On sad days no one talks of birds

“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…

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…