Forbidden Words: Selected Poetry of Eugenio de Andrade

Forbidden Words: Selected Poetry of Eugenio de Andrade

by Eugenio de Andrade
     
 

Award-winning poetry in a bilingual edition, by Portugal's best-known living poet.
Eugenio de Andrade is the author of twenty-nine volumes of poetry as well as numerous children's books, collections of prose writings, and translations into Portuguese of Sappho, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Yannis Ritsos. Forbidden Words: Selected Poetry of Eugenio de Andrade,

Overview

Award-winning poetry in a bilingual edition, by Portugal's best-known living poet.
Eugenio de Andrade is the author of twenty-nine volumes of poetry as well as numerous children's books, collections of prose writings, and translations into Portuguese of Sappho, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Yannis Ritsos. Forbidden Words: Selected Poetry of Eugenio de Andrade, is based on the poet's own retrospective Antologia Breve ("Brief Anthology") of 1998, expanded and edited for English-speaking readers by his longtime translator, Alexis Levitin.
Marguerite Yourcenar spoke of "the well-tempered clavier" of Andrade's poems, Gregory Rabassa of his "succinct lyricism...summing things up in a moment, much like haiku." His verse, deeply rooted in the rural landscapes of his childhood and in the ancient Greek lyric, have the clarity of light on sand, radiating pagan intimations of immortality.

Editorial Reviews

Collete Inez
Levitin gives us the brilliance of Andrade's poetry in rich and musical language.
C. W. Truesdale
It is a sheer delight to come across the poems of de Andrade in Levitin's sensitive and lyrical translations.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780811215237
Publisher:
New Directions Publishing Corporation
Publication date:
03/01/2003
Edition description:
BILINGUAL
Pages:
288
Product dimensions:
5.30(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.80(d)

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

FORBIDDEN WORDS

SELECTED POETRY OF EUGÉNIO DE ANDRADE
By EUGÉNIO DE ANDRADE

A NEW DIRECTIONS BOOK

Copyright © 2003 Eugénio de Andrade
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0811215237


Chapter One

AS MÃOS E OS FRUTOS

HANDS AND FRUIT

(1948)

NÃO CANTO PORQUE SONHO Não canto porque sonho. Canto porque és real. Canto o teu olhar maduro, o teu sorriso puro, a tua graça animal. Canto porque sou homem. Se não cantasse seria somente um bicho sadio embriagado na alegria da tua vinha sem vinho. Canto porque o amor apetece. Porque o feno amadurece nos teus braços deslumbrados. Porque o meu corpo estremece: por vê-los nus e suados. FOI PARA TI QUE CRIEI AS ROSAS Foi para ti que criei as rosas. Foi para ti que lhes dei perfume. Para ti rasguei ribeiros e dei às romãs a cor do lume. Foi para ti que pus no céu a lua e o verde mais verde, nos pinhais. Foi para ti que deitei no chão um corpo aberto como os animais. I DO NOT SING BECAUSE I DREAM I do not sing because I dream. I simply sing because you're real. I sing your ripened gaze, your purest smile, your animal grace. I sing because I am a man. And if I didn't sing I'd he just a brute, bursting with health, blind drunk and dizzy with delight there in your vineyard without wine. I sing because love wishes it. Because hay ripens in your arms, glistening wet. Because my body tightens facing them, bare and bathed in sweat.IT WAS FOR YOU THAT I MADE THE ROSES It was for you that I made the roses. It was for you that I perfumed their name. For you I carved out rivulets and gave pomegranate its flame. It was for you I placed the moon in the sky and on the pine grove the greenest of green. For you stretched out this body on the ground like an animal, open and keen. GREEN GOD Trazia consigo a graça das fontes quando anoitece. Era o corpo como um rio em sereno desafio com as margens quando desce. Andava como quem passa sem ter tempo de parar. Ervas nasciam dos passos, cresciam troncos dos braços quando os erguia no ar. Sorria como quem dança. E desfolhava ao dançar o corpo, que lhe tremia num ritmo que ele sabia que os deuses devem usar. E seguia o seu caminho, porque era um deus que passava. Alheio a tudo o que via, enleado na melodia duma flauta que tocava. TENHO O NOME DE UMA FLOR Tenho o nome de uma flor quando me chamas. Quando me tocas, nem eu sei se sou água, rapariga, ou algum pomar que atravessei. GREEN GOD He carried with him all the grace of wellsprings at the close of day. His body flowing without haste, a slow stream challenging its banks as it descends upon its way. He strode like someone passing through without the time to stop just there. Fresh grasses from his footsteps grew and from his arms thick branches spread as high he raised them in the air. He smiled like someone in a dance. His body, dancing, dropped its leaves and trembled in a rhythmic trance he recognized must surely be a thing of gods alone conceived. And he continued on his way, for a god can't think of staying. Distant from all there was to see, entangled in the melody of the flute that he was playing. MY NAME IS THAT OF A FLOWER My name is that of a flower when you call to me. And at your touch not even I can tell if I am water, maiden, or an orehard in the dell. IMPETUOSO, O TEU CORPO É COMO UM RIO Impetuoso, o teu corpo é como um rio onde o meu se perde. Se escutn, só oiço o teu rumor. De mim, nem o sinal mais breve. Imagem dos gestos que tracei, irrompe puro e completo. Por isso, rio foi o nome que lhe dei. E nele o céu fica mais perto. A UMA CEREJEIRA EM FLOR Acordar, ser na manhã de abril a brancura desta cerejeira; arder das folhas à raiz, dar versos ou florir desta maneira. Abrir os braços, acolher nos ramos o vento, a luz, ou o quer que seja; sentir o tempo, fibra a fibra, a tecer o coração de uma cereja. NOCTURNO Coaxar de rãs é toda a melodia que a noite rem no seio -versos dos charcos e dos juncos podres, casualmente, com luar no meio. IMPETUOUS, YOUR BODY, LIKE A RIVER Impetuous, your body, like a river in which my own is lost. If I listen, I only hear your murmur. From me, no sound at all. An image of the gestures that I made, it bursts forth pure, fulfilled. And that's why river was the name I gave, for there the sky comes closer still. TO A CHERRY TREE IN BLOOM To awake, to be on an April morning the whiteness of that cherry tree; to burn from leaves to root, to flower just like that, to blossom poetry. To open one's arms, to gather in one's branches wind, light, or whatever it might be; to feel time, strand by strand, weaving a cherry's heart in a cherry tree. NOCTURNE The croaking of frogs is all the melody the night has in its breast- a song of marshes and of rotting reeds, at times with moonlight in its midst. ESPERA Horas, horas sem fim, pesadas, fundas, esperarei por ti até que todas as coisas sejam mudas. Até que uma pedra irrompa e floresça. Até que um pássaro me saia da garganta e no silêncio desapareça. WAITING Hours, hours without end, thick, deep, I will wait for you till all that is is still. Till a stone bursts forth and blossoms. Till a bird flies from my throat and, into silence, disappears.

OS AMANTES SEM DINHEIRO

PENNILESS LOVERS

(1950)

OS AMANTES SEM DINHEIRO Tinham o rosto aberto a quem passava. Tinham lendas e mitos e frio no coração. Tinham jardins onde a lua passeava de mãos dadas com a água e um anjo de pedra por irmão. Tinham como toda a gente o milagre de cada dia escorrendo pelos telhados; e olhos de oiro onde ardiam os sonhos mais tresmalhados. Tinham fome e sede como os bichos, e silêncio à roda dos seus passos. Mas a cada gesto que faziam um pássaro nascia dos seus dedos e deslumbrado penetrava nos espaços. ABRIL Brinca a manhã feliz e descuidada, como só a manhã pode brincar, nas curvas longas desta estrada onde os ciganos passam a cantar. Abril anda à solta nos pinhais coroado de rosas e de cio, e num salto brusco, sem deixar sinais, rasga o céu azul num assobio. Surge uma criança de olhos vegetais, carregados de espanto e de alegria, PENNILESS LOVERS They had faces open to whoever passed. They had legends and myths and a chill in the heart. They had gardens where the moon strolled hand in hand with the water. They had an angel of stone for a brother. They had like everyone the miracle of every day dripping from the roofs; and golden eyes glowing with a wilderness of dreams. They were hungry and thirsty like animals, and there was silence around their steps. But at every gesture they made, a bird was born from their fingers and, dazzled, vanished into space. APRIL Morning plays to a carefree beat, as only happy mornings play, along the far curves of the street, where singing Gypsies go their way. In freedom April roams the pines, crowned in roses and the blood's heat, and with a leap, without a sign, it tears the blue sky like a sheet. A child appears with vegetal eyes filled with wonder, joyful and gay, e atira pedras às curvas mais distantes -onde a voz dos ciganos se perdia. POEMA À MÃE No maisfundo deti, eu sai que traí, mãe. Tudo porque já não sou o menino adormecido no fundo dos teus olhos. Tudo porque tu ignoras que há leitos onde o frio não se demora e noites rumorosas de águas matinais. Por isso, às vezes, as palavras que te digo são duras, mãe, e o nosso amor é infeliz. Tudo porque perdi as rosas brancas que apertava junto ao coração no retrato da moldura. Se soubesses como ainda amo as rosas, talvez não enchesses as horas de pesadelos. Mas tu esqueceste muita coisa; esqueceste que as minhas pernas cresceram, que todo o meu corpo cresceu, e até o meu coração ficou enorme, mãe! Olha-queres ouvir-me?- às vezes ainda sou o menino que adormeceu nos teus olhos; and flings stones toward the road's last rise, as Gypsy voices melt away. TO MY MOTHER I know I betrayed you, mother, in your deepest depths. All because I'm no longer the sleeping child deep in your eyes. All because you choose not to know that there are beds where the cold doesn't last and nights sonorous with the waters of dawn. Therefore, sometimes, the words I say to you are harsh, mother, and our love is unhappy. All because I lost those white roses that I pressed to my heart in the picture in the frame. If you knew how I still love roses, perhaps you wouldn't fill the hours with bad dreams. But you've forgotten many things; forgotten that nay legs grew long, that all my body grew, and even my heart grew huge, o mother. Look-won't you listen? Sometimes I am still the child who fell asleep in your eyes; ainda aperto contra o coração rosas tão brancas como as que tens na moldura; ainda oiço a tua voz: Era uma vez uma princesa no meio de um laranjal ... Mas-tu sabes-a noite é enorme, e todo o meu corpo cresceu. Eu saí da moldura, dei às aves os meus olhosa beber. Não me esqueci de nada, mãe. Guardo a tua voz dentro de mim. E ddxo-te as rosas. Boa noite. Eu vou com as aves. RUMOR Acorda-me um rumor de ave. Talvez seja a tarde a querer voar. A levantar do chão qualquer coisa que vive, e é como um perdão que não tive. Talvez nada, Ou só um olhar que na tarde fechada é ave. Mas não pode voar.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from FORBIDDEN WORDS by EUGÉNIO DE ANDRADE Copyright © 2003 by Eugénio de Andrade
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Meet the Author

Eugénio de Andrade was born in 1923 in Povoa de Atalaia, a small village in Portugal close to the Spanish border. He published his first poem at the age of sixteen, his first book three years later. He has received every literary prize his country offers, as well as several international ones, including, by acclaim, the Portuguese language's most prestigious award, the Camoes Prize (2000), among whose previous winners are Jorge Amado and José Saramago.

Alexis Levitan's translations of Clarice Lispector's stories won the 1984 Van de Bovencamp-Armand G. Erpf International Award, given by the Translation Center, Columbia University.

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