Judith Teixeira: "Onde Vou?"

I was going to write something about the pandemic, and how the so-called plague poems I wrote last year ended up just becoming regular poems (or vice versa), but I'm exhausted by my body's reaction to the second dose of the COVID-19 vaccine. It's wild that I, or anyone, has been vaccinated, barely over a year since the shit started hitting the fan.

But more on that later. Here's another draft translation of a Judith Teixeira poem. I plan on spending the rest of the spring and the summer working my way through her books of poetry.

Take care of yourselves, dear readers, and até já.

DAS

Onde Vou?

Onde vou eu, onde vou?
Já nem sei donde parti…
Se eu mesma não sei quem sou!
Achei-me dentro de ti.

Eu fui ninguém que passou,
eu não fui, nunca me vi…
Fui asa que palpitou…
Eu só agora existi.

Negra Dor espavorida
ou saudade dolorida
eu fui talvez no passado…

Sou triste por atavismo…
Não há ontem no cuidado
em que em cuidados me abismo.


Inverno — Hora Ignorada
1922

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Where am I Going?

Where am I going, where?
I don’t even know where I started…
If I myself don’t know, who does!
I found myself within you.

I was a passing nobody,
I didn’t leave, I never saw myself…
I was a beating wing…
Only now did I exist.


Maybe in the past I was
Fearful Black Pain
or sorrowful longing...

I am saddened by atavism…
There is no yesterday into the care
of which I can hurl myself.


Winter —  Hour Unknown
1922

Dia Internacional da Mulher/International Women's Day: Judith Teixeira - "Os Meus Cabelos"

In celebration of International Women's Day, here's a translation of Judith Teixeira's "Os Meus Cabelos". As a longhair myself, I really like how Teixeira revels in her locks.

Enjoy, folks. 

Abraço,
DAS

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"Os Meus Cabelos"

Judith Teixeira


Doirado, fulvo, desmaiado
e vermelho,
tem reflexos de fogo o meu cabelo!
Neste conjunto diverso,
quando me vejo assim, ao espelho,
encontro no meu todo, um ar perverso...

Gosto dos meus cabelos tão doirados!
E enterro com volúpia
os dedos esguios,
por entre os meus fios
d'oiro, desgrenhados,
revoltos e macios!

Fico às vezes a ver-me e a meditar
admirada,
nesse oiro fulvo e estridente
da minha cabeleira desmanchada,
que tão bem sabe exteriorizar,
o meu ser estranho e ardente...

Há sol, outono e inverno,
brilhos metálicos, poente,
a chama do próprio inferno,
no meu cabelo igual ao meu sentir!
— E eu fico largo tempo a contemplar,
a cismar
e a sorrir,
ao meu perfil incoerente
e singular...


Maio — Entardecer
1922

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"My Hair"
Judith Teixeira

Golden, tawny, pale,
and red,
there are reflections of fire in my hair!
In this varied assembly,
when I see myself like this in the mirror,
there's an air of perversity to the whole of me.

I like my tresses, so golden!
And I sensuously bury
my slender fingers
among these gilt
strands of mine, unkempt,
wild, and soft!

Sometimes I look at myself and ponder,
admiring
the tawny, brassy gold
of my hair when it's down,
hair that knows so well how to externalize
my strange, fierce being...

In my hair and my feelings alike
there is sunlight, autumn and winter,
metallic glints, sunsets,
the flames of hell itself!
— And I spend a long time contemplating,
brooding over
and smiling at,
my inconsistent and singular
profile...


May — Sunset
1922

Judith Teixeira: "Adeus"

I'm up to my eyeballs in an editing gig, details of which I'll share at a later date, but I'm still reading Judith Teixeira. The more I read, the more I like her work. 

Here's a first-draft translation of her poem "Adeus." Her tone is deeply satisfying in its scornfulness, which in turn is undermined by her weakness for goodbyes. I think the poem could've been simply a brilliant dismissal, but by adding that extra dimension, Teixeira makes it all the more human. I love it.

If I don't write again before Yuletide or the New Year, happy holidays, folks. Enjoy the Winter Solstice.

DAS

 

"Adeus"
Judith Teixeira

Sim, vou partir.
E não levo saudade
de ninguém...
Nem em ti penso agora!...
Julgavas que a tristeza desta hora
fosse maior que a firme vontade
que eu pus em destruir
o luminoso fio de ternura
que me prendia ao teu olhar?...
Julgaste mal:
Eu sei amar,
mas meu amor,
o que eu não sei
é ser banal!

Mas porque vim eu escrever-te ainda?
nem eu sei!
Talvez somente
o hábito cortês da despedida
— e o habito faz lei!

Choro?!... Oh! sim, perdidamente!
Mas sabes tu, porque este pranto
assim amargo, e soluçado, vem?
É que na hora da partida
eu nunca pude sem chorar,
dizer adeus a ninguém!


Janeiro
1926

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"Goodbye"
Judith Teixeira

Yes, I'm leaving.
And I won't miss
anyone...
I'm not even thinking of you now!
Did you think that the sadness of this moment
would be greater than my firm intention
to destroy
the luminous thread of tenderness
that bound me to your gaze?...
You thought wrong:
I know how to love,
but darling,
what I don't know
is how to be ordinary!

But why am I still writing to you?
I don't even know!
Maybe it's only
the polite habit of saying farewell
— and habits make laws!

Do I cry?... Oh, yes, uncontrollably!
But do you know why these tears,
bitter as they are, and punctuated by sobs, well up?
It's because when it's time to leave
I could never say goodbye
to anyone without crying!

 
January
1926

Judith Teixeira: "Podes Ter os Amores que Quiseres…"

Here's another poem by Judith Teixeira. I find it somewhat sad, especially knowing that Teixeira probably wrote this about a woman she loved who could or would not return that love publicly, but the poem's sadness is outweighed by its determination—their love remains despite one of them renouncing it. Or perhaps that's wishful thinking on the poet's part; perhaps her beloved will, after all, move on to other people as suggested, but not retain that aching, coal-red love. Maybe this poem was written with that possibility in mind, as a sort of verbal talisman to ward off such an occurrence. I don't know enough Judith Teixeira to say.

DAS

 

"Podes Ter os Amores que Quiseres…"
Judith Teixeira

Podes dizer que me não amas,
sim, podes dizê-lo,
e o mundo acreditar,
porque só eu saberei
que mentes!

Eu estou na tua alma
como a flama
que devora sob a cinza
as brasas dormentes...
   
Não creias no remorso
- o remorso não existe!
O que tu sentes
e o que em ti subsiste,
são o rubor da minha ternura
e a chama do meu amor
que em ti
nunca foram ausentes!...

Não julgues, não, que me esqueceste,
porque mentes a ti mesmo
se o disseres…
Podes ter os amores que quiseres,
que o teu amor por mim,
como uma dor latente e compungida,
há-de acompanhar sempre
a tua e a minha vida!

-----


"You Can Have the Lovers You Want..."
Judith Teixeira

You can say you don't love me,
yes, you can say it,
and the world will believe it,
because only I will know
you're lying!

I'm in your soul
like the flame
that devours the dormant coals
under the ashes...

Don't believe in remorse
— remorse doesn't exist!
What you feel
and what remains in you,
is the flush of my affection
and the flame of my love
which never left
you!...

No, don't think you've forgotten me, no,
because you're lying to yourself
if you say as much...
You can have the lovers you want,
since your love for me,
like a latent, throbbing pain,
will forever be part of
your life and mine!

"Outonais" por Judith Teixeira

Howdy, y'all. Apologies for the silence, but as you can probably imagine, given the overall tenor of 2020, time moves strangely and most of my attention has been elsewhere. After all, America is still being ravaged by COVID-19 due to a toxic combination of zero leadership, willful ignorance, and the stupidest form of individualism imaginable, and there's a fascist threatening to remain in the White House if and when his manque Baron Harkonnen ass is voted out, so I've been trying to stay healthy and do what I can to keep this country from gleefully sliding into an abyss lorded over by an even worse assortment of Bible-thumpers, capitalist vampires, and emotionally wounded reactionary swine than we already have.

Those same wretched figures, albeit in older Portuguese forms, appear to have ruined the career of Judith Teixeira (AKA Judite dos Reis Ramos Teixeira). A poet, writer, and publisher of a short-lived magazine called Europa, Teixeira's works were denounced by the Action League of Lisbon Students (Liga de Acção dos Estudantes de Lisboa)—a name that reeks of the particularly awful conservatism of the young—and subsequently ordered to be burned by the Lisbon government. 

Why, you may ask, did these miserable children dislike Teixeira? Because she numbered among "the decadent artists, the poets of Sodom, the publishers, authors, and sellers of immoral books" due to lesbian subtext in her work. Judith Teixeira went on to live in obscurity until her death in 1959 at the age of 79. In a better world than ours, where people weren't slaves to rigid notions of family, country, and god, she may have gone on to write a lot more, and maybe even made a long-standing impact on LGBTQ literature in Portugal. Sadly, we'll never know.

I only recently learned of Teixeira's work, so I don't know if anyone else has translated her into English, but here's one of her poems, chosen for its seasonal relevance. I intend to translate more, too.

If you live in the US, go vote ASAP, and be prepared to step up if things get ugly after November 3. No matter where you live, remember that anti-fascism should be your default political position. If it isn't, ask yourself why, and fix it.

Abraço,
DAS

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"Outonais"
Judith Teixeira

No meu peito alvo, de neve,
as claras pétalas dos teus dedos,
finas e alongadas,
tombaram como rosas desfolhadas
à luz espásmica e fria
deste entardecer...
E o meu corpo sofre,
ébrio de luxúria, um mórbido prazer!

A cor viva dos teus beijos,
meu amor,
prolonga ainda mais o meu tormento,
na trágica dor
deste desvestir loiro e desolado
do Outono...
Repara agora, como o sol morre
num agónico sorrir
doloroso e lento!...

........................

Noite... um abismo...
sombras de medo!
Tumultuam mais alto os teus desejos!
Sobe o clamor do meu delírio
e a brasa viva dos teus beijos,
num rúbido segredo,
vai-me abrindo a carne em sulcos de martírio!


Entardecer — Janeiro
1925

 

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"Autumnal"
Judith Teixeira


On my snow-white breast,
the pale petals of your fingers,
long and slender,
fall like plucked roses
in the cold and spasmodic light
of this late afternoon...
And my body suffers,
drunk on lust, a morbid pleasure!

The bright color of your kisses,
my love,
further prolongs my torment,
in the tragic pain
of this blonde and bereft undressing
of Autumn...
See now how the sun dies
with an agonized smile,
painful and slow!...

........................

Night... an abyss...
Frightful shadows!
Your desires in a greater uproar!
The clamor of my delirium rises
and the glowing coal of your kisses,
in a red secret,
opens my flesh in furrows of martyrdom!

 

Sunset — January

1925