Portuguese Poet João Ricardo Lopes

May 15, 2026

Poetry, You ask

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POETRY, YOU ASK

Abbās Ibn Firnās climbed a towering height and, strapped to two wings,
first, he plunged into the abyss, then he glided over the skies of Córdoba.
tears of joy broke out, praise be to Allah!
centuries later, long before Leonardo, Eilmer also flew,
above Malmesbury Abbey, imitating the craft of birds.
God have mercy on that madman!

poetry, you ask?
always that same death‑defying leap into the void,
and somehow one survives it, again, and again, and again

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Poem by João Ricardo Lopes | Translated by Marcus Margrave (2026)

June 11, 2025July 8, 2025

The Blessed One

They brought him ivory, and he carved it with the most refined patience of which the human kind is capable. The objects that came from his hands were among those most ravenously coveted by foreigners in Brazzaville, in Djambala, in Sibiti, in Mandigou, and throughout the Congo. They called him “The Blessed One,” though his real name was Isidor Nkobanjira. As he grew old, he boasted of having no fewer than seventy children.

Near the end, he began to cut and pierce and carve deep grooves into an elephant tusk. First, he etched the winding course of a river, then the rise of a mountain, then a flurry of perfectly hemispheric stars. With care, he added water and fish, earth and impalas, sky and vultures. He filled the ivory with every creature he could remember, omitting neither silence, nor death, nor fear.

“The whole universe fits here,” Nkobanjira thought.

But in truth — he noticed with a look of dissatisfaction — after all was done, a bit of space still remained.

May 22, 2025May 23, 2025

The Actor Looks at Himself in the Mirror

THE ACTOR LOOKS AT HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR

do not wait so long for me
I have no future
as past I did not have.
handsome I may be
however crude
no less than statue
nor better than sand.
like every creature
what I am I am no longer.
my hands burn with the cold
and I may already be dead
or too far.
do not wait so long for me
you do not know who you wait for

Translated by Bernarda Esteves

O ACTOR OLHA-SE AO ESPELHO

não esperes tanto por mim
não tenho futuro
como passado não tive.
belo talvez seja
porém cru
não menos que estátua
nem melhor do que areia.
como toda a criatura
o que sou não sou.

as mãos ardem-me de frio
e talvez esteja já tão morto
ou longe de mais.
não esperes tanto por mim
não sabes quem esperas.