown. In the fourth line of the second stanza, the word sarro does not mean “pus” but refers to the white coating (or “fur”) on the tongue resulting from hunger or sickness.




Fort Orange, Itamaracá

Itamaracá is an island off the coast of Pernambuco.




The Sandbank at Sirinhaém

The Sirinhaém is a river that empties into the Atlantic in southern Pernambuco.




In the Páramo

Chimborazo is the highest mountain (20,561 feet) in Ecuador, where the poet served as the Ambassador of Brazil from 1979 to 1982.




Afterword


“A stone is a stone is a stone” could not be a poem by João Cabral de Melo Neto, but it could be an epigraph to his poetry, a notice at the gates that the language within is plain and direct and that the subject matter is mineral, touchable, weighable, thingish. A stone is preferable to a rose for the simple reason that it is harder. This poet never liked what was easy. In “The Unconfessing Artist” he recognized that doing something is as useless as not doing anything, yet he insisted that it’s better to do. Why? Because it’s harder than not doing. It was only hard things like stones that held any poetic attraction for João Cabral. He considered poems made out of flowers to be, at best, a redundancy. Whereas poems made out of what’s harsh, rugged and lifeless might add a new sliver of something — perhaps beauty — to the world and might even, in a slight way, change how we see.

Stones have no fragrance, but they are heavy with substance and endure. João Cabral, whose second book was titled The Engineer, wanted each of his poem-building words to “weigh as much as the thing it tells.” By fusing “the loose word” to “the body of its referent,” it would become, according to the “Catechism” he attributed to Berceo (p. 201), the first poet known by name to have written in Spanish, “a solid, dense thing, / able to clash with the one next to it.”

Yet another quality of stone, besides its hardness and resilience, is its sheer and utter stoniness. What you see is what it is, the same material throughout. There is no “inner stone” to probe, ponder, or dress with theories. João Cabral was suspicious of whatever was invisible. He was not a strict materialist, but he preferred solid matter, because it is surer, clearer, and common to all. When he was 32 years old he published an essay criticizing the Brazilian poetry of his own generation for being “made of super-realities, made with exclusive parts of man,” with no greater ambition than “to communicate extremely subtle details, for which the only useful writer’s tool is the lightest and most abstract part of the dictionary.” Cabral preferred “the prosaic word” that is “heavy with reality, dirty with the coarse realities of the outside world.”

One possible explanation for João Cabral’s poetic preference is simple: he was writing out of what he knew. His education by stone was the one he received growing up in Northeast Brazil, the country’s poorest region, largely taken up by the dry and desolate hinterland known as the Sertão. João Cabral was not from the interior but from Recife, on the coast, where thousands of Sertanejos (people from the Sertão) poured in during the drought years. To get there, many of the migrants would follow the path of the Capibaribe River, settling along its shores when at last they reached the city outskirts. The Capibaribe and the poor who inhabit its banks became recurring and indissociable topics in Cabral’s poetry. So destitute were these people — destitute of material means and of any real hope — that their existence was almost wholly defined by the muddy river, making it hard to know “where man (…) begins from the mud” or even “where man begins / in that man” (The Dog without Feathers). If there was any lingering consciousness in this dehumanizing environment, it belonged not to man but to the river, credited with knowing how the river dwellers “wither / even beyond / their deepest rubble.” Rubble — crushed stone — in place of a soul.

Another long poem, O Rio (1954; The River), was narrated by the Capibaribe itself, being a chronicle of the journey it makes from its source to Recife, the capital of Pernambuco, passing first through barren country where the inhabitants “arm themselves / with the qualities of stone” in order to fight against it, and continuing through the coastal region known as the Mata, where sugarcane is grown.

It was on the family’s sugar plantations that João Cabral spent his early childhood and received much of his tough “education.” However green and lush the Mata may be, life for those who cut and milled the sugarcane was as gray and meager as in the arid Sertão. A son of privilege, João Cabral never suffered any privation, but he saw it close up, every day, and he remembered what he saw. In the evening the sugar mill workers would gather around and hear the little boy recite popular verse narratives, published in pamphlet form and sold in the marketplace. This kind of versified storytelling — traceable to the narrative poetry traditions of medieval Iberia — became the major vehicle for what could be called Cabral’s “socially engaged” poetry. If this term is used here with reservations, it is because the poet himself never employed any such epithet. The great originality of his poetry in this vein is its absolute objectivity, not only in its dispassion but also in the way it objectifies the poem’s subject.

In “Party at the Manor House,” the plantation owners and their politician friends talk about the sugar mill workers as subhuman creatures, hardly distinguishable from the sugar which is the beginning, middle and end of their exploited lives. Like the poor of Recife who stagnate along the banks of the Capibaribe River, the sugar mill workers have no inner “spiritual man” that can remain untouched by the condition that defines them. The twenty stanzas of this poem amount to a biology of their species, matter-of-factly described “in child form,” “in female form,” “in the form of an old man,” and so forth. In fact there is no “engagement” with the mill worker’s condition. The poet merely reports; let the reader react. Cabral’s childhood contact with those workers, acting as a vaccine (see “Plantation Boy”), gave him a permanent immunity to facile emotional responses. His poetry displays no pity, and hence no condescension.

João Cabral moved with his family to Recife when he was ten years old, and in his late teens he began to frequent the Café Lafayette, where the city’s intellectuals met. A voracious reader, he was especially fond of certain French authors, including Mallarmé and Valéry. He was twenty years old when he met Murilo Mendes and Carlos Drummond de Andrade, probably the two Brazilian poets who most influenced his work, and they helped him publish his first book, Stone of Sleep, in 1942. The poetic images in these early poems were taken from the world of sleep and dreams or else were wrapped in a dreamy, surrealist aura, but the young poet treated them as hard objects, organizing them with careful deliberation, like a cubist his ensemble of fragmented shapes. One of the poems pays homage to Picasso in his cubist period, and another to the surrealist André Masson. Painting was a lifelong passion of Cabral, who published a book-length essay on Joan Miró in 1950. Mondrian was another painter he held in special regard.

Shortly after his first book was published, João Cabral moved to Rio de Janeiro, and in 1945 he was admitted into the Brazilian foreign service. In that same year he published The Engineer, which set in place his definitive program of poetry as lucid construction. The engineer of the title poem has a dream, but it is of “clear things: / surfaces, tennis, a glass of water” and is surrounded by “light, sun, and the open air.” If poetry in his first book still depended on inspiration from dreams, now it is the fruit of sleepless nights during which the poet agonizes before a blank sheet of paper to generate a mere twenty words to be used

in his efficient machine.

Always the same twenty words

he knows so well: how they work,

their evaporation, their density

less than the air’s.

(“The Lesson of Poetry”)

Those twenty words mark the limits of inspiration; even if the poet produces more words, they still weigh less than air. But Cabral will put them into his poem-machine, where they will become the indispensable components of taut, interlocking verse structures. Eschewing verbal effusion and the piling on of images, he exploited to exhaustion the single word, the single image: water, wind, knife, stone. From their being used so insistently and in such varying formulations, these words acquired functional weight and substance, independent of whatever weight their literal meaning carried.

In “Antiode,” published in 1947, the poet tells how he rejected the word “flower” in favor of the unpoetical “feces.” To rehabilitate the flower for use in poetry, he had to strip away all its lyrical overlay, reducing it to a “verse / inscribed in verse,” an “explosion / made to work / like a machine, / a vase of flowers.” In a process analogous to the Freudian sublimation of sexual energy into the creative forces of civilization, Cabral reined in direct emotion as well as aesthetic or intellectual exaltation, harnessing their energy to generate his smooth-running poetry, which depended not so much on the words — or flowers, emotions, images, ideas — themselves, but on their dynamic arrangement. The machine functioned on its own, with no need for the reader to relate to the man who created it.

This freeing of the poem from the poet has its price. The relationship with the author created by a well-made poetry of personal confession or remembrance will more easily captivate and move the average reader. The resolute impersonality of Cabral’s work — in which the word “I” rarely occurs — puts a heavy burden on technical accomplishment, and demands readers who appreciate that accomplishment. “Impersonal” does not mean “unfeeling,” however. The poet’s rigorous configurations placed words in a state of high tension capable of provoking, at certain moments, emotions of a rare order, and these were by no means an accidental by-product of his art. According to Cabral, his constructivist approach to poetry owed its greatest debt not to any of the writers and painters he admired but to Le Corbusier, whose theoretical works he had read already as a teenager. But if the Swiss architect’s most famous proposal was to see a house as a “machine à habiter” (machine to inhabit), Cabral chose another phrase of Le Corbusier for the epigraph to The Engineer: “machine à émouvoir” (machine for stirring emotion).

In 1947 João Cabral took up his first foreign post, as the Brazilian vice-consul in Barcelona. Over the next forty years he held posts in England, Spain, France, Switzerland, Paraguay, Senegal (where he rose to the rank of ambassador in 1972), Ecuador, Honduras, and Portugal. All left explicit traces in his poetry, but Spain — where he spent a total of fourteen years, in Barcelona, Madrid and Seville — became the second geographical pole around which his poetry flourished. This was not a pole of opposition but one that echoed, in a European register, Cabral’s native Pernambuco. The relative socioeconomic backwardness of Franco-ruled Spain, the arid, harshly lit landscapes of Castile, and the stark essentiality of Andalusia’s cante hondo, the singing style typical of flamenco, had their counterparts in Northeast Brazil, which — perhaps not by chance — was never a theme in Cabral’s poetry until he went to Spain.

The reciprocal relationship of the two regions is demonstrated in Landscapes with Figures (1956), where there is a pendular shift of geographical setting from one poem to the next (in the full-length work). This alternation between Pernambuco and Spain would occur throughout the rest of the poet’s career, sometimes within a single collection and sometimes on a larger scale, with entire books set in or evoking one or the other of the two places. Landscapes also set the technical parameters of Cabral’s most typical machine mold: sixteen of the eighteen poems are built out of quatrains, and perfect or assonantal rhyme (more frequently the latter) is employed throughout in an abcb scheme. And the machine worked. Cabral put almost nothing into it and managed to pull out stunning poems. The landscapes are all bleak or empty — three cemeteries, the “anonymous, plainfaced” sugarcane field, a “place in La Mancha / where the Castilian plain is hardest,” the “almost static” Capibaribe flowing through Recife’s “sclerosis and cement” — and the figures that inhabit them mostly dead or destitute; but the poet was able to find or create life in these desolate scenes.

Uma Faca Só Lâmina (1956; A Knife All Blade) was Cabral’s most technically brilliant poem-machine. Three words, or images, or metaphors — a knife, a clock, and a bullet — weave in and around and in place of each other over the course of 352 verses, divided into eleven sections of eight stanzas with four lines containing seven syllables each. Perhaps because he realized that this poem smacked of an exercice de style, he published it and Landscapes with Figures in a book that also contained a lower-tension, higher-access poetry. Titled Duas Águas (Two Waters) and including both new and older works, the book’s subtitle indicated the two broad divisions of Cabral’s entire poetic output: Poetry of Reflective Concentration and Poetry for Wider Audiences. The latter category encompassed Cabral’s long narrative poems — The Dog without Feathers and O Rio — and the previously unpublished Morte e Vida Severina (Death and Life of a Severino), a verse drama. A staged version of this new work, with music by singer and composer Chico Buarque, won prizes in Brazil and France in 1966 and brought international renown to Cabral. “There are many of us Severinos / all with the very same life,” explains the protagonist, an archetype of the desperate Sertanejo who migrates to Recife from the drought-scourged Sertão.

This, Cabral’s most popular work, was not one he cherished, judging it less well crafted than others. But it served, in his overall production, as an antidote to the danger that “work can become exercise, an activity performed for its own sake” and leading ultimately to “the death of communication.” Cabral followed up this warning, issued in a lecture delivered in 1952, with an indictment of poets who don’t take into consideration their readers, “the essential counterpart to the activity of creating literature.” A poet’s richness, he argued, “can only originate in reality.” Death and Life of a Severino, in keeping with the implied agenda, was grounded in the reality of Pernambuco not only thematically but formally, for it picked up on a local tradition of verse plays accompanied by music and dancing.

Cabral’s more rigorously constructed work, his “poetry of reflective concentration,” reached its highest level of achievement in the 1960s, with the publication of Four Spot (1960), Serial (1961) and Education by Stone (1966). Although the poet claimed to be indifferent to music, the title of the second book recalls the serial technique of dodecaphonic composers, and the arrangement of its component parts lives up to the ideal. Obsessively driven by the number four, the book’s sixteen poems all have four parts consisting exclusively of quatrains. In the first poem each part has two quatrains; in the second poem, four quatrains; in the third poem, six quatrains; in the fourth poem, eight. The series repeats, occurring four times in all. Education by Stone, on the other hand, is a kind of poetic equivalent in verse to Bach’s 48 Preludes and Fugues. Its forty-eight poems — all of which contain either sixteen or twenty-four verses divided into two parts of varying length — are formulated like theorems whose truth is tested by antithesis. Counterpoint abounds, with frequent syntactic and semantic inversions, and the second part of each poem is usually a corollary, an analogue, or mirror version of the first part.

The play of oppositions is greatest in “The Sea and the Canefield” and “The Canefield and the Sea.” The first line of the first poem, “What the sea learns from the canefield,” is negatively restated in the fifth line, “What the sea doesn’t learn from the canefield,” and then inverted in the first line of the second part, “What the canefield learns from the sea,” which is in turn negatively restated in the fifth line. The poem’s sixteen verses are all repeated in the inversely titled poem, “The Canefield and the Sea,” but in different order, and with the verb “learn from” being replaced by its linguistic counterpart, “teach.” The most famous poem in this collection, “Weaving the Morning,” uses the interconnected cries of cocks crowing at dawn as a metaphor for the human solidarity that enables each day to take shape and proceed smoothly.

The intricately woven poems of Education by Stone are Cabral’s best demonstration of how words, things and people are inextricably connected, and of how it is possible to highlight, reinforce and augment those connections, thereby increasing meaning in language and in life itself. What João Cabral ultimately wanted to offer his readers was not finished poetic products but their example, their lesson, an education in how to make words into stones useful — and used — for building. His ideal for his verbal edifices is expressed in “Tale of an Architect,” where architecture is conceived as the construction not of walls but of openness, with houses consisting exclusively of doors (“doors-leading-to, never doors-against”) and a sheltering roof.

It is hard to imagine how Cabral’s poetry could have developed any further as architecture or engineering, and the poet did not attempt a repeat performance of his achievement but chose instead to explore other paths. The eighty poems of Catchall Museum (1975) were, as the title suggests, a diversified miscellany, with themes ranging from Mauritania to Proust to soccer (Cabral was a champion player as an adolescent), but close to half of the compositions comment on writers and artists in epigrammatic fashion.

In 1980 The School of Knives, set entirely in Pernambuco and based largely on childhood reminiscences, surprised everyone with its unprecedented autobiographical content. We are still in school, but now the subject is the lesson of his upbringing, and the knives of the title mean something different from what they once did. In A Knife All Blade the knife represented linguistic incisiveness and sharpness of vision, as it did in the poem “Yes Against Yes,” where it served as a writing instrument for Marianne Moore and Francis Ponge, two of the poets Cabral held up as models of compositional precision. In his 1980 work the knife became the razor-sharp leaf of sugarcane (in the title poem) as well as the scar-inflicting sickle of his childhood on sugar plantations (in “Plantation Boy”). The engineer’s principles were still at work but had been internalized, and the new cutting edge — made of memory and milieu — conferred a more intimate tone on the poems.

True to his own program but again taking everyone by surprise, João Cabral returned to “poetry for wider audiences” in 1984 with the publication of Auto do Frade (The Friar), which tells the last day in the life of Frei Caneca, who was sent to his death by the Portuguese court in 1825 for spreading republican ideas and for his role in the Pernambuco revolutionary movement of the previous year. Consisting of seven dialogues between the condemned Carmelite friar and the people of Recife who make up the chorus, it packed the same dramatic force as his first verse play, Death and Life of a Severino, and was poetically superior.

The title Agrestes (1985) means “rough, wild, rustic”; it also alludes to the semiarid, rocky region of Northeast Brazil known as the Agreste and situated between the Mata (on the coast) and the Sertão (in the interior). This compendium of ninety poems forms a kind of inside-out autobiography, the negative of a missing photo, in which the author reveals himself obliquely, through the topics he addresses. It begins with poems about Pernambuco, particularly childhood visions of it, and ends with poems that comment on death in Cabral’s customarily detached fashion. In between there are poems about places where he served as a diplomat — West Africa, Ecuador, and Spain — and about his favorite writers and artists, including Valéry, Paul Klee, W. H. Auden, Elizabeth Bishop, and Marianne Moore, this last being the subject of three poems. In “Renewed Homage to Marianne Moore,” Cabral characterized the American poet’s concept of poetry as a crutch for a lame leg, as something that is created not to express what one has but to substitute for what he or she is missing. This recalls a distinction Cabral made, in an interview published in 1974, between “crutch poets” and poets he called “bleeders.” Writing, for the bleeders, is an overflow of their intense inner feeling, whereas crutch poets write to make up for what they do not feel, at least not in a spontaneous, emotional way.

In 1987, with the publication of Crime na Calle Relator (Crime on the Calle Relator), Cabral’s poetry shifted in yet another direction, toward storytelling. The sixteen poems that make up the collection narrate tales and anecdotes culled from his own experience or from what he learned secondhand. Half of the stories are set in Spain, and Cabral’s last collection was dedicated entirely to Spain, or rather, to his favorite city there or anywhere: Seville. Cabral may have been a “crutch poet,” but Seville brought out a bit of the “bleeder” in him. Which isn’t to say that his poetry became a mere outpouring of heartfelt sentiment, for it was the very sparseness of expression and economy of gestures that Cabral admired in certain bullfighters, in the “cante a palo seco” (a severe, a cappella style of singing), and in flamenco dancing. But the world of Andalusia aroused an exuberance in Cabral that was otherwise rare. Flamenco music was the only kind he ever admitted to liking, and the women he loved were Sevillian, even if they had never lived there and had no Spanish blood. The leadoff poem of his last book, Sevilha Andando (Seville Walking), published in 1989, is titled “The Woman from Seville Who Didn’t Know It” and pays homage to his very Brazilian second wife, the poet Marly de Oliveira. (His first wife, Stella Maria Barbosa de Oliveira, died in 1986; the couple had five children.) Women and Seville were frequent poetic subjects as far back as Four Spot, though they tended to function as tropes. In Seville Walking, Cabral delighted in them directly and sensually.

Reading Cabral’s last two books, we might suspect that he never really needed a crutch; that instead of making all those constructivist, thinglike poems to fill up an inner void, he could simply have spent more time in Seville, which drew out hidden, perhaps repressed facets of his personality. But we might as readily suspect that the city that had such a liberating effect on this poet was not the Seville that lies north of Cádiz and west of Córdoba but the Seville he invented, word-stone by word-stone, over several decades of his writing life.

Whatever the case, the world João Cabral re-created in poetry — a kind of verbal reconstitution of what is — will endure for a long time, both as a highly original artistic monument and as an invaluable didactic example. He has shown us a new way to make poetry and, what is more, a new way to see things. More modestly but no less importantly, he has directed our vision to certain plain and concrete things that we might never have stopped to consider before. “A stone is a stone is a stone” could not have been a João Cabral poem, but it could have been the conclusion to a poem, or to his entire poetic enterprise — hard and heavy, like everything real.

Richard Zenith, 2004