“On sad days no one talks of birds – by Filipa Leal On sad days no one talks of birds We ring up friends and they are out and then on the street we ask for a light as if asking for a brand new heart. On sad days it’s winter and we walk in…
Category: Lost in Translation
it was clear as a streetcar: I am a flower
“Triumph of Love II – by Belcampo When the wind blew over the village, it also blew across the impenetrable woods, and the castle within, which was where the count lived. Only the sides and tops of the forest would sway back and forth, as well as the white signs around saying Couples caught caressing…
And the fruits gleamed in that light
“Of the voice of things – by Fiama Hasse Pais Brandao Only the wind’s blast gives lyrical sound to the windmill’s blades. Only the things touched by the love of other things have a voice.” (translated by Juliana Brina) * “Song of Genesis – by Fiama Hasse Pais Brandao In the beginning there was light,…
if this signal flashes out so feebly in the dark
“Woman overboard – by Margarida Vale de Gato MAYDAY I call, because the war goes on; and empty is the vessel in which I left – it slacks at the bottom where the sway is piercing, sucking the leaking slit, a lack – no a cork jar drifting; I explain: it’s terracotta and fracture, and…
I dig into the heart a well of salt
“I dig into the heart a well of salt, so as to give drink to the traveler I was. I let the wind drag with it the endless caravan of illusions. And I say: let everything drown into the fat of the mornings, let everything hush up… And let a tongue of fire strike the…
A still light in the middle of the whirlwind
“There are men opening their hands like books Intense surfaces without noise – the springs On smooth rock, in the unforeseen desert Silence is warm. It is quiet of an attentive Clarity. They open it – the dew Not always crossed by light It is always in the morning that the currents Open the writings…
I am an ocean of waiting
Ebb by M. Vasalis I withdraw and wait. This is the time that won’t go amiss: Every minute turns itself into future. I am an ocean of waiting, enveloped in a water film by the instant. Drawing ebb of the mind, Which pulls the minutes and, deep in its darkness, prepares the high tide. There…
Poem stains
Dear Charlotte, I found your poem on a collection of Dutch and Flemish poetry. It immediately left salt stains on my hands, as I tried to translate it. I’ll leave below my English version of your poem. I hope it hasn’t lost its original salt. Yours truly, J. “LAUNDROMAT DE NETEZON by Charlotte van den…
