proud women in bright wrappers

middle of dry season, nomadic traders passing through,
their children (no taller than we were) driving drought-
thinned cattle up toward the plateau, and we would
follow after at a distance with our razorblades in hand,

look for gems, butterflies pressed flat by passing
hooves, incise the dry clay beneath and lift them,
save them on small trays, carry them to an artist who
affixed them to white paper — or, for those largest

and most perfect, crushed black velvet in a frame —
collage them into women, the women we hoped
we’d grow to be: proud women in bright wrappers
with large headscarves, grace and balance carrying

bundled firewood, calabashes of gathered greens,
clay pots of water on their heads, women with
their sleeping children snugged tight behind their
shoulders, women at the mortar pounding yam


A childhood memory prompted by an entry at The Morning Porch. To see samples of this type of wing collage, search for “vintage African butterfly art women” in Google – Images.

Shift

They ask her where she was born,
despite the team sweatshirt she wears
as she works quietly at the cutter
on the floor. At her feet, a litter of pieces
and the sift from contact of fiber with the blades.
Twice a month the machines need oiling: a smell
like old mushrooms lingering in the air.
Her bones? They are small and well suited
for the minute labors repeating like seconds
around the hour— Or so she is told.
She knows how to duck out the door at the sound
of the bell, how to disappear in a sea of faces
divided into shifts: resembling hers,
resembling no one really, she knows.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Hillbilly.

Refresh

To my Lord this morning, and thence to my brother’s, where I found my father, poor man, come, which I was glad to see. I staid with him till noon, and then he went to my cozen Scott’s to dinner, who had invited him. He tells me his alterations of the house and garden at Brampton, which please me well.
I could not go with him, and so we parted at Ludgate, and I home to dinner, and to the office all the afternoon, and musique in my chamber alone at night, and so to bed.

O the rot
where we invite
use and ease.

We part
after music in
a one-night bed.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 27 May 1662.

The discovery of things I’ve never seen: five poems by Oswald de Andrade

My long-time friend and fellow blogger Natalie d’Arbeloff volunteered to help out with this Poetry from the Other Americas series, and I jumped at the chance to add some Brazilian poems to the mix. Here are five by Oswald de Andrade that Natalie selected and translated in an admirably straight-forward way, demonstrating that one doesn’t necessarily have to be a professional poet to be a good translator. —Dave


Portuguese error

When the Portuguese arrived
In pouring rain
They clothed the Indian
What a shame!
Had it been a sunny morning
The Indian would have stripped
The Portuguese.

Erro de português

Quando o português chegou
Debaixo duma bruta chuva
Vestiu o índio
Que pena!
Fosse uma manhã de sol
O índio tinha despido
O português.

*

The discovery

We followed our course on that long sea
Until the eighth day of Easter
Sailing alongside birds
We sighted land
the savages
We showed them a chicken
Almost frightening them
They didn’t want to touch it
Then they took it, stupefied
it was fun
After a dance
Diogo Dias
Did a somersault
the young whores
Three or four girls really fit very nice
With long jet-black hair
And shameless tits so high so shapely
We all had a good look at them
We were not in the least ashamed.

A descoberta

Seguimos nosso caminho por este mar de longo
Até a oitava da Páscoa
Topamos aves
E houvemos vista de terra
os selvagens
Mostraram-lhes uma galinha
Quase haviam medo dela
E não queriam por a mão
E depois a tomaram como espantados
primeiro chá
Depois de dançarem
Diogo Dias
Fez o salto real
as meninas da gare
Eram três ou quatro moças bem moças e bem gentis
Com cabelos mui pretos pelas espáduas
E suas vergonhas tão altas e tão saradinhas
Que de nós as muito bem olharmos
Não tínhamos nenhuma vergonha.

*

Song of going home

My land has palm trees
Where the sea twitters
The little birds over here
Don’t sing like those over there
My land has more roses
And almost more lovers
My land has more gold
My land has more land
Gold land love and roses
I want everything my land has
God don’t let me die
Before going back home
God don’t let me die
Without seeing 15th Street again
And the progress of Sao Paulo.

Canto de regresso à pátria

Minha terra tem palmares
Onde gorjeia o mar
Os passarinhos daqui
Não cantam como os de lá
Minha terra tem mais rosas
E quase que mais amores
Minha terra tem mais ouro
Minha terra tem mais terra
Ouro terra amor e rosas
Eu quero tudo de lá
Não permita Deus que eu morra
Sem que volte para lá
Não permita Deus que eu morra
Sem que volte pra São Paulo
Sem que veja a Rua 15
E o progresso de São Paulo.

*

Lord
May I never be
Like the old Englishman
Over there
Asleep in an armchair
Waiting for visitors who do not come.

Senhor
Que eu não fique nunca
Como esse velho inglês
Aí do lado
Que dorme numa cadeira
À espera de visitas que não vêm

*

3rd of May

I learned from my ten-year old son
That poetry is the discovery
Of things I’ve never seen.

3 de maio

Aprendi com meu filho de dez anos
Que a poesia é a descoberta
Das coisas que eu nunca vi

Lessons in complexity

If the character had told the hungry children
they must earn their keep by begging in the streets,

if she had sold them surreptitiously
to the recruiter who wanted to know if they

were virgins; if the trail of bread or pebbles
shining in the moonlight was replaced

by coils of concertina wire, and the house
of sugar dreams boiled down into a soup

of rubber sap and insect wings— There’d be
no chance to buy time with a chicken bone

held up between the slats of a cage. Only the fire
would be a constant, a raging eager to be fed.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Silence

Up by four o’clock in the morning, and fell to the preparing of some accounts for my Lord of Sandwich. By and by, by appointment comes Mr. Moore, and, by what appears to us at present, we found that my Lord is above 7,000l. in debt, and that he hath money coming into him that will clear all, and so we think him clear, but very little money in his purse. So to my Lord’s, and after he was ready, we spent an hour with him, giving him an account thereof; and he having some 6,000l. in his hands, remaining of the King’s, he is resolved to make use of that, and get off of it as well as he can, which I like well of, for else I fear he will scarce get beforehand again a great while. Thence home, and to the Trinity House; where the Brethren (who have been at Deptford choosing a new Maister; which is Sir J. Minnes, notwithstanding Sir W. Batten did contend highly for it: at which I am not a little pleased, because of his proud lady) about three o’clock came hither, and so to dinner. I seated myself close by Mr. Prin, who, in discourse with me, fell upon what records he hath of the lust and wicked lives of the nuns heretofore in England, and showed me out of his pocket one wherein thirty nuns for their lust were ejected of their house, being not fit to live there, and by the Pope’s command to be put, however, into other nunnerys.
I could not stay to end dinner with them, but rose, and privately went out, and by water to my brother’s, and thence to take my wife to the Redd Bull, where we saw “Doctor Faustus,” but so wretchedly and poorly done, that we were sick of it, and the worse because by a former resolution it is to be the last play we are to see till Michaelmas. Thence homewards by coach, through Moorefields, where we stood awhile, and saw the wrestling. At home, got my lute upon the leads, and there played, and so to bed.

four in the morning
my ears coming clear
like the lives of nuns


Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 26 May 1662.

Morning Shadows

The morning porch — mine has no railing
beyond the stems of dandelion, red
and purple clover standing too close
to the concrete to be eaten by the mower.

When the first full burst of light arrives,
sun escapes the tangled brush around
the creek and crests the gambrel
of the barn, these wildflowers cast dark

shadows, charcoal against light gray.
I twist the lid from the small jar of water
that lives beneath the window, reach
for the fine-tip paintbrush on the sill,

begin to fill the silhouettes with water.
I work quickly, make dark marks with this
clear ink. By the time I’ve water-painted
a meter stretch of wildflowers, the sun

has risen further, added another tier to our
collaborative design. Occasional butterflies
alight, stop and sip damp clover before
the shadow blossoms vanish from the sundial.


In response to an entry from The Morning Porch.

Hillbilly

(Lord’s day). To trimming myself, which I have this week done every morning, with a pumice stone, which I learnt of Mr. Marsh, when I was last at Portsmouth; and I find it very easy, speedy, and cleanly, and shall continue the practice of it. To church, and heard a good sermon of Mr. Woodcocke’s at our church; only in his latter prayer for a woman in childbed, he prayed that God would deliver her from the hereditary curse of child-bearing, which seemed a pretty strange expression. Dined at home, and Mr. Creed with me. This day I had the first dish of pease I have had this year. After discourse he and I abroad, and walked up and down, and looked into many churches, among others Mr. Baxter’s at Blackfryers. Then to the Wardrobe, where I found my Lord takes physic, so I did not see him, but with Captn. Ferrers in Mr. George Montagu’s coach to Charing Cross; and there at the Triumph tavern he showed me some Portugall ladys, which are come to town before the Queen. They are not handsome, and their farthingales a strange dress. Many ladies and persons of quality come to see them. I find nothing in them that is pleasing; and I see they have learnt to kiss and look freely up and down already, and I do believe will soon forget the recluse practice of their own country. They complain much for lack of good water to drink. So to the Wardrobe back on foot and supped with my Lady, and so home, and after a walk upon the leads with my wife, to prayers and bed.
The King’s guards and some City companies do walk up and down the town these five or six days; which makes me think, and they do say, there are some plots in laying. God keep us.

A stone in a dish of peas,
I have come far.
Ladies look freely
up and down at me
and some walk
up and down the town,
which makes me think.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 25 May 1662.

The soul feels small, looking up

at the spires of the old cathedral—

The world is a wheel and the trees
form a ring of spokes; when it turns,

the edge of the sky catches fire
and the soul wants a hand to hold

in such a flurry of dizzying purple
and gold. Still shy as when first

it ventured abroad, there it stands
tongue-tied in a roomful of people,

easily overlooked in the streets
with their theatre of noise.

Self-starter

To the Wardrobe, and there again spoke with my Lord, and saw W. Howe, who is grown a very pretty and is a sober fellow. Thence abroad with Mr. Creed, of whom I informed myself of all I had a mind to know. Among other things, the great difficulty my Lord hath been in all this summer for lack of good and full orders from the King; and I doubt our Lords of the Councell do not mind things as the late powers did, but their pleasures or profit more. That the Juego de Toros is a simple sport, yet the greatest in Spain. That the Queen hath given no rewards to any of the captains or officers, but only to my Lord Sandwich; and that was a bag of gold, which was no honourable present, of about 1400l. sterling. How recluse the Queen hath ever been, and all the voyage never come upon the deck, nor put her head out of her cabin; but did love my Lord’s musique, and would send for it down to the state-room, and she sit in her cabin within hearing of it. That my Lord was forced to have some clashing with the Council of Portugall about payment of the portion, before he could get it; which was, besides Tangier and a free trade in the Indys, two millions of crowns, half now, and the other half in twelve months. But they have brought but little money; but the rest in sugars and other commoditys, and bills of exchange. That the King of Portugall is a very fool almost, and his mother do all, and he is a very poor Prince.
After a morning draft at the Star in Cheapside, I took him to the Exchange, thence home, but my wife having dined, I took him to Fish Street, and there we had a couple of lobsters, and dined upon them, and much discourse. And so I to the office, and that being done, Sir W. Pen and I to Deptford by water to Captain Rooth’s to see him, he being very sick, and by land home, calling at Halfway house, where we eat and drank. So home and to bed.

How I inform myself!
A mind to know
is no mind—
sand to the Indies,
the morning star to a fish.


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 24 May 1662.