Conquistense Poetry 05: The mildly interesting art from "Intimate Moan"
Coming back to "Gemido Íntimo" is something I've been doing quite often. Managed to find a copy being sold for dirt-cheap on the internet, and now I have it all in hand to visit whenever I feel like. Turns out that book has been revealing itself as much more than I could ever imagine, or ever find out in the couple reads done at the library. "Gemido Íntimo" is an all-in-all masterpiece of amateur, self-published literature, and with only a tad bit more repercussion, I'm sure would cement Wannda's name in the podium of her scene. These two poems I bring to the table today are the last ones from the original selection, in possibly the last instance in which "Gemido Íntimo" will be brought up in its own [series of] post[s]. Accompanying them is all the original art for the book, not counting the cover, signed by the same artist: Gilson (or Gilda).
Egocentrismo (Egocentrism)
"De encontro com meu rosto no espelho,
Vejo-me tragada por soluços e amarguras
Desses poucos anos já vividos.
Anos como que jogados pela mais alta janela
Do mais alto edifício da terra.
Vejo-me em carências sufocadas
Pelos raros carinhos dados, atabalhoadamente.
Às vezes, para me sentir amada...
Minhas olheiras estão profundas,
Olhos ainda brilhantes, rosto talvez de menina
Que se julga tão adulta quanto insegura.
Às vezes, vejo lágrimas pingadas num cálice
De ternuras guardadas e
Temperadas com choro contido
Por ter que segurar a dor.
A vida é tão efêmera, que receio dormir
Para não ter que perder tempo
Com sonhos lacônicos e desinteressantes.
Recorro, entretanto, aos devaneios,
Às abstrações de um quarto solitário...
É essa cidade morta de amor
Que me faz chorar nesse instante.
É esse Rio de Janeiro angustiante
Que me sussurra coisas tão duras
De arrepiar a alma.
Essa manhã evitei olhar-me no espelho,
Para não ter que certificar-me
De que já me transformei em mulher...
Uma pequena pessoinha de anseios altos,
De pensamentos contraditórios,
De ânsia de elevar-se,
De saber tudo sobre todas as coisas.
É muito fácil falar das pessoas
E nos escondermos na simplista convicção
De que não nos conhecemos,
Ou que somos pequenos demais
Para nos tornarmos interesse
De nossas próprias análises.
Eu cresci tanto que tento voltar atrás,
Repisando pelos lugares que percorri
E sempre me perco no meio do caminho.
Retroceder dói tanto quanto me sentir inútil...
Os caminhos poderão ser os mesmos
Mas não os vejo mais como tal,
Nessa minha ânsia de altitude,
De acertos, de vitórias!
Hoje quero o amor de abandono de poesia,
O sentimento fecundado de essência.
Quero o martírio do orgasmo da flor desabrochando.
Quero o delírio da saudade no peito sangrando,
Doendo, mas saber que ele renascerá
Em toda emoção, todas as crenças.
Quero você, cometa, planeta de mil e uma noites,
Elos de algemas líricas, de poemas secretos,
Sonetos em duetos de bocas cálidas,
Canções em corações suados, palpitantes...
Quero sonhar com amantes em lençóis brancos,
Entre nuvem de pó de pétalas de flores perfumadas,
E ver em espelhos multicoloridos,
Meus sonhos repartidos com alguém marcante.
Quero sentir afagos de peles macias,
Quero ver o sol surgir por entre
Cortinas de rendas transparentes
E me sentir presente,
Ausente de farsa, de sofrimento...
Deixo, agora, que o espelho me analise friamente
E se torne cacos ao chão!
Só pra ninguém descobrir quem sou eu!
Eu... menina, mulher, amante de amor;
Extasiante de entregas, de reservas...
Eu... semente fértil, andorinha de asas cortadas,
De sonhos roubados...
Eu... gaivota sem pouso certo,
Sem rumo reto;
Eu... sôfrega de orgasmos contidos
E imaginários;
Eu... brasa encoberta pela cinza;
Eu... vulcão em erupção
Em busca de um amor ardente;
Eu,... fêmea, gente, mulher!"
"Before my face in the mirror,
I see myself engulfed in the sobs and bitterness
Of these few years I have lived.
Years like thrown out the highest window
Of the tallest building on Earth.
I see myself in needs stiffled
By the affections given, clumsily.
Sometimes, to feel loved...
Deep, dark circles surrounding,
But my eyes still shine, my face maybe girly,
Of a girl that deems herself as mature as she is insecure.
Sometimes, I see tears dripping into a chalice
Of tenderness stored,
Seasoned with restrained crying
From having to hold back the pain.
Life is so ephemeral, I dread sleeping,
So as not to waste time on laconic and uninteresting dreams.
I resort, however, to daydreams...
Abstractions from a lonely room...
It's this love-dead city
That makes me cry at this moment.
It's this distressing Rio de Janeiro
That whispers such harsh things to me,
Sending shivers down my soul.
This morning, I avoided looking at myself in the mirror,
Not wanting to certify me that I've already turned into a woman...
A tiny little person with giant desires,
Of contradictory thoughts,
Eager to rise,
to know all about all things.
It's much too easy to talk about others
And hide ourselves in the simplistic belief
That we don't know our self,
Or that we are much too little to be of interest to our own analysis.
I've grown so much that I try to go back,
Retracing the places I've been,
And I always get lost along the way.
Retreating hurts as much as feeling useless...
The paths might be the same,
But I don't see them as such,
In my eagerness for altitude,
for achievement, for victory!
Today, I want the love of abandonment in poetry,
The fecund feeling of essence.
I want the martyrdom of the orgasm of the blooming flower.
I want the delirium of longing in the bleeding, aching chest,
But knowing he* will be reborn
In every emotion, in all beliefs.
I want you, comet, planet of a thousand and one nights,
Links of lyrical shackles, of secret poems,
Sonnets in duets of calid mouths,
Songs in sweaty, throbbing hearts...
I want to dream of lovers in white sheets,
amidst clouds of fragrant petals' dust,
And see in multicolored mirrors,
My dreams shared with someone remarkable.
I want to feel caresses of soft skins,
I want to see the sun rise through sheer lace curtains
And feel myself present,
Absent from farce, from suffering...
I, now, let the mirror analyze me coldly
And become shards on the floor!
Just so no one discovers who I am!
Me... girl, woman, love's lover;
Ecstatic in submission, in restraint...
Me... fertile seed, swallow of clipped wings,
of stolen dreams...
Me... seagull with nowhere to land,
With no goal in sight;
Me... eager for contained, imaginary orgasms;
Me... ember concealed by ash;
Me... erupting vulcano
In search of an ardent love;
Me,... female, person, woman!"
*This last part refers to her daydreams. Poetic daydreams. And when she uses "he" in this context, she's both referring to the "...bleeding, aching chest" (that is a gendered word in Portuguese: "peito", a he) and, possibly, the christ (christ's chest holds the sacred heart, et cetera). Throughout her poetry, there's a deep sense of irony when she refers to religion, and here it comes off as almost sacrilegious, by linking religious imagery to lecherous poetics. But as she herself says, her poetry is strictly visceral, coming straight from the heart as to talk purely about love; so there will be, naturally, a large appeal to the carnal when she enters the poetic stupor, being spewed with whatever else is going on inside: this time, the son himself and his martyrdom—symbolisms.
Simplicidade (Simplicity)
"Ah! dias tristes.
Meras recordações, meras ilusões!
Cai a tarde...
Chove no poço fundo de meus olhos.
Os pingos de amargura ardem nesse completo
Abandono de poesia.
O inverno não tardará a chegar
Em meu quarto úmido de lágrimas
Com cheiro de lembranças cheias de nostalgia,
Finda o outono que passou sem me fazer percebida,
Com breves anúncios
De amontoados de folhas mortas
E cheiro de jasmim,
Deixando no meu peito
A ânsia do prosseguimento.
Pasma a noite sem luar,
Só com as estrelas que cintilam
Compensando a escuridão
E o ar docemente melancólico.
Calçadas vazias estão,
Pistas vazias ficarão nas madrugadas.
Só meus olhos deparam com o manequim
De macacão cinza de uma esquina próxima.
Me falta o canto da coruja,
O lampião de gás,
A lareira apagada com cinzas ainda mornas,
A ave-maria no alto-falante,
O grilo cantando nas madrugadas,
A praça do mercado aos sábados,
O canto matinal dos pássaros na minha janela,
Os pêssegos verdes roubados deliciosamente...
Minha infância perdida!
Me falta coragem de romper
Com o futuro
E voltar a ter a aurora nas minhas mãos.
Falta querer-me bem!"
"Ah! sad days.
Mere memories, mere illusions!
Evening falls...
It rains, in the deep well of my eyes.
The droplets of bitterness burn in this complete abandonment of poetry.
This winter will not be long in coming
In my room damp with tears,
With the scent of memories full of nostalgia.
Autumn has passed without making me noticed,
With brief announcements
Of heaps of dead leaves
And the scent of jasmine,
Leaving in my chest
The urge to proceede.
The moonless night marvels,
Only with the stars that twinkle
Compensating for the darkness
And the sweetly melancholic air.
Empty are the sidewalks,
Streets will soon be desert.
Only my eyes come across the mannequin
In gray overalls from a nearby corner.
I lack the hooting of the owl,
The gas lamp,
The fireplace extinguished with ashes still warm,
The Hail Mary on the loudspeaker,
The cricket singing at dawn,
The farmer's market on Saturdays,
The morning song of the birds in my window,
The deliciously stolen green peaches...
My lost childhood!
I lack the courage to break
With the future
And once again have the aurora in my hands.
I lack wishing me well!"
Silêncio (Silence) /bonus/
"No silêncio bebo
O orvalho que
Goteja do poema.
No silêncio
Sinto a brisa,
E mastigo meus versos
Como quem sonha
Todo fantasiado..."
"In silence I drink
The dew that
Drips from the poem.
In silence
I feel the breeze,
And chew my verses
Like who dreams
All in fantasy..."
Drawings
P.S.As you might have noticed, these entries are heavily poetic and call for a very dark place in the heart of the author. That same feeling of nostalgia brought up in poems early in the book, as first realization of the situation at hand, have nurtured roots that go deep, evolved into an almost chronic melancholy; so rich in resources for the poet, but also so damning and painful. And I wonder, if she were to be alive today, about the potential quality of a newborn piece. Wannda was (maybe is) a true artist, and I'm thankful for taking notice of her.