Poem
Manuel Gusmão
the hand writes on the mind : an arrow
the hand writes on the mind : an arrowtravelling on a piece of paper, a compass card:
the treble clef; la clef des jardins;
the key like a child’s train passing
through a patio with a palm tree, between
the white twilight and the red morning;
the city had grown like crests of waves
meeting the aerial constructions of clouds;
halfway up, shimmering triangles waved
and the murmuring earth remembered
the roots of electric trees
in whose branches glowed fish
from the deep.
Not even with arrows could you inhabit such a land,
so you place them into a painting that hallucinates
and you draw a fairy queen: an Arabian
song an Arabian princess written in sackcloth
and haloed with napalm; the forest under construction
multiplies the full moon across the lakeside pilings;
the boats navigate a white night
rising like a hill lit up
by monstrous, odd-shaped flowers:
crosses and spirals waiting for you.
the hand writes on the mind : an arrow
a mão escreve na mente: a flecha
que viaja no papel a rosa dos ventos:
a clave do sol; la clef des jardins;
a chave como um comboio de criança
passando num pátio com palmeira, entre
o crepúsculo branco e a manhã vermelha;
a cidade crescera como os arcos das ondas
ao encontro das aéreas construções das nuvens;
a meio caminho triângulos acesos ondeavam
e a terra recordava-se murmurante
das raízes das árvores eléctricas
em cujos ramos brilhavam os peixes
profundos.
Nem com setas habitarias tal pátria
e por isso as pões na pintura que delira
e desenhas uma fairy queen: um canto
árabe uma princesa árabe escrita em sarapilheira
e aureolada pelo napalm; a floresta em construção
multiplica a lua cheia pelas paliçadas lacustres;
os barcos navegam uma noite branca
que se ergue como um monte iluminado
por monstruosas flores irregulares
em cruz e em espiral à tua espera
que viaja no papel a rosa dos ventos:
a clave do sol; la clef des jardins;
a chave como um comboio de criança
passando num pátio com palmeira, entre
o crepúsculo branco e a manhã vermelha;
a cidade crescera como os arcos das ondas
ao encontro das aéreas construções das nuvens;
a meio caminho triângulos acesos ondeavam
e a terra recordava-se murmurante
das raízes das árvores eléctricas
em cujos ramos brilhavam os peixes
profundos.
Nem com setas habitarias tal pátria
e por isso as pões na pintura que delira
e desenhas uma fairy queen: um canto
árabe uma princesa árabe escrita em sarapilheira
e aureolada pelo napalm; a floresta em construção
multiplica a lua cheia pelas paliçadas lacustres;
os barcos navegam uma noite branca
que se ergue como um monte iluminado
por monstruosas flores irregulares
em cruz e em espiral à tua espera
© 1996, Manuel Gusmão
From: Mapas / O assombro A sombra
Publisher: Caminho, Lisbon
From: Mapas / O assombro A sombra
Publisher: Caminho, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of Manuel Gusmão
Close
the hand writes on the mind : an arrow
the hand writes on the mind : an arrowtravelling on a piece of paper, a compass card:
the treble clef; la clef des jardins;
the key like a child’s train passing
through a patio with a palm tree, between
the white twilight and the red morning;
the city had grown like crests of waves
meeting the aerial constructions of clouds;
halfway up, shimmering triangles waved
and the murmuring earth remembered
the roots of electric trees
in whose branches glowed fish
from the deep.
Not even with arrows could you inhabit such a land,
so you place them into a painting that hallucinates
and you draw a fairy queen: an Arabian
song an Arabian princess written in sackcloth
and haloed with napalm; the forest under construction
multiplies the full moon across the lakeside pilings;
the boats navigate a white night
rising like a hill lit up
by monstrous, odd-shaped flowers:
crosses and spirals waiting for you.
From: Mapas / O assombro A sombra
the hand writes on the mind : an arrow
the hand writes on the mind : an arrowtravelling on a piece of paper, a compass card:
the treble clef; la clef des jardins;
the key like a child’s train passing
through a patio with a palm tree, between
the white twilight and the red morning;
the city had grown like crests of waves
meeting the aerial constructions of clouds;
halfway up, shimmering triangles waved
and the murmuring earth remembered
the roots of electric trees
in whose branches glowed fish
from the deep.
Not even with arrows could you inhabit such a land,
so you place them into a painting that hallucinates
and you draw a fairy queen: an Arabian
song an Arabian princess written in sackcloth
and haloed with napalm; the forest under construction
multiplies the full moon across the lakeside pilings;
the boats navigate a white night
rising like a hill lit up
by monstrous, odd-shaped flowers:
crosses and spirals waiting for you.
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