
Short and Musical
Johnny Virgil
First edition
A translation of Breves from Portuguese by the author
Blumenau
2003
Index
IntroductionShort and MusicalSongEulogy to the TeacherI - While I am aliveII - This hand, that handIII - We must liveIn the fields of your eyesIV - I could open up the seasV - On the grassVI - The wind plays with the grassVII - In my soul is a bodyVIII - Could you tell me ifIX - If you look into your heartThese are the seasons of the soulX - My house has no windowsXI - Can you see the dark sky, the blind starsYour eyes are blindXII - I go out along the night streetsXIII - We liveXIV - I will be this flowerXV - I want to drink up the seaSonnetWhat is the importance of having or not having been happy?The MadmanThe RoseAfterword
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

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 Is magnanimous, fascinating . . .
Green, life
Dominate the landscape.


There is a rustic house; There are a gate and a fence.
Inside this small square Lies Nature's essence.
For the flowers are just one soul, A profound song to life.


(...)


The woman: poor experienced woman!
In the extreme loneliness of her existence, Only the roses were left.
And she lulls them,
Lulled by the roses she is.
Notwithstanding, she does not stop loving anyone, Those who run away from her because she is ugly, Hunchbacked and ragged.


But she, despite of her extreme poverty, Calls attention with the roses, Noble roses grown by golden fingers.


She, intending to have friends, In order to get rid of that sad solitude, Takes care of her vases like an angel.


(...)


The plants are everywhere.
There are roses in the doorway, on the roof; In the fence, in the road.
To this woman, the wrinkled lady, The world is a garden of roses -- And nothing more.


Prejudice


Everyone stopped by the house.
They stared at the garden, sighed.
But when, from the doorway, The lady addressed them with 'These roses are mine,'
They turned their backs, walked away.


The lady, watching them leave in the distance, Filled herself with resentment and said: 'My roses,
You are the wonder.
Even you would not have been born by yourselves, Without the help of my hands.
However, they smile at you; And despise me.'


When that used to happen, She would go back inside the house, She would take the watering-can And fill it with water.
After this, watering the flowers, She whistled a sad melody.


Death


One day, after dawn
(Cloudy it was, by the way), The woman did not go out to water the flowers.
And days followed
Without her stepping out of the house.


Inside, in a dirty corner, A withered and decayed body lay.


(...)


The roses knew that she had died.
And they grew on and on . . .
Took possession of the hovel; Occupied the surroundings with their boughs.
And, when the mausoleum was ready, They faded away, died, vanished . . .


(...)


And those who remember those times, Passing by the ruined hovel, Whisper in a touched way: 'The richness of this house was not the flowers, But the woman who watered them.'


The End


Will never be forgotten That one that one day was 'A rose among many others.'

Afterword

Farewell, my friend.


Words would be vain, Were we perfect.


But, if these verses are useless, We will burn them.


Only both of us
Know what makes us happy.

Any comments may be sent to the author at the e-mail account johnnyvirgil@hotmail.com.

