There's a lot going on on my end, caro/a leitor/a, so translations are going to be even more infrequent than usual. Or perhaps more frequent, as I try to distract myself from other things.
I urge you to listen to O Diálogo do Silêncio in spoken form, accompanied by violin, as a supplement to reading the text itself. The poems aren't read by the poet, but that doesn't stop them from being a pleasure to hear.
This is the only prose poem in the book, my copy of which started to fall apart this evening. I guess it's to be expected since it's a nearly 35-year-old paperback, but it's a sad occasion nonetheless, especially given that, like so many books published in the final 10-15 years of Portuguese rule in Macau, only 1,000 copies were printed, and who knows how many still exist.
My copy is inscribed, if I'm reading the author's handwriting properly, "ao encontro com Martin,/ afectuosamente/ Alberto/ Macau 5/1/96". It's not the first time I've purchased a book about Macau secondhand only to discover it's inscribed, o que é um verdadeiro mimo.
I hope you enjoy the poem. I definitely feel like I'm missing something here, but sei lá.
DAS
-----
navegava-se na arrogância das diferenças pela emaranhada teia de ruelas
que constituía o centro da pequena cidade quase flutuante. misturavam-se
os cheiros das especiarias com o hálito morno dos detritos. fervilhava a
vida nos contornos das faces opacas e nas paredes roídas pelo tempo.
tudo se movia convulsionando as veias deste pequeno corpo, largos e
esquinas de tendas de "min", pato assado, frutos e vestuário. macau, 10
horas de uma manhã húmida de um julho espesso. caíu a noite absorvendo o
dia.
o sono emergia das janelas veladas. no asfalto vivia-se
ainda o chiar dos pneus e sob as árvores da praia grande mantinha-se a
troca amorosa das carícias, restos das escassas horas do trabalho
imposto. o tufão passou ao largo, somente as águas castanhas do delta do
rio das pérolas se mostraram impacientes, ondulando em pequenas
cristas, balançando as panelas de caldo suspensas nos juncos ancorados.
tudo
se passa em termos inconsequentes, sem margens. o lodo e a muralha
habitam a noite concretamente. a cidade ilumina-se num carrossel de
cores, liquidando o lixo e a miséria. não há espaços. nova vida se
inicia nas ruelas e esquinas procurando no prazer a solidão dos neons
embriagados. os olhos escondidos na penumbra das fábricas surgem agora
na aposta possível no sorriso passivo e terno duma jovem que passa.
esconde-se
a cidade na noite curta reduzindo o tempo. macau nasce dos restos da
lua multiplicando as células nos ventres tensos, nas mãos hábeis, nos
corpos lívidos.
secam-se-me os lábios de falar a noite.
e o poema vem, bardo, das entranhas.
-----
arrogant in your difference, you made your way through the tangled web of alleys that made up the center of the small, almost floating, city. the smell of spices mingled with the warm breath of garbage. life teemed in the contours of opaque faces and in walls eaten away by time. everything was moving, the veins of this small body throbbing, squares and corners with shops selling noodles, roasted duck, fruit, and clothing. macau, 10 o'clock on a humid morning in a thick july. night fell, absorbing the day.
sleep emerged from covered windows. the squeal of tires still lived on the asphalt and under the trees along the praia grande there was still the amorous exchange of caresses, the remains of a few hours of imposed work. the typhoon passed offshore, only the brown waters of the pearl river delta showing themselves restless, waves forming small crests, swinging the pots of soup hanging aboard anchored junks.
everything happens in inconsequential terms, unframed. mud and ramparts concretely abide in the night. the city is lit in a carousel of colors, wiping away the garbage and misery. there are no spaces. new life begins in alleys and on corners, seeking in pleasure the solitude of drunken neon. eyes hidden in the shadow of factories now look up at the potential wager in the gentle, passive smile of a young woman who passes by.
the city hides in the brief night, slowing the tempo. macau is born from the remains of the moon, cells multiplying in taut bellies, in skilled hands, in livid bodies.
my lips go dry speaking the night.
and the poem comes, bard, from the guts.
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