By Carlos Drummond de Andrade
The main necessary poems of Brazil's maximum poet
Brazil, based on no much less an observer than Elizabeth Bishop, is a spot the place poets carry a spot of honor. "Among males, the identify of 'poet' is usually used as a praise or time period of love, no matter if the individual spoke of is . . . no longer a poet in any respect. the most well-known twentieth-century poets, Manuel Bandeira, used to be offered with an enduring automobile parking space in entrance of his residence apartment in Rio de Janeiro, with an enamelled signal POETA--although he by no means owned a motor vehicle and didn't know the way to drive." In a tradition like this, it's tricky to underestimate the significance of the nation's maximum poet, Carlos Drummond de Andrade.
Drummond, the main emblematic Brazilian poet, was once a grasp of remodeling the normal international, via language, into the chic. His poems--musical protests, twisted hymns, dissonant celebrations of imperfection--are transcriptions of existence itself recorded by means of a magnanimous outcast. As he placed it in his "Seven-Sided Poem": "When i used to be born, a type of twisted / angels who stay within the shadows acknowledged: / 'Carlos, prepare to be a misfit in life!' . . . international so extensive, international so huge, / my heart's even larger."
Multitudinous center, the main beneficiant collection of Drummond's poems to be had in English, gathers paintings from a few of the stages of this stressed, marvelous modernist. Richard Zenith's choice and translation brings us a extra vibrant and unbelievable poet than we knew.
Read Online or Download Multitudinous Heart: Selected Poems: A Bilingual Edition PDF
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Extra resources for Multitudinous Heart: Selected Poems: A Bilingual Edition
Example text
Don’t tell me that he went up in smoke like Daddy’s cigar! He didn’t blow out like a match! It is special being here at Easter with the Cross they built like a capital T. The ceiling is an upside-down rowboat. I usually count its ribs. Maybe he was drowning? Or maybe we are all upside down? I can see the face of a mouse inside of all that stained-glass window. Well, it could be a mouse! Once I thought the Bunny Rabbit was special and I hunted for eggs. That’s when I was seven. Now it’s really Jesus.
Later, after the party, after the house went to bed, I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy, watching your picture, letting the tree move in and out of focus. The bulbs vibrated. They were a halo over your forehead. But you did not move. I continued to watch, forcing myself, waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five. I wanted your eyes, like the shadows of two small birds, to change. But they did not age. The smile that gathered me in, all wit, all charm, was invincible. Hour after hour I looked at your face but I could not pull the roots out of it.
Maybe he was only hiding? Maybe he could fly? Yesterday I found a purple crocus blowing its way out of the snow. It was all alone. It was getting its work done. Maybe Jesus was only getting his work done and letting God blow him off the Cross and maybe he was afraid for a minute so he hid under the big stones. He was smart to go to sleep up there even though his mother got so sad and let them put him in a cave. I sat in a tunnel when I was five. That tunnel, my mother said, went straight into the big river and so I never went again.