temple
The world is a declared absence of what remains
just in the mood as a feeling of track.
I mean that when the feeling is just
things slowly removed his exile.
Lost in the horizon The temple stands on the paucity
your destination silverware that burns under
coating of zinc. What look would get, then get deeper?
Or find a name for the statues
placate the gods? The thinker scans the horizon with a shy smile
. "Anticipation of death is the only
measure of things before all is consumed ..."
¶
family album
memory is constructed as a puzzle
photographs in which only what you see is the possibility of one day
become recognized: Invention, finally, from places
common, not be shared, no longer
less desirable. Perhaps because nobody owns
-is satisfied, and having lived
only guarantee is that passport anonymous to another destination.
"We all die in a photograph? But perhaps
that death is the only concrete evidence that one day
have lived. autobiographical grafts
recognized in the photos
heartedly even any memory of what happened.
A death revived early in the photos
-invented matter what might have been.
¶
end of the speech
really nothing to talk about. Much less
what to write, as all owners are old. Just
for drinking, no one now comes to the source and livestock loose
forsaken approaches the slope of the cliff. Even the words
seem to have lost the support of the miracles at first
they had been promised. In the eyes of children
what can you see yet?, just whitewashed patios, balconies
where an old wooden walker
finally feel enthralled to watch the solstice.
But along with the men also abandoned house
words. Behind them stretches what is
Language: dried fruit, uninhabited,
which metaphors are absent-for
always pinned to the recurrence of a memory sheet
the breeze gathered for the arrival of dusk.
¶
san juan high
As we die we say that the style becomes more precise,
and the eyes of others, perhaps, also more peaceful. Meanwhile,
to this work of mourning "for ourselves and the world I do not know
if it should give the name, as romantic literature.
do this wastage of style is, what the sense that free?
In fact, there is joy in the mouths of others, such voracity
in the living, who does not agree with right-thinking the idea of \u200b\u200bliterature. Ethics
experimental, so we could define poetry at all
like a body falling on the page and then emerge from it as
a ghost in search of burial. In any case
too many words there is always a body wrap sweetened
and where only silence would answer the call of unclean.
Because poetry can arise even in a read error.
¶
critical feeling
poetic There are no criteria, just some light loss
across the plain where crows are obscure vices.
not let that thought yet ravaged the landscape
or that words pink carpet the cliff.
In poetry there is no actual feelings,
only passing caravans, and with his slow
interrupt the speech. In the hollow of the wave, reverberating
at its center, the ocean floor is transformed into
polished by fate. Because there are no laws
for the passion and who experience
learn how anonymous is meaningless. So
feeling, in poetry, not a cut
in the landscape, nor nature is confused.
But inside, it has to do with how
to miss the herons in the sky
hallucinating with shouts of future flight.
¶
falling off
By abolishing the words to sacrifice feelings
confirmábamos perhaps that was enough to leave the grammar
to attend, serene, rotting fruit.
However, poetry should not be confused with a road
accept long or metaphors that men treat
of his secret in the comfortable surroundings of the stoves.
quarreled words to
birds in nature, thinking maybe they should return
most desirable fruits. We kidded.
forgot a landscape that is bitter
returns us
resentment in the literature.
Could we then doubt,
before picking,
to share with the birds
some dried fruit?
¶
Fernando Guerreiro (1950) is one of the most important Portuguese authors from the 70's emerged in the . He has spent most of his career in magazines that might be described as marginal, stressing mainly for its close look at the cultural movements of the time, but isolated, forever, for what he considers spurious visibility ceremonies. The poems translated here are from A Ballad of Liverpool and Brussels (Or store-tion, Guimaraes), and the last two of Literary Theory (Black Sun, Lisbon).
Translation José María Castrillón
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