Short and Musical

  Short and Musical

  Johnny Virgil

  First edition

  A translation of Breves from Portuguese

  by the author

  Blumenau

  2003

  Index

  Introduction

  Short and Musical Song

  I - While I am alive

  II - This hand, that hand

  III - We must live

  In the fields of your eyes

  IV - I could open up the seas

  V - On the grass

  VI - The wind plays with the grass

  VII - In my soul is a body

  VIII - Could you tell me if

  IX - If you look into your heart

  These are the seasons of the soul

  X - My house has no windows

  XI - Can you see the dark sky, the blind stars

  Your eyes are blind

  XII - I go out along the night streets

  XIII - We live

  XIV - I will be this flower

  XV - I want to drink up the sea

  Sonnet

  What is the importance of having or not having been happy?

  Eulogy to the Teacher

  The Madman

  The Rose

  Afterword

  Introduction

  to the first edition in English

  The text of this edition is based on the first edition in Portuguese, published in 1998.

  The author was not concerned about rhymes, syllables or alliterations, giving attention to the correct representation of ideas and meanings. The imagery was more or less preserved during the translation process.

  The Author

  Short and Musical

  Song

  Let's go, row!, with your arms,

  Your soul, row!, and sing

  Beautiful songs, row!, and silly songs,

  We are children, we row, and in the breeze

  Of the hottest afternoons of the year

  We row, with and against the wind.

  Let's go, row!, with the effort spent

  On the distresses of the day,

  O oarsman, row!, your chest

  Is like a lake where your sweetness,

  Row!, ripples and stoops,

  Let's go, that tragedies will one day end,

  And oars are our only roots.

  I

  While I am alive,

  My life will run free;

  It will live a paradise

  Of universes, suns and colors.

  While I am alive,

  The warm scent of the earth

  Will be my inner song:

  O world of eternal grace!

  II

  This hand, that hand.

  Delicate hand, rough hand.

  Little and fragile hand, big and strong hand.

  Tender hand, timid hand;

  Smooth hand, hairy hand;

  Sweet hand, grave hand.

  Long fancy.

  Long kiss.

  Long embrace.

  This hand, that hand.

  III

  We must live

  The beauty of a kiss.

  We must see in the lips

  Two angel wings compressing each other.

  We must believe

  In an insane kiss,

  In one mouth that dreams

  And in another that loves.

  In the fields of your eyes,

  In the mountains of your lips,

  On the margin of your volcanic mouth,

  I will build my small house of dreams.

  Your nostrils will be large caverns,

  Your eyelashes – immense trees,

  Your forehead – infinite plain.

  Your eyes will be like windows,

  Clear mirrors in which is reflected

  The most complete sensory communion.

  Your geography

  Will be land and space,

  Swallow and inebriety.

  IV

  I could open up the seas

  And, facing the black and purple waves,

  Dig up treasures in the abyssal regions:

  Pearls, lava, metals . . .

  I could rise to the heavens

  And, through the pale gray clouds,

  Bring samples of fleeting states:

  Ice, water, gases . . .

  I, my lady,

  Can only give you this

  And say

  You are like the pearls that make one rich,

  Like the lava that heats,

  Like the metal that shines.

  You are, furthermore, as refreshing as ice,

  As pure as water,

  As penetrating as gas.

  V

  On the grass,

  We sleep as two vagabonds,

  One by the other,

  Touching our firm bellies.

  I feel like one, undivided.

  There is a child in my womb.

  I have given it your sacred name,

  I give it your charming shape.

  VI

  The wind plays with the grass

  And caresses the treetops.

  The grass stands for a clever lad,

  And the trees are charming lassies.

  VII

  In my soul is a body.

  In my soul is a dream.

  A body, a dream – farewell from you.

  You left with your soul and body.

  You left me the image of a dream.

  And I live with the pain of this eternal farewell.

  VIII

  Could you tell me if

  What I feel is true

  – If it is a dream, if it is love?. . .

  All my body shakes,

  My chest fades and bleeds.

  I will never be happy.

  Love is hatred's most perfect mask.

  IX

  If you look into your heart,

  You will find the ideal music.

  Rock your daily dreams

  To the sound of your heartbeats.

  Weep for the joy that comes

  To your crystal eyes;

  Laugh, and love what you despised.

  Make of your pulsation,

  Of your blood,

  A hymn to soul's eternity.

  These are the seasons of the soul:

  We are born from the warmth of a sigh

  And from the tender pulsation of the skin.

  We get to know the world as birds

  That migrate to foreign countries.

  We live the glacier of the ice-fields

  And the apathetic ground of all contradictions.

  We die aiming at getting bound

  To the birds that perch on our petals.

  X

  My house has no windows.

  You can admire the sky full of stars.

  My house has doors with iron locks.

  I am the king in the private universe.

  I have got a well, a fountain,

  Horses and orchards.

  A wife, sons and daughters.

  I hear the sounds of the world.

  I see the colors of the deserts,

  The strange hues of the day

  And the magnificent dark of the nights!

  I lie down on woolen bedspreads

  And dream of empires, and wars,

  And sages, and saints, and poets.

  I hear that sonorous appeal,

  The singers' canorous voices,

  The beauty of verses and words!

  Sensations blend into each other,

  And I feel that something arises,

  That a new person was born in me

  And intends to take hold of my body.

  I will not fight this intruder.

 
I will be as patient and as pacific

  As the moonlight and as the flowers.

  I will not be against the laws

  That make me part of this beloved land,

  Of this desert soil, of this open world

  In which my soul wanders.

  XI

  Can you see the dark sky, the blind stars

  That do not shine anymore?

  Can you see the dark forest, the old trees

  That skirt the roads?

  My feet tread on the gravel.

  I make noises.

  I breathe the cold air of the night.

  I go along.

  The heavy branches of immense trees

  Form arches above my head.

  Can you see the fear, the terror

  That makes me defenseless?

  Can you see how much fear

  My feet that fear the night nourish?

  Two feet, one body, a farewell.

  Your eyes are blind,

  Night has come,

  And you cannot read the holy books anymore.

  XII

  I go out along the night streets.

  I take in my arms rolls of papyrus

  In which lie written

  Dead and false poems.

  In my mouth is a bitter taste,

  A word that scratches the tongue,

  That hides behind the teeth,

  That swings in the throat.

  I go out along the deserted streets

  In search of a dead poem,

  Of a face I have lost

  In one of these dark alleys.

  In my mouth is a mute kiss,

  A word that sighs

  And that silences

  With a blow.

  XIII

  We live

  From the shadows of ruined buildings,

  From the echo of lyres with no strings

  And from the gifts we have not given us.

  We live

  From the ways we have rejected,

  From the trails that have remained virgin

  And from the blue aborted dreams.

  We live, one way or the other,

  Trying to live what we have not lived;

  Looking for the light that has not been lit,

  The flower that no one has watered,

  The word that no one has ever uttered.

  XIV

  I will be this flower

  That was born close to the city walls.

  I will be this purple flower

  In front of the rectangular blocks.

  I will be this fragile flower

  That lives only for a second,

  That dies crushed

  Like all flowers in the world.

  XV

  I want to drink up the sea,

  To subdue it.

  Above the palpitating waves,

  As the zephyrs please . . .

  Under the fleeting brilliance of the moons,

  Of the starfish . . .

  I will find in the abysses

  The ruins of all Atlantises,

  The looks from every Narcissus,

  Neptune's legions.

  I want to drink up this sea

  With salt water

  – Atlantic, narcissistic, Neptunian water –

  Which is referred to as Tear.

  Sonnet

  Someone will knock a thousand times

  At your blind, closed door.

  You will not hear the dark look

  That, insanely, knocks at your door.

  Therefore you do not have ears

  Nor eyes to the truth.

  Your house is empty;

  Your heart, absorbed in thought and vacant.

  You have forgotten those deaf knocks

  At your door of grieves, evils.

  The glances have already faded.

  And the roses have already faded,

  Black roses from dead love affairs.

  Ah! you do not belong to the world anymore.

  What is the importance of having or not having been happy?

  Life is hard for everyone.

  Sadness exhausts us.

  What is the importance of having wept continually?

  We have been, in truth, so close to death . . .

  Our ridiculous tears, our complaints

  Are as useless as our smiles.

  Eulogy to the Teacher

  To Marita Deeke Sasse, in memoriam

  The most beautiful trees are those that you planted.

  You chose them well.

  You were patient, when you watered them

  At dusk or after dawn.

  Only you knew how to turn green

  The pallid foliage, after a sunny day.

  The gentleness of your hands

  Made the trees grow incredibly fast,

  And the smiles that you offered them,

  In moments of glorious transcendence,

  Acted as fertilizer and as breath.

  And, as you gave your life

  To the fulfillment of dreams that were not yours,

  You planted more than you took,

  You were the priceless gift

  To the green hearts you had nourished.

  Under your hands was only happiness.

  Those who saw you depart sobbed,

  In the twilight.

  But the trees will be your memory

  And the certainty that you met

  The symbolic challenges of gardening.

  The Madman

  There was a madman in my town.

  And he was my son.

  That dark hair of his,

  That dead look of his,

  Those clumsy limbs . . .

  How much love I had to him!

  I followed his curved steps,

  Admired his silly smiles.

  And he kissed my face,

  Kissed it with love . . .

  I hugged him.

  He hugged me.

  In the afternoon, we were like two madmen

  In the park downtown.

  He grew up.

  This is my beloved son!

  Stronger his body was,

  Bigger was his madness . . .

  One day, one came to me to say

  That my son lay stretched out

  On a distant road.

  I ran, deliriously,

  Unguidedly,

  Unconsciously.

  When I get there,

  The crowd moves away,

  And I see, on the ground,

  My golden son.

  Blood ran down his neck.

  A stone had wounded his head.

  His dead eyes

  Had died at last.

  I sat down beside his cold body,

  Took his hand in mine

  And cried out to all angels in Heaven:

  'Unfair angels,

  Receive this mad child.

  Receive a mother's heart

  That has departed.'

  She took in her deformed arms

  The stone-wounded son

  And took him home.

  She buried him in the garden

  With pretty flowers.

  Since then I am this poor woman

  That just plants flowers,

  That does not eat, does not live, does not love.

  I am as mad as my son was.

  The Rose

  A Rose

  Once upon a time there was

  A rose among many others . . .

  The Garden

  Roses as romantic flowers.

  'I water the flowers all day long,

  To make them keep the most beautiful color.

  To dream is what I do, when I throw them the water,

  Body rejuvenator.

  To love them is what I try to do;

  To find love is what I long for.

  And these flowers are instruments I make use of,

  Symbols full of my tenderness.'

  Alone at the end of a road,


  In a cul-de-sac,

  But whose texture bewitches,

  A lady lives, not so young, not so old.

  And she waters flowers, plants roses,

  Which, because of their varicolored buds,

  Glitter in the distance.

  And whoever sees them gets surprised

  At such a beautiful thing

  Amid the ugliness of a woman.

  And the rosy bunches seem

  To stay staring at the sun.

  These little points shine so much

  In such a gigantic world . . .

  These plants sometimes become unmatched

  In the universe, such is their grandeur.

  And the vitality of these beings