Essa lua enlutada, esse desassossego
A convulsão de dentro, ilharga
Dentro da solidão, corpo morrendo
Tudo isso te devo. E eram tão vastas
As coisas planejadas, navios,
Muralhas de marfim, palavras largas
Consentimento sempre. E seria dezembro.
Um cavalo de jade sob as águas
Dupla transparência, fio suspenso
Todas essas coisas na ponta dos teus dedos
E tudo se desfez no pórtico do tempo
Em lívido silêncio. Umas manhãs de vidro
Vento, a alma esvaziada, um sol que não vejo.
Também isso te devo.
Quando Beatriz e Caiana te perguntarem, Dionísio,
Se me amas, podes dizer que não. Pouco me importa
Ser nada à tua volta, sombra, coisa esgarçada
No entendimento de tua mãe e irmã. A mim me importa,
Dionísio, o que dizes deitado, ao meu ouvido
E o que tu dizes nem pode ser cantado
Porque é palavra de luta e despudor
E no meu verso se faria injúria
E no meu quarto se faz verbo de amor.
É bom que seja assim, Dionísio, que não venhas.
Voz e vento apenas
Das coisas do lá fora
E sozinha supor
Que se estivesses dentro
Essa voz importante e esse vento
Das ramagens de fora
Eu jamais ouviria. Atento
Meu ouvido escutaria
O sumo do teu canto. Que não venhas, Dionísio.
Porque é melhor sonhar a tua rudeza
E sorver reconquista a cada noite
Pensando: amanhã sim, virá
E o tempo de amanhã será riqueza:
A cada noite, eu Ariana, preparando
Aroma e corpo. E o verso a cada noite
Se fazendo de tua sábia ausência.
Se for possível, manda-me dizer
– É lua cheia, a casa está vazia. –
Manda-me dizer, e o paraíso
Há de ficar mais perto, e mais recente
Me há de parecer teu rosto incerto.
Manda-me buscar se tens o dia
Tão longo como a noite. Se é verdade
Que sem mim só vês monotonia.
E se te lembras do brilho das marés
De alguns peixes rosados
Numas águas
E dos meus pés molhados, manda-me dizer:
– É lua nova –
E revestida de luz te volto a ver.
Sorrio quando penso
Em que lugar da sala
Guardarás o meu verso
Distanciado
Dos teus livros políticos
Na primeira gaveta
Mais próxima à janela?
Tu sorris quando lês
Ou te cansas de ver
Tamanha perdição
Amorável centelha
No meu rosto maduro?
E te pareço bela
Ou apenas te pareço
Mais poeta talvez
E menos séria?
O que pensa o homem
Do poeta? Que não há verdade
Na minha embriaguez
E que me preferes
Amiga mais pacífica
E menos aventura?
Que é de todo impossível
Guardar na tua sala
Vestígio passional
Da minha linguagem?
Eu te pareço louca?
Eu te pareço pura?
Eu te pareço moça?
Ou é mesmo verdade
Que nunca me soubeste?
de Júbilo, memória, noviciado da paixão
Hilda Hilst
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.
