Fall 2012

Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 3

 

Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Reviews   

Rosa Alice Branco

 

Concerto ao Vivo, Branco's newest book, published in Portugal in Spring 2012, is a book of love, pain, memory and loss provoked by the death of her younger brother. These are the first poems from that collection, translated by Alexis Levitin as Live Concert, to appear in English.



1.

Now it was fated
That make believe end so
Beyond the gated
Yard, an endless night will grow.
For you vanished from the world
And never let me know.

Chico Buarque and Sivuca

The sun grows ripe before summer.
I fear it will set
before its time and I can’t slow it down
nor would I know how. Verbal tenses have
something to do with this silence.
Photos with candles and flowers belong as well
to the clinical picture of this posthumous
future. Just yesterday we planned on laughter
and daylight, your agile legs still run
through the fields of our yard, but now fear drops
like the setting sun. Closing my eyes does not stop me
from feeling how used up the last stupid yellow is
not knowing if something in vain has been lost
from your laugh. The sun grew ripe in the cold. Who could tell
those drops of sweat sprinkled on the sheet as
in the gasping heat of a summer day.

Tell me little brother
what good is my hand if you go off
and I never come back?

 

1.

Agora era fatal
Que o faz-de-conta terminasse assim
Pra lá deste quintal
Era uma noite que não tem mais fim
Pois você sumiu no mundo
Sem me avisar

Chico Buarque e Sivuca

O sol amadurece antes do verão.
Tenho medo que se ponha
antes da hora e não posso demorá-lo,
nem o sei. Os tempos dos verbos têm
alguma coisa a ver com este silêncio.
As fotografias com velas ou flores também
pertencem ao quadro clínico deste futuro
póstumo. Ainda ontem combinámos os risos
e o dia, as tuas pernas ágeis continuam a correr
nos campos do quintal, mas agora o medo precipita-se
como desce o sol. Fechar os olhos não me impede
de sentir esgotar-se o derradeiro estúpido amarelo
sem saber se alguma coisa em vão se perde
do teu riso. O sol amadureceu no frio. Quem diria
as gotas de suor que salpicam o lençol como
no calor extenuante de um dia de verão.

Diz-me maninho
para que serve a minha mão se fores embora
e eu nunca mais voltar?

 

5.

I walk along the beach. What I am looking for is the lighthouse
that rumbled on foggy mornings.
This at least we knew and we put on coats
to shelter the view. Sight unseen
we skipped our laughter across the sea and it would always return
in circular ripples. To take off our sandals,
shake free from our fears and let our happiness barefoot
run through the house.

Ever since night fell
the moon has floated free within the walls
and we hold hands so as not to grow.
Not even I know where you are in time.
Now I only meet you as we come back from school
on that path we haven’t yet taken

 

5.

Ando pela praia. O que procuro é o farol
que roncava nas manhãs de neblina.
Ao menos sabíamos isso e vestíamos casacos
para agasalhar a vista. Mesmo às cegas
atirávamos o riso à água e ele voltava sempre
em ondas circulares. Tirar as sandálias
para sacudir o medo e deixar a alegria descalça
passear pela casa.

Depois que a noite veio
a lua põe-se a boiar dentro das paredes
e damos a mão para não crescermos.
Nem eu sei onde estás no tempo.
Agora só te encontro ao voltar da escola
por aquele caminho que ainda não fizemos

 

7.

My childhood was me
running in the grass,
reading stories to dolls,
juggling on the walls,
playing cops without robbers above the garage,
devouring my father’s books bewitched
by every character. Ah, they were voracious pages
flashing with everything the city lacked.
I have to tell those three century-old trees in front of the house.
If I am here it is because I clung to their sap
my whole body glued fast, my arms round the trunk.
The trees did not tell time even when their leaves were falling.
There were vague names like autumn and their colors were quickly
rumpled by the wind. I loved
my characters and my father’s friends
who spoke softly, their backs turned
to the dictatorship.—Grown up stuff, Joni would say,
perched high in a tree from where we would insult
the regime just because and even more to imitate.

My childhood was me watching them
and thinking I would never be grown up.
Now all of us are small

 

7.

A minha infância era eu
a correr na relva,
a ler histórias às bonecas,
a fazer malabarismos nos muros,
a brincar aos polícias sem ladrões por cima das garagens,
a devorar os livros do meu pai enfeitiçada
por cada personagem. Ah, eram páginas ávidas
onde dardejava tudo o que à cidade faltava.
É preciso dizer as três árvores seculares diante da casa.
Se estou aqui é porque me agarrei à seiva delas
com o corpo todo colado e os braços em volta do seu tronco.
As árvores não davam horas mesmo quando as folhas caíam.
Havia nomes vagos como outono e as cores eram logo
desarrumadas pelo vento. Eu amava
as minhas personagens e os amigos do meu pai
que falavam baixinho de costas viradas
para a ditadura. — Coisas de gente grande, dizia o João
empoleirado no cimo da árvore onde insultávamos
o regime porque sim e mais ainda por imitação.

A minha infância era eu a olhá-los
e a pensar que nunca mais crescia.
Agora somos todos pequenos

 

11.

In warm, slow afternoons
with a touch of jasmine in the air

Rosinha de Valenca and Maria Bethania

Spring time bursts its seams.
Girls water flowers
the buttons of their blouses slipping free
those budding roses and fuchsia
trembling red from pierced ears.

There is something unknown in the scent
of all flowers, the flower of the hand,
breasts smothered in jasmine

 

11.

Em tardes quentes e lentas
Com leve cheiro de jasmim

Rosinha de Valenca e Maria Bethania

A primavera rebenta pelas costuras.
As raparigas regam as flores
com a camisa a abrir pelos botões
de rosa e os brincos de princesa.
O vermelho vibra pelo furo da orelha.

Há qualquer coisa que ignoramos no cheiro
de todas as flores, a flor da mão,
os seios asfixiantes de jasmim

 

 

 

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