Playing the Wiseman

 

Sometimes we should lie a little, just as the song says, “die a little”. It would be for a good cause, the one of not burdening our dear ones with our own burden. I’m thinking here of Italo Calvino’s concept of lightness in literature, in art in general, maybe even in daily life, in his Six Memos for the Next Millennium (which is this one). Avoiding the perceptive world to turn into stone, we would keep our own stones in our pockets instead of throwing them into the lake of life. But what is this that is scrubbing against my leg as I walk, some drops of blood already soaking the pocket? How large can pockets be made? How do you cure the invisible wounds of friction? Sometimes these stones must be cast hopefully not at another stone bearer, but into that lake, with gentleness, as the gentle ripples will subsequently form and fade. Not much of a mess. A splash, a frog will leap and dive, startled. A fish will proudly present his bump on the head for the delight of the entire shoal of non-tetrapod chordates. What else can we do with these stones of pocket philosophy?

 

But that boulder up there near the cliff’s edge is highly tempting. With a bit of help and some basic engineering, we might dry off this lake down here in one go.

 

 

 

I will never tell you

I will never tell you

my fingertips’ skin woke up

playing the imaginary drum

of your skin over skeleton,

the bone flute of spine,

striking an electric string

of desire, and another,

until its dreamy sound faded.

 

It is springtime in me;

reverberation of flowers,

birds and their migration—

It turns poets into cheap seducers

of flying words.

 

And you will not know

because

some mystery is of essence,

faint as pollen,

unattainable as a Grail,

to fertilize the thinking grounds

where I like to hunt.

 

 

 

 

Again (...) / Again (...) – Martin Solotruk

Again in the open air

Again before setting up a household

 

 

Indeed some evenings we pray

almost half

naked to the waist, we think ourselves into one another.

 

… and we remain alone while among us

a drop bounces,

something like a mutual experience,

 

it gnarls us together

into a single fruit

that only a virgin could ever

abort;

all the used cutlery is cleared away,

there’s still the chance to talk

eye to eye

to resume the mutually felt

teeming

everywhere bellow – to the limits of visibility,

which is nothing reflected back

of a view from the outside in.

 

Where pyjama-clad children have yet to play

on all fours on the floor…

 

we’ll see later

 

since after the carousels there are more coincidences

 

and here, where the completion of a crevice ends,

a massif begins…

 

_________________

 

in A Fine Line – New Poetry from Eastern and Central Europe, Arc Publications, 2004

Translated from the original in Slovakian by the author and James Sutherland-Smith.

 

 

 

 

Why you shouldn’t trust Portuguese

 

Because the list of their delicatessens includes snails:

 

 

 

And also frog legs, cow brain and bull testicles.

This Spring I even prepared pickles out of some weed found near the ocean and which nobody eats anymore.

 

Similarly, you shouldn’t trust French. Escargots is just a fancy name for extra large snails. Do you see now why Le Pen got four million votes in the last election?

 

And now I’m waiting for you to provide us with a list of nationalities in which we should not trust on grounds of what they consider to be edible.

 

Maybe in the end we will be able to discern in whom we can trust. Hopefully not in McDonald’s clients.

 

 

 

Isaac Newton’s neighbour (adaptation of an original text by Felix Krivin)

 

Newton’s neighbour asked, ‘Hey, Isaac! How did you make your spectacular discovery, of which the whole world talks today?’

‘Well, it is very simple. It just hit me.’

Newton and the neighbour were standing in their backyards talking across the fence.

‘What hit you?’

‘An apple. It fell on my head from a branch under which I was sitting.’

‘An apple… From which tree was this branch? See, the branch that you were probably sitting under extends across the fence. The apple tree is actually in my backyard! I’ve seen you sit there many times!’

‘I honestly don’t know from which tree the branch was.’

      The next day, Newton gets home and makes his way towards his backyard, where he usually spent time pondering. Across the fence, he sees his neighbour sitting under the apple tree. Newton thought his neighbour was relaxing. But then he noticed something unusual. The branch from the apple tree was sawed off!

And so they sat, everyday. Newton’s neighbour under his tree, expecting an apple to fall on his head, and Newton under the sun! So Isaac did not have anything else to do but study and discover the properties of light.

 

 

Adapted from this source: http://library.thinkquest.org/C006094/lessons/serendipity.htm (worth having a look at, in my opinion).

 

 

What are the chances?

Some weeks ago, J.S. Porter, an Irish-Canadian future ex-teacher of literature, writer and poet, essayist and critic, father and dog's master, suggested that we both read a book in a way related to a topic the two of us are interested in, that of André Breton’s Nadja. I decided to get a copy in English of that other book so that we would be reading almost the same. I’m positive that when I read something in English I’m not experiencing it as a native speaker of the language would. And I’m also positive that that happens even when two native speakers read the same text. But that is sheer divagation.

Amazon.com.uk was the selected source for getting the book. By chance we ended up by purchasing the same edition. But that is still not the reason for giving such a title to this text.

One of my favourite writers is Bruce Chatwin. He dealt mainly with human restlessness. I’m afraid some of his topic matters will become obsolete as some new scientific data is uncovered. Nevertheless he writes with a smile that he probably lived with. There’s warmth, kindness in his descriptions of even the most ridicule of characters. I still haven’t read Chatwin’s biography so this is perhaps just pointless guessing.

Some months ago, I lent my favourite work by Chatwin, The Songlines. Knowing not if I’ll ever get it back, I decided to order at Amazon.com.uk a copy of an edition that included three of his best novels, along with Louis Aragon’s Paris Peasant — the book we’re supposed to read together but that has nothing to do with anything here, except for the fact that everything is interconnected. Considering only The Songlines, this is the third time I buy a copy. The previous two were lent and lost, lent and lost.

The copy I ordered was used but in excellent shape. Or was it? On the first page after the cover there was a dedicatory:

I’m still not sure, but I first read:

For Pupa

From Pupa

                        Amorzinho

The loving name of the person who offered the book at a first sight to himself or herself could also be Pupam, Pupum — I can’t figure it out for sure. Amorzinho is Portuguese for little love but, unlike most of the Portuguese nouns, it reveals not the gender.

It could have been written by any citizen of a Portuguese speaking country or even by a person who simply knew the language. I checked the package in which the book came. It was sent from the USA.

Today, while browsing the book, I found something stuck in between page 434 and 435, already a chapter of The Songlines:

It is a ticket from a movie theatre in Lisbon. Its price in the previous Portuguese currency, Escudos.

So tell me, if you please, what are the chances of ordering an used book in English and getting one shipped from the USA that was in Lisbon already and witnessed a love story even if one of self-love?

O Léxico Unificado

 

Na era da acessibilidade,

no auge do combate à desigualdade

deficiente, surge o movimento

anti muda consoante.

 

Querem unificar a língua

de vário povo bem espalhado

via novo acordo ortográfico.

 

Mas não se dá a unificação no afecto?

E a geografia, molda-se por outra força

que não a do intelecto?

 

Se fosse brasileiro, lutaria sem medo

e com eloquência por um trema;

que estremeça antes o que trama

o furto de fruto de cada História.

 

Nem em latim na missa

me quedarei genuflexo

ao vôo dum acento circunflexo.

 

Vinde, antepassada Voz phosphórica,

levada cada muda consoante,

mofar da larápia inteligência surda.

 

 

 

Encontro sem procuração

 

Que fazer com aqueles

que o acaso nos encontra

para pensarmos nele?

 

Ela lia um livro, frágil

mão esguia o sustentando,

em repouso do olho.

 

Mantinha-se sentada,

como quem evita derruir-se

ou vogar no oxigénio,

 

se fosse poder, a Vida,

de recombinar seres e éter.

 

 

 

 

Félix Lajkó and Magdolna Rúzsa

Gergö introduced me Lajkó, the Hungarian violin (et al) virtuoso. Now it seems that Magdolna Rúzsa is a recent star singer and, if I'm not mistaken, was found by those TV singing competitions -- correct me here! ;-) And this is a joint performance of those two.

Poema da Semana do Times Literary Supplement Online

 

O prazo para submissão de trabalhos ao Concurso de Poesia TLS / Foyles chegou ao fim. Os editores do periódico estarão ocupados durante a próxima quinzena com a preparação da lista final dos melhores poemas, da qual os leitores poderão escolher o vencedor e os finalistas. Os poemas da lista final também serão publicados no site do TLS.

 

A primeira vez que foi delegada autoridade nos leitores num concurso de poesia do TLS foi em 1986, quando escolheram o seguinte poema como vencedor do primeiro prémio:

 

 

 

Uma Amizade

 

Ele fez inquietas pilhagens

nos confins do nosso casamento.

Numa véspera de Natal, chegou tarde,

de cabelo escuro estaladiço de gelo,

e comeu o seu cravo de lapela

para divertir o bebé.

 

Quando tive a segunda criança,

ele veio aos pés da cama de madrugada,

trazendo ananases e champanhe,

sussurrando, "Estás acordada?" —

cantando uma tirada de ópera.

A enfermeira bateu-lhe no ombro.

 

No final, revezámo-nos à sua cabeceira.

Encaracolei-me na cadeira; escutei cada respiro

que se adiava indefinidamente.

Uma vez ele abriu os olhos, e eu debrucei-me:

"Há algo que tu queiras?"

"Agora é que ela pergunta," murmurou.

 

Connie Bensley (1986)

 

 

 

Introdução e poema adaptados do inglês por António Dinis Lopes, candidato ao referido prémio em 2007 (a lista final dos melhores poemas será publicada em 8 de Junho p.f., a que se seguirá a votação)