Conquistense Poetry 03: An intimate moan
At this exact moment I have in my hands a copy of "Gemido Íntimo" (Intimate Moan), by Wannda Katiúscea, signed by the author herself as a gift on the 11th of February 1992; the release happened the year before. This copy was then donated to the library on the 5th of March 1997, more than five years later. Three people have borrowed the book since then, once in 2003, another in 2011, and now me in 2022. That means that this one exact copy of the book not only have passed through the hands of a very selected few, including the author, but was blessed by the ink of her own pen, with her own calligraphy. It's rare to see something so obscure carrying such valioso meaning, and despite all the clear visual damages (the mark of a dog's bite, a couple bad tears in the cover) still be around for anyone willing to give it a go. At the same time, the state of the book envelops it in mystery and leaves me, specifically, with many questions unanswered, like who is the person she gifted the book to? And what happened for the book to be donated to a library half-a-decade later? Is Wannda not as important to them as they seem to be to her? Why was she back to her hometown at the time of the signing (this question will make more sense down the line)? Does that person get featured indirectly in any of the poems? And what is the story behind this copy of the book? These are all questions that should not be figuring in the first paragraph of this post, but I'm doing it anyway, so try to keep up.
This book is not even close to being a one of a kind, even more if you consider the numerous regional ghost publishers all around the country (Brasil, that is) — that published works not with the intent of selling, per se, but of bringing to light B and C writers —, and the other various independent literary publications that happened when buying books was still a thing. All that, of course, before the 2000s, because after the start of the new millennium people just couldn't give less of a shit about the immense privilege that is being able to have books, and the newfound access to the internet and television and pop music, kind of fried the brains of many people that could possibly happen to want to publish something one day. Thankfully, though, there's still a really long history to explore from before everything turned to shit, so thanks to people like Rosália Simonian and Oscard Arnaud Sampaio and Danillo Nunes and — of course — Wannda Katiúscea for existing. But as I said, the author in question really's got nothing special in comparison to most of her peers, although that does not, necessarily, take away from the value of "Gemido Íntimo"; possibly the most significant literary venture she ever got into.
The biggest problem with this book is that it feels more like a collection than a selection (this paragraph is an outdated statement as of January 2023), hence the possible cause of it being an independent release. More than half of the book is worthless, lacking in poetic value for anyone besides whoever wrote it, but the rest... well, the rest is straight up gold. The good poems here are worth an academy chair if given the right polish — independent of the college zine aspect of the rest —, but this edition really does smell like a bucket-list wish done just because; like the failed writer's attempt of achieving happiness. Regardless, if I brought up this book here is because its value is still as queer as it gets; and worth your attention, of course. So don't mind my grumpy ramblings and hear me out making up good things about it using the smart words I know.
The first thing you learn with this book is that, independent of Wannda's age at the time of release, she still lives off teen romance — at least the teen romance allowed when she was a teen — and everything she does artistically has not a finger on it, but is completely submerged into it. Passion in her life is presented in the least desirable way, of so much dependence that it reaches insanity: the insanity of the suicidal lovers, of the old-timey poets, of the middle-aged spinsters desperate for a man. And this insanity is poured like vomit through the pen; a torrent of rambling verbose, like the weird stuff people today call art. The lucky part is that she is very much artistically capable, and controls this chaos into reasonably concrete verses. Sure, reasonable only until a certain point, because she still writes like a teenager most of the time, saved only by when the weight of the described experience lets her maturity transpire and, that right there is where it is at, and what I want to show you today.
Next up are a feel cut outs and full poems taken from the book, first in Portuguese, then translated to English. The order is the order of my reading at the time the selection was made, therefore, linear and as it is shown in the book itself. As you'll probably notice, too, there's somewhat of an order to them in almost romantic fashion, and sure autobiographical, that is much more clear when reading the whole book but, guess what, I'm not getting paid for this, so I'm not translating the whole book. Some stuff in here is truly ingenious, but I only took the liberty of editing with the English translations, so despite the desperate need for a fix in the original, everything stayed faithful to the 1992, 2nd edition copy I had in hand. And if Wannda would happen to read this and wants to talk about a third, bilingual edition, I'm here with my hands and my interest.
P.S.This book absolutely does not deserve so much trashing, and I'm sorry for that. It is indeed really amazing, and you can find out why in the second part of this general translation. (13/01/2023)
Descrença (Disbelief)
"[...]Escrevo desordenadamente, alucinadamente,
Intuitivamente.
No que escrevo, não existem metáforas, simbolismos,
Ou quaisquer coisas que não falem de amor,
De solidão!
Queria ter, não a ansiedade dos que esperam,
E, sim, a ilusão dos que podem aguardar com serenidade.
— Já perdi essa crença! —
Extravaso o mais profundo de mim
Com um misto de amargura e lirismo
Como sói minha alma sabe ser."
"[...]I write haphazardly, frantically,
Intuitively.
In my writing there are no metaphors, symbolisms,
Or whatever does not speak of love,
Of solitude!
I wish I had, not the anxiety of those who expect
but, the illusion of those who serenely await.
— I've lost that belief! —
I let out the deepest in me
With a mix of bitterness and lyricism
Like only my soul can portray."
Espiral (Spiral)
"(Que me desculpe o Drummond, mas a vida não é uma mera repetição?)
Rio de Janeiro... sozinha estou no Rio.
Rio de mim mesma e me desato em lágrimas.
Sozinha num leito que não é meu,
Que já adormeceu tantos corpos
Cansados de brigarem,
Eu tiro a máscara da amargura
E me entrego aos velhos devaneios.
Me sinto cada vez mais perto de mim,
Tenho medo...
As paredes estão nuas.
Nem um quadro, nem mesmo na memória.
Era o que eu queria...
A mesa cheia de papéis amassados.
São tentativas frustradas,
Não devem ser levadas adiante.
O caderno semicheio,
É passado...
No rosto, uma marca de dor, de lágrima,
De saudade.
Rio de Janeiro... sozinha estou no Rio,
São quantos habitantes hoje?
Dois milhões, dez ou cem?
Não importa!
O que sinto é esse gosto amargo,
Essa vontade de encontrar um amigo romântico
Que conte histórias antigas e bonitas,
Que invente passeios na brisa da tarde
Ou nas noites de pirilampos,
Que me dê sua mão forte, quente, perfumada,
Seu abraço companheiro, seu riso brejeiro!
Na hora da dormida, que me dê um beijo
E me dê sempre acolhida.
Ah! Também para quê?
Acho que perdi meu afeto, meu consolo.
Acho que é fim de caminho, é abandono.
Rio de Janeiro... sozinha estou no Rio.
Não tenho mais pai, deixei minha mãe,
Perdi meu amor...
O que tenho?
Um peito em pedaços,
Uma lágrima ainda fresca nos olhos,
E uma emoção que vai me deixando lentamente...
Rio de Janeiro... sozinha estou no Rio."
"(Forgive me Drummond but, isn't life just mere repetition?*)
Rio de Janeiro... all alone I'm in Rio**.
I laugh at myself and burst into tears.
Alone in a bed that isn't mine,
That have put to sleep so many bodies
Tired of fighting,
I take off the mask of bitterness
And give myself up to reverie.
I feel closer and closer to me,
I'm scared...
The walls are nude.
Not a single portrait hanging, not even in memory.
It's what I wanted after all...
The desk full of crumpled paper.
Failed attempts,
That should not be carried out.
The notebook is half-full with nothing but past regret...
On my face a scar, of pain, of tears, of longing.
Rio de Janeiro... all alone I'm in Rio,
How many people live here today? Two, ten or a hundred million?
Doesn't matter!
What I feel is this bitter taste,
This desire of finding a romantic friend
To tell me old-fashioned, beautiful stories,
To take me in promenades on the afternoon breeze
Or the firefly-filled nights,
To give me his fragrant, strong, warm hand,
To take me in a heartfelt hug, and sometimes show me a slick smile.
And at night, when we finally go to bed, to give me a kiss
and to do it with love.
Ah! But why go through all this trouble?
I think I lost my affection, my solace.
I think it's the end of the journey, abandonment.
Rio de Janeiro... all alone I'm in Rio.
I don't have a father anymore, left my mother,
lost my love...
What do I have left?
A chest in shambles,
A tear still fresh in the eye,
And an emotion that slowly escapes me...
Rio de Janeiro... all alone I'm in Rio."
(Rio de Janeiro is one of the biggest and most advanced cities in Brazil, part of the trinity along with São Paulo and Salvador. The speaker, as a country child in the 50s-60s with an inclination for the arts, always dreamed about living in a city like Rio de Janeiro, where all the "important people" are. But being there, "having what she wanted after all", and even achieving success in her field, the modern melancholy from the meaninglessness of adulthood achievements [rooted in childhood dreams] hits her hard, and she finds herself asking the question of, "have I done the right thing?", and after putting her scars and sacrifices on the scale, she finally realizes that not all ends justify the means.)
*Drummond is one of the country's most important poets, with a positive and linear view of life;
**Between the 2nd and 3rd verses there's a transition where the word "Rio" repeats itself utilizing two different definitions, Rio as in Rio de Janeiro (here "Rio" translates to "River"), and Rio as in laughing at something (here "Rio" is translated to "I laugh"); this is something that could not figure in the translation with the same poetic value as the original, but is a detail too interesting not to note.
Saudosismo (Nostalgia)
"A noite hoje é calma como teus gestos voluntários;
A brisa me segreda que o calor
Fixou-se todo em seu corpo;
Ele me dá boa-noite com hálito de rosas frescas
Que enfeita a cabeceira de minha cama;
Me sinto impregnada de infância:
— Sentia cheiro de almas,
Me arrepiava de medo da vida;
Sentia o vento frio do telhado,
Ouvia papai tossindo...
Queria um abraço acolhedor, forte, amigo!
Recordo-me de minha mãe antecipando minha ausência...
O café na mesa grande da cozinha,
O leite fresco, a tristeza nos meus olhos...
Repudio as lembranças!
Engulo a saliva morna-amarga,
O óleo diesel entra narina a dentro,
Mistura-se com o cheiro das rosas
E essa fragrância me faz certificar que cresci.
Todos os meus tormentos são salpicados
De intensas memórias,
Que já se abrigaram em mim
E pelo desgaste inútil de segurar
O terno, o sonho, o encanto.
Tento me redescobrir nos passos iguais
E minhas frágeis mãos crispam-se com moleza
Nos anseios, nos ideais já tão corroídos.
Volto à infância pelo caminho mais penoso e triste;
Desintegro minhas lembranças
Para juntá-las no dia seguinte;
Sinto apenas tu, a roda-viva
De múltiplas existências,
Com o perfume,
Com a saudade, com doçura e só com ausência.
O caminho percorrido para o encontro
É o mais valioso:
— Acumula experiência, paciência, compreensão!
Esperei-te nas chuvas outonais, murchas!
Nos campos abertos com brumas e brisa,
Nos cubículos fechados com cheiro
De cigarros adormecidos.
Na minha ansiedade, no meu zelo,
Nas alvoradas brilhantes,
No inverno úmido, no sol a pino,
Nas desilusões e trapaças da vida,
No abandono com olhos distantes.
Eu amei-te esperando-te.
Amei-te em cada gesto, em cada ânsia,
Amei-te em mim!"
"Today, the night is calm as your voluntary gestures;
The breeze whispers to me that the heat's settled all in your body;
He wishes me good night with a breath of fresh roses
That adorns my bedside;
I feel infused with childhood:
I could smell souls,
Shivered with fear of life;
Felt the cold wind from the roof,
Heard daddy coughing in the middle of the night...
I wanted a warm, strong, friendly hug!
I recall my mother anticipating my absence...
Breakfast at the large kitchen table,
The fresh milk, the sadness in my eyes...
I repudiate the memories!
Swallow the warm-bitter saliva,
The diesel enters through my nostrils,
Blending with the scent of roses,
And this fragrance assures me that I've grown.
All my torments are speckled with intense memories,
That have already taken shelter within me,
And through the useless wear of holding
The tender, the dream, the charm.
I try to rediscover myself in the same steps
And my fragile hands clench with ease
in the yearnings, in ideals already so corroded.
I return to my childhood through the most painful, most sorrowful path;
I desintegrate my memories
Only to put them back together the next day;
I feel only you, the living wheel,
Of multiple existences,
With the aroma,
With the longing, with sweetness and alone with absence.
The path travelled to the encounter
Is the most valuable:
— Accumulate experience, patience, comprehension!
I awaited you in autumnal, wilted rains!
In the open fields with shadows and breeze,
In claustrophobic cubicles
That reeked of old, stale cigarettes.
In my anxiety, in my zeal,
In the brightest of dawns,
In the humid winter, under the high sun,
In the delusions and deceptions of life;
In abandonment, my eyes distant.
I loved you awaiting you.
I loved you in each gesture, each moment of craving,
I loved you in me!
Desolação (Desolation)
"Hoje estou querendo ausências,
Solidão, morbidez;
Não quero sair dessa inércia,
Para não ter que me encarar de frente.
Me fantasio de palhaço
E vou pelas ruas,
Arrancando sorrisos de lábios tristes.
Imito o carnaval
E vejo a tarde mansamente chegar.
Choro debaixo do travesseiro
Lágrimas quentes.
Não direi nunca pra ninguém
A minha dor...
E quando alguém por pena perguntar
O que sinto,
Direi que é falta daquele grande amor,
Ou então, que é a melancolia
Dos fins de tarde...
Ninguém jamais encontrará meus fragmentos!
Pois eu os escondi no fundo
De minha caverna
E um animal feroz toma conta deles.
Ninguém se atreve a chegar lá
Com medo de ser destruído ou se perder
E nunca mais saber voltar."
"Today I want absences,
Solitude, morbidity;
Don't want out of this inertia,
so I don't have to face myself.
I dress up as a clown
and roam the streets
Turning frowns upside down.
I mimic the carnival
and watch the afternoon gently arrive.
I cry warm tears
Under the pillow.
Won't ever tell anybody about my pain...
And if someone, out of pity, happens to ask how I'm feeling,
I'll just say I'm missing that one true love,
Or maybe even blame the melancholy of early evenings...
Nobody will ever find my fragments!
For I hid them deep inside my cave
Whence a ferocious beast is guardian.
Nobody dares to go in there
Afraid of getting hurt or lost
And never finding the way back."
Outono Triste (Somber Autumn*)
"Renascia a aurora.
Como renascia todas as manhãs.
Meu coração era sombrio[...]"
"The dawn was reborn
As it was every morning.
My heart was somber[...]"
Fragmentos (Fragments)
"Uma música ao longe ouço.
Ela me traz a lembrança de um perfume.
Esse perfume me faz existir,
Essa existência me dá desânimo
E esse desânimo vibra em todo o meu corpo. Ah! são horas mortas[...]"
"I hear a song coming from afar.
It carries the memory of a fragrance.
This fragrance makes me exist,
This existence brings me discouragement
And this discouragement vibrates throughout my entire body.
Ah! These are dead hours[...]"
Inveja (Envy)
"Alguns instantes,
eu gostaria mesmo de ser você[...]
Se eu fosse você,
Eu seria muito...
Mas muito mais feliz
Pois seria amada,
Perdidamente amada,
Amada até morrer."
"Sometimes, I'd really like to be you[...]
If I were you I'd be really, really...
But really happy.
Because I would be loved,
Hopelessly loved,
Loved to death."