This mournful moon, this unease
Inner turbulence, lagoon,
Inside the solitude, a dying body,
All this I owe to you. Such immense
Plans and future, ships,
Walls of ivory, words full
Always consented to. It would be December.
A jade horse beneath the waters
A double transparency, a line in mid-air
All these things at your fingertips
All undone through the portal of time
Silent and blue. Mornings of glass,
Wind, a hollow soul, a sun I can not see
This, too, I owe to you.
When Beatrice and Cayanna ask you, Dionysus,
If you love me, you may say you love me not. It little matters to me
Being nothing around you, a shadow, tattered stuff
In the judgement of your mother and sister. What matters to me,
Dionysus, is what you say in bed, in my ear
And what you say cannot be sung
Because they are shameless, raging words
And in my verse they would sound wrong
And in my room love is the word.
It is as it should be, Dionysus: do not come
Voice and wind only
Of the out there
Supposing alone
That if you were inside
This important voice, this wind
of the branches out there
Would never reach me. Absorbed
I would listen
To the essence of your song. Do not come, Dionysus,
For it is better to dream your roughness
And every night, savour victory anew
Thinking: tomorrow, yes, you will come
And tomorrow will be a time of plenty:
Every night, I Ariana, making ready
Fragrance and body. And a verse every night
Unfolding from the wisdom of your absence.
Send me word, if you can,
"The moon is full, the house is clear."
Send me word, and paradise
Shall be nearer, and your uncertain face
Shall seem more recent.
Send for me if your day
Is as long as your night. If it's true
Without me you see nothing but monotony.
If you remember the gleam of tides
Some pale red fish
In certain seas
And my wet feet, send me word:
"It's a moonless night"
And dressed in light, I come to see you again.
I smile when I wonder
Where in your room
You keep my verse.
Away from your
Political books?
In the first drawer
Close to the window?
Do you smile when you read
Or are you tired of seeing
Such abandon
Amorous spark
On my ripened face?
Do I seem beautiful
Or am I to you, perhaps
Too much of a poet,
And not serious enough?
What does the man think
Of the poet? That there's no truth
In my drunkenness
And that you prefer
A friend more peaceful
And less adventurous?
That you simply cannot
Keep in your room
Worldly traces
Of my passionate words?
Do you see me as mad?
Do you see me as pure?
Do you see me as young?
Or is it true
That you never knew me?
from Joy, Memory, Novitiate of Passion
Hilda Hilst
translated from the Portuguese by Beatriz Bastos
Read the original in Portuguese
Listen to the first two poems in the original Portuguese read by Beatriz Bastos:
So as to share a bit of Hilda Hilst's complex universe with English language readers, I have chosen to translate poems from one of her first poetry collections: Joy, Memory, Novitiate of Passion (1974). Despite the religiosity suggested by the title, this book is not about any specific religion – unless one thinks of poetry and love as religions in themselves. If anything, it is about love, solitude and writing poetry. These are solemn poems, composed of a mixture of free verse and traditional poetic meters and forms, which create the impression of an "old" poetry. When thinking of poetic influences, instead of modern poetry, we might think of Sappho, Catullus and Petrarch. In fact, one has the impression of hearing the soft sound of an ancient lyre being played in the background, as if we were drawn back to the very beginnings of lyric poetry.
Some critics locate an erotic element as the central nerve of this poetry. Indeed, Hilst seems to think of love in quite physical terms; these poems are not at all platonic or spiritual. However, the poet realizes that the act of writing is only possible, that it only happens, when the beloved is absent; despite insisting upon her lover's return, she needs to be alone so as to hear the "wind" and a certain "voice." It is as if the poetic machinery could only function when dealing with an absence.
Each line of Hilst's poems offers specific challenges for translation. Generally speaking, Hilst's lyric is quite solemn, yet also very musical. To preserve this seriousness, I have frequently used words of Latin origin. At times they might not sound very natural, but a degree of awkwardness is also present in the original poems. I have also tried to reproduce most of the rhyme schemes and syntactic cuts, so as not to completely lose the pleasantness of the original sounds.
Some critics locate an erotic element as the central nerve of this poetry. Indeed, Hilst seems to think of love in quite physical terms; these poems are not at all platonic or spiritual. However, the poet realizes that the act of writing is only possible, that it only happens, when the beloved is absent; despite insisting upon her lover's return, she needs to be alone so as to hear the "wind" and a certain "voice." It is as if the poetic machinery could only function when dealing with an absence.
Each line of Hilst's poems offers specific challenges for translation. Generally speaking, Hilst's lyric is quite solemn, yet also very musical. To preserve this seriousness, I have frequently used words of Latin origin. At times they might not sound very natural, but a degree of awkwardness is also present in the original poems. I have also tried to reproduce most of the rhyme schemes and syntactic cuts, so as not to completely lose the pleasantness of the original sounds.
Hilda Hilst was born in 1930 in Jaú, Brazil. A prolific writer whose work spans many different genres, including poetry, fiction, drama and newspaper columns, her eccentric personality — she claimed she would go to a planet called Marduk in her afterlife — attracted more public attention than her work. She was a beautiful woman with an active social life in São Paulo, but at a certain point she decided to retreat to the countryside to dedicate herself entirely to writing. She died in 2004, and while she had already received some public recognition, many of her important books were already out-of-print by then. Her popularity has grown since then, and all of her books have been published in new editions. Some of her work has also been translated into Italian, French, Spanish and German.
Beatriz Bastos (b. 1979) is a Brazilian poet, translator, and Ph.D. candidate in comparative literature based in Rio de Janeiro. She started translating poetry from Portuguese into English while living in London in order to share some of her favorite poems with friends. Bastos's dissertation centers on the theories and practice of translation, bringing together her translations into English of Hilda Hilst's poetry with those of Portuguese poet Adília Lopes, alongside her translations of Frank O'Hara's poetry into Portuguese. She has published three poetry books, Areia (Sand), Da Ilha (From the Island), and, together with Fernanda Branco, Pandora—fósforos de segurança (Pandora—Safety Matches). Some of her poems have been translated into Spanish and can be read online at Sala Grumo. She is a member of the poetry collective Noves Fora.
