Tag: Portuguese Writers

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Our own image

Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen photographed by Eduardo Gageiro

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In one of the poems of No Tempo Dividido, Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen writes, in the manner of an inscription: “Que no largo mar azul se perca o vento / E nossa seja a nossa própria imagem” — “That in the wide blue sea the wind be lost / And ours be our own image.”

The pelagic world was for the poet, as is commonly known, a demiurgic, almost religious space, from which emerged her creative force, her fascination with ancient time (which was equally her fascination with the inscrutable future), but also her most personal delight in the peoples who, having sailed those seas of a remote past (the Greeks, in particular), bequeathed to us their art, their beauty, their nude, and within them (as in Heidegger’s ontology) our destiny.

Sophia’s poems are, without exception, exercises in incomparable lapidary art. We read them today under the relative oblivion to which every work is consigned after the death of its author. Yet for this very reason we rediscover them as more vehement, more marvellously sculpted, more true. We read them as an extension of ourselves, as though seated on a garden bench among the twisted trunks of giant trees (like these metrosideros in Foz do Douro), the wide blue sea before us seemed more real, and our own spirit wandered amid those waves and the scent of the sea breeze, while between the seated body and the wandering spirit there existed something unnameable. Something like our own image, doubly beheld in the mirror.

24.11.2024

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The Blessed One

Photo by Leroy Skalstad

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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.

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Children’s Day

Photo by Kant Smith

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The world exasperates. A latent brutality thrums within it, undoing the stubborn innocence of things, and making ever murkier the divination of times that shall outlive us. We know History swings, endlessly, between seasons of peace and seasons of war, between ages of brilliance and ages of barbarity, between hours of human grandeur and hours of atrocious pillage. If we return to the 1980s, we recall the searing images of Biafra, of Ethiopia—the solidarity campaigns that gathered the world against hunger. We recall the fall of the Berlin Wall, the dawn of democracy in countries once shackled by Soviet rule. We recall Mandela’s release, the silencing of guns in Northern Ireland. A time, perhaps, when free thought was loosening its chains, when democracy and the rights of the unheard began, however briefly, to hold.

But the world is once again turned inside out by the same old forces—those who forever gnaw after wealth, after power, after dominion. One wave of hope gives way to another of grim despair. I think of the children in Gaza, in Ukraine, in that half of the world left wrinkled and worn, enslaved by the relentless sprawl of multinationals. It is hard to believe that a handful of words could matter—and that, too, exasperates.

And still, in these places seemingly abandoned by God—long since forsaken by humanity—there remains a force, faint but unyielding, that drives us to persist. A kind of breath of truth threads its way through the sulphur and phosphorus of falling bombs, compelling us to resist. Resistance itself exasperates. As though some hidden covenant between the last flickers of moral conscience and justice, poetry and the sheer passion for life, shame and a whisper of prayer were urging us to rise—to face the impious cries of tyrants, and the colluding silence of nations that call themselves free. I think of the children of Gaza, starving. The children stolen from Ukraine. The children of Yemen, Sudan, Venezuela. The ones who drown off Lampedusa and Tenerife. The ones who toil from dawn till dark in Bangladesh, in India, in countless places lost to maps. The ones ruled by the Taliban, by mafias, by the degenerate hands of men who harm them. I know that words do not console. Nor do donations (for ten years now I’ve given one to UNICEF on this day). Both are drops in the sea. But I must not forget. I need, as Pedro-Daniel Névio once wrote, to “place a blue thistle in the space left by the stolen heart.”

Perhaps that is the invisible, stubborn force—the one that, beneath the fingernails of the few (and of many more), moves mountains.

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Poetry

Photo by Toa Eftiba

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I have long read, written, collected, and loved poetry. My bookshelves cradle a considerable number of volumes dedicated to this art the ancient Greeks believed was consecrated to Euterpe—an art whose hold on me deepens with time, as I come to grasp the astonishing power of freedom contained in this ποιείν (poiein): the freedom to think, to feel, to speak.

These days, in my classes, it is rare to find a student who chooses a book of poems for their own quiet, autonomous reading. Rarer still the one who brings to their peers a collection by Sophia, José Régio, Miguel Torga, Antero, Pessanha—or even by Florbela Espanca or Eugénio de Andrade (who, despite these “hard times for lyricism,” as Bertolt Brecht once wrote, still manage to glean some measure of admiration). Rarest of all is the one who admits to loving, or even intuitively grasping, this literary form.

Perhaps this is why—saddened by yet another crisis, this slow dwindling of love—I find myself thinking, more and more obsessively, about how to preserve Homer and Hesiod, Virgil and François Villon, Whitman and Emily Dickinson, Federico García Lorca and Anna Akhmatova. How to help them survive the great catastrophe of forgetting, and above all, the cataclysm of indifference. For time has taught me that the noblest battles for the life of the spirit are almost fated to fail in a society brutalised and brutal, prosaic and stained in its sentiments by the cement blocks we trample in the streets.

Poetry must be cared for—urgently. As with the great seed vault of Svalbard, we must shelter the most extraordinary force ever forged by the human mind, heart, and courage, working in concert. Only, in place of seeds, we must seal verses within.

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Bucolic

Photo by Milad Fakurian

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At the top of the hill lies the center of the world. From there, you can see everything: the village nestled on the slopes, the medieval church, the river below with its little Roman bridge, the hay carts and the flocks passing slowly, just like the hay carts and flocks from a thousand years ago.

There, sheltered beneath the branches of an old ash tree thick with saplings and roots, we hear the following dialogue:

– My life was cowardly, weak, miserably lived…

– Why do you say such things?

– Because I’ve always been a coward, a weak man, a miserable one…

– Don’t say such ugly things…

– But you, my child, you can have a different fate!

– What do you mean, Grandpa?

– You can look into my eyes and see what you don’t want for yourself, glimpse yourself now in a future time…

– But Grandpa, how can you believe what you just said? You’ve always been kind to everyone.

– I killed all my dreams, turned away from every woman for fear they would turn away from me, ignored the warnings, dismissed good advice, believed myself old at every stage of my life…

In the end, I wasn’t even able to put an end to the terrible remorse that eats me alive!

– What do you mean by that?

– You know… Ending everything…

– Grandpa!

– But you are different, my child! I’m telling you, a different fate awaits you. I’m telling you to go! Go while the shadow of your own feet is not yet heavy enough to drag you down, nor strong enough to turn your head back… Go, and never look behind you!

The clouds drift up above. The hill is gentle, like the curve of a fruit. All who love a good story know how vain words can be—and how fond they are of a fine pastoral setting.

“Never look behind you!”

Indeed, when walking forward, one must never turn back. It is a universal truth.