as notícias chegam
espalham-se no charco
do display, chegam
rolam pelo feed
ligeiras como colibris
269 dispersi nel mare di Lampedusa
e queimam a retina
*
as medusas chegam
provocam eczemas e paralisias
na pele exposta ao sol
com vertigens e náuseas
ao meio-dia
*
enquanto isso
entre falhas de conexão
também chegam as mensagens,
manchas de óleo insuspeitas
ressoam no inbox como moedas
no cofre de metal,
são amigos migrando no mundo
constelações
de afeto intermitente,
um fluxo irrefreável de notícias
e gente que parte
faíscam no iphone
asas fugazes
de um inseto que sai do casulo
*
dois destinos se avizinham
por um segundo ferem-se,
como feras que fingem
um sono manso
enquanto os corpos caem
os rostos caem
no charco do display
*
as notícias não param de chegar
androides sem alma
que invadem o quarto:
*
são 269 mortos no mar de Lampedusa
somando-se aos 653 já contabilizados
só esse ano, sem rosto ainda sem nome
são 269 os últimos não-chegados
*
enquanto isso
tantos rostos cintilam na tela
cada silêncio cada like cada perfil
queafunda no mar de níquel
*
cada balsa
que nem chegou a ser viagem
*
é possível morrer
duas, três, quatro
dez, dezenove vezes
da mesma morrida morte
*
a primeira ocorre
quando carrega-se
por dias
entre dias
entre as mãos
a terra natal
como filho natimorto
*
a segunda
quando por fim consegues
extirpar o que há de mais fundo
na memória
*
a terceira
quando a língua trinca
e esfacela-se
*
a quarta é quando esqueces
o cheiro da terra após a chuva
*
as outras mortes
se amontoam
como insetos
*
o difícil é descobrir
onde se esconde o inseto final
de O mundo mutilado
Prisca Agustoni
Listen to an excerpt of the original Portuguese read by the translator:
We reflected considerably before translating the following verses: “é possível morrer/duas, três, quatro/dez, dezenove vezes/da mesma morrida morte” from the book O mundo mutilado (The Mutilated World; Editora Quelônio, 2020) by Prisca Agustoni.
We were only able to translate it after we had interpreted the deaths to mean migrants living in extremely harsh conditions; they were already dead before dying. The author meant that it is possible to die many times from the same death, as follows:
The first death was becoming aware that migrants belonged nowhere as their home country was uninhabitable; they had no place to call home. As a result, they found themselves abandoned in a country that did not shelter them from their anguish.
The second death was when the migrants delved in vain into their innermost reminiscences. It is extremely painful and tiring trying repeatedly to remember something that really matters when they are so far from their homeland, like being apart from who they really are. Without memory, they have no identity. And without identity, they are dead.
The third death is when migrants become speechless. In other words, when they are so miserable that they do not have the strength to say anything when faced with these terrible conditions. The fourth death is when they no longer even notice or remember the smell of earth after rain. That is to say, when they become unable to care about the special things nature offers them.
The other deaths are as meaningless as a pile of dead insects. Only the most sensitive people care about the death of migrants. The logic of some developed countries is to care only about their own countrymen, which is why migrants suffer so much from prejudice, xenophobia and racism. Finally, it is difficult to find where “the last insect is”, that is to say, the survivor.
It was challenging to find an expression in English that would adequately translate “são 269 os últimos não-chegados”. However, we ended up finding the solution: “269 are the latest non-arrivals”.
We decided upon a verbal collocation, instead of a noun collocation as it is in the original.
We were only able to translate it after we had interpreted the deaths to mean migrants living in extremely harsh conditions; they were already dead before dying. The author meant that it is possible to die many times from the same death, as follows:
The first death was becoming aware that migrants belonged nowhere as their home country was uninhabitable; they had no place to call home. As a result, they found themselves abandoned in a country that did not shelter them from their anguish.
The second death was when the migrants delved in vain into their innermost reminiscences. It is extremely painful and tiring trying repeatedly to remember something that really matters when they are so far from their homeland, like being apart from who they really are. Without memory, they have no identity. And without identity, they are dead.
The third death is when migrants become speechless. In other words, when they are so miserable that they do not have the strength to say anything when faced with these terrible conditions. The fourth death is when they no longer even notice or remember the smell of earth after rain. That is to say, when they become unable to care about the special things nature offers them.
The other deaths are as meaningless as a pile of dead insects. Only the most sensitive people care about the death of migrants. The logic of some developed countries is to care only about their own countrymen, which is why migrants suffer so much from prejudice, xenophobia and racism. Finally, it is difficult to find where “the last insect is”, that is to say, the survivor.
It was challenging to find an expression in English that would adequately translate “são 269 os últimos não-chegados”. However, we ended up finding the solution: “269 are the latest non-arrivals”.
We decided upon a verbal collocation, instead of a noun collocation as it is in the original.
Prisca Agustoni is a poet, translator and literary critic who writes and self-translates in Italian, Portuguese and French. She has lived between Switzerland and Brazil for twenty years and works as a literature professor at the Universidade Federal de Juiz de Fora (UFJF) in Brazil. Her most recent works in Portuguese are: O mundo mutilado (The Mutilated World; Quelônio, 2020), finalist for the Prêmio Jabuti (2020); O gosto amargo dos metais (The Bitter Taste of Metals; 7Letras, 2022), winner of two awards—the Prêmio Cidade de Belo Horizonte (2022) and Prêmio Oceanos (2023); Rastros (Traces; Fósforo, 2022)—and Entre o que brilha e o que arde (Between What Shines and What Burns; Urutau, 2022). In Italian, her most recent work is Verso la Ruggine (Towards Rust; Interlinea, 2022), which won the Swiss Literature Award (2023) and was a finalist for the Premio Fortini (2023).
Alice Osti Magalhães is a Brazilian poet and translator working in English and Portuguese. She received a Master of Philosophy (MPhil) in literary translation from Trinity College Dublin (2013), where she developed a translation portfolio and an annotated translation.
Jenny Marshall Rodger is British and has lived in Brazil for forty-three years. She holds an MA in translation from the University of Westminster (1994) and has been a translator for the last thirty years. She is a sworn translator and works as an interpreter in Brazil and the United Kingdom. Together with Alice Osti Magalhães, Rodger published three poems from the book Sombras Longas (Long Shadows; Relicário Edições, 2023) by Patrícia Lavelle in Exchanges: Journal of Literary Translation (2024). In addition, they won third place in the Stephen Spender Prize for Poetry Translation 2023, together with other translators, including the highly acclaimed Alison Entrekin. Their co-translation has been published on the Stephen Spender Trust website and booklet.
