Conquistense Poetry 10: Seven Stars of Poetry — The 2nd Star
In 2007, one of the greatest names in the history of Conquistense literature, Ricardo de Benedictis, released another of his famed anthologies, (he's well known for the anthology series "Escritores Brasileiros [Brazilian Writers]") this time with a whole new title: "Sete Estrelas da Poesia (Seven Stars of Poetry)".
In this volume, he reunites with six of his friends to organize a collective poetic anthology. Each of them has their own flaws and qualities, smell and color, and make of this book a festival of literary diversity; of course, keeping to the etiquette and limitations of the time (mid-to-late 2000s), and their own individual "skill ceiling".
All the names signing this book come from experienced and awarded authors; middle-aged, old souls, men and women; but that doesn't necessarily mean their poetry is exquisite, classic, or even important through the lens of today's standards. Unfortunately, very little of those over-200 pages holds up to this day, born already a little dated in comparison to that which came at the very start of the next decade, just a few years later.
Nevertheless, what IS extraordinary in this book, and deserving of celebration for its timeless quality, will be brought to light once more, in new celebration and new optics. For the obscured poetry shone a spotlight, hooray!
Welcome all, old and new, Conquistense Poetry is back!
Sete poetas (Seven poets)
Organized by Ricardo de Benedictis himself, and published by his own publishing company, RB Editora, this book is formatted and decorated to the best of his (and his son's) ability. It's got the charm of the old man computer adopter exploring the visual possibilities his new editing software has given him, and is super cute. Most of his books —those that were published by his company—, even those that came in later, share of this same design philosophy, which makes the covers quite a treat
The poem in the back seeks to present in the well versed, poetic way only a cantador like Ricardo can do, the spirit of this project: a fraternal, collective effort in producing a loving, physical memory. In translation, without the worry of rhyming,
Here are seven poets
In alphabetical order
Versing their way
Towards their goals!
Seven amicable friends
Three men, four
Women,
Happy characters [in]
Classic, modern verses!
Here in these pages
The gentlest of glances...
Big and small details
In each tile of our roofs!
Seven shining stars
Seven enchanted beacons
In the most inspired versing!
Fátima Batista: the Second Star
Out of all the Seven Stars, Fátima Batista is the only one whose poetry you could call “urban”. It presents beauty as if experienced by a city-dweller, one not so familiar with the fullest extent of natural beauty, and that would rather take it in one step at a time, as gentle as possible. The smell could be compared to that of Wannda Katiúscea's “Intimate Moan”, where love and human beauty are held much higher than the sunset infinitely far beyond the skyline and the dark, pollution clouds.
She was fairly active on the internet during the 2010s, and even created a few blogs here and there like the Pintando Letras, Letras na Luz da Lua, Soletrar, and more recently updated, her Recanto das Letras profile. Unlike most authors brought up here in Conquistense Poetry, she is quite the public figure, and is not hard at all to find more of her stuff.
Passos (Steps)
Nos teus passos encontrei caminho
Nos teus caminhos encontrei o mundo
No teu mundo fui feliz
No descompasso do passo perdido
Eu te vi tão aturdido
Cruzando o próprio caminho
Na encruzilhada encontrou outro amor
Desfez-se em pó o pólen da flor
Que trazia em pétalas a luz do dia
No pó, a luz em desdém
Levou para muito além
Um sonho de poesia
Asfalto escuro
Folhas em movimento
No brilho do luar
Perfume no ar
Respingos na pele
Será o mar a derramar-se na areia?
Pétalas a dançar
Filtros de luz
Floresta em filtro
No canto da noite
No sorriso da lua
É uma nova estação
In your steps, I found a path;
In your paths, I found the world;
In your world, I was happy.
I saw you so confused,
In the mismatch of lost steps,
Crossing your own path.
In crossroads, you found another love.
Into dust turned the flower's polen,
Bringing in its petals the light of day.
In dust, the light in disdain
Carried far, far away
A poetic dream.
Dark asphalt,
Rustling leaves
Under moonlight.
Perfume in the air,
Splashes on skin,
Is it the sea pouring itself onto the sand?
Petals dance,
Light filters,
Forest in filter.
In the song of the night,
In the smile of the moon,
A new season blooms.
Efêmero (Ephemeral)
Passos na calçada
Vento nos cabelos
Brilho do sol poente
Prateado da luz dormente
Estrelas cadentes
Sorrisos envolventes
Amor de primavera.
Footsepts on the sidewalk,
Wind blowing through the hair,
Setting sun shine;
Silvery, sleepy light,
Shooting stars,
Captivating smiles:
Springtime love
Tela (Canvas)
Na tela branca
Nada se faz
Sonha-se colorido
Rabisco que não satisfaz
Pincéis borrados
Sem abraços
Sem traços
Sem bocas com gloss
Sem ar sem areia
Sem vento sem olhos castanhos
A beira mar (sic)
Pinceladas na falta
Na ausência
Sem presença
Sem futuro
Sem luz no fim do túnel
Telas e armários
Pincéis sem tinta
Sem riscos nem espátulas
Na tela branca sem vida.
On the blank canvas,
Nothing is done.
One dreams a colorful
scribble that won't satisfy.
Blurred brushes
Without hugs,
Or lines,
Or glossy mouths;
Without sand and without air;
Without wind, without brown eyes
At seaside.
Brush strokes lacking,
In absence,
No presence,
No future,
With no light at the end of the tunnel.
Closets and canvases,
Paintless brushes,
No scribbles or spatulas
On the lifeless blank canvas.
N.T. At first, I was not going to translate this one, it's really dull. But, on my second read of the book, I realized it is actually kind of genius, in a most likely indirect way. The dullness of it is the dullness being explored in the text; the uninspired gibberish is supposed to be uninspired, and so on and so forth. This block the speaker is going through seeped into the writing of this poem about the block, and in a very meta way you can find good value in it.
Insanidade (Insanity)
Sinto um quê de desejos
Sinto à distância teu cheiro
Sinto a saudade do teu beijo
Ouvi tua Voz
Tua voz que fala
Que me cala
E me entorpece
Ouvi tua voz
Ouvir tua voz
Engolir os meus nós
Emudeço
Pra ouvir, e guardar
E amar
Ouvi
Senti tua presença
Tão perto, tão certo
No meu coração
Sentei
Descansei a cabeça no meu peito
Queixo baixo
Lembrança, esperança
Sem crença, sem confiança
Ouvi tua voz
Ouvir tua voz
Calar-me por segundos, minutos, horas, dias
Não importa o tempo
Passado presente, não se desfaz
A voz não satisfaz
Mas traz
O exato momento de outras vozes
Sentei-me
Calei-me
E ouvi
Ouvi tua voz
Ouvi teus passos
Teus descompassos
P'ra outras calçadas
Não me ouviu
Não me sentiu
Não me viu
Ouvi tua voz—dentro do meu peito
Tão do teu jeito
Do teu jeito de falar
Ouvi tua voz!
I feel a touch of desires,
I sense your scent from afar,
I feel the longing for your kiss:
I heard your voice.
Your voice, that speaks,
Silences me
and makes me numb.
I heard your voice.
To hear your voice,
Swallow my knots,
I fall silent
To listen and keep
and love.
I heard;
Felt your presence
So close, so right,
In my heart
Sat down,
I rest my head on my chest,
Lower my chin
—Memory, hope;
Disbelief, insecurity—;
I heard your voice.
To hear your voice,
To fall silent for seconds, minutes, hours, days,
Doesn't matter how long;
Present past, does not unravel.
The voice doesn't satisfy,
But it brings
The exact moment of other voices.
I sat down,
Fell silent,
And heard:
Heard your voice,
Heard your steps,
One after another,
Towards other sidewalks.
Didn't hear me,
Didn't feel me,
Didn't see me.
I heard your voice —inside my chest—,
So like you,
Just the way you speak,
"I heard your voice!"
Onde está? (Where is it?)
O cheiro, o ópio
O gosto ardente
De saudade Presente
Proposta (vete) — Por amor
Olhos nos olhos
Alma refletida
Verdade imbatida
Coração aos saltos
Frente a frente
Dedos nos dedos
Pele a formigar
Cheiros no ar
[...]
Respiração na face
À meia-luz
Alheios a vozes
Cores e horários
Uma rua
Uma cadeira
E um bar
Na mesma estação
No escuro ao lado
No brilho da luz
No tremor da voz
No saltar do peito
Nem mesmo o centeio
Que enfeita o vaso
É capaz de esconder
O espelho da alma
Sem troca
Sem reposição
Cada vez mais intensas
As batidas do coração
Eternas manhãs
Noites tão mágicas
Um homem, uma mulher
Insaciável sede. Tempo
O tempo preciso
Pra se matar a solidão
Nem sempre é conciso
Pra tirar a saudade do coração
Olhos perdidos
Que nada vêem
Olhos cansados
Já não tem mais brilho
Sorriso apagado
Um traço fino na face
Mãos caídas—no colo descansam
Cabelos ao vento—sem movimento
Escolha acertada
Na alta madrugada
Olhando pra tela
Há muito apagada
O que é melhor—hora exata
O que foi melhor—hora passada
Paga-se o preço
Das escolhas erradas
The scent, the opium,
The ardent taste
of present longing.
Proposal (veto) — For love
Eye to eye,
Reflected soul,
Unbeaten truth,
Heart aflutter;
Face to face,
Fingers intertwined,
Skin tingling,
Scents in the air.
[...]
Breath on the face,
In half-light;
Oblivious to voices,
Colors and schedules.
A street,
A chair
And a bar
In the same station,
In the same darkness,
Under a different light;
In the trembling voice,
In the fluttering chest.
Not even the rye
Decorating the vase
Is able to hide
The reflection of the soul.
No trade,
No replacement;
The more intense
A heart beat.
Eternal mornings,
Such magical nights,
A man, a woman,
Insatiable thirst. Time.
The time needed
to kill this loneliness
Is not concise to that
of taking from the heart this yearning.
Lost eyes
That nothing see;
Tired eyes
That lost their shine.
Faded smile,
Just a simple line,
Resting hands—lay over the lap;
wind blows the hair—tired of moving.
The choice was made
At the peak of dawn,
Looking at a screen,
Long turned off.
What is best—this hour;
What was best—past hour;
The price is paid,
For wrong choices.
About the selection made for this mini-series, I'm not lying when I say very little of it could be saved. Some of the authors had barely a couple of poems go through, while others were scratched entirely, such as the case of the very first Star: Erasmo Shallkytton. The titles he'd sent and were curated for this book are nothing but cheap, womanizer verses, without the littlest bit of depth to them. Says here in his bio that he is a terrifically accomplished poet, but if his participation in this anthology is to show, it's probably undeserved. If you wish to explore his literature and translate for yourself, just type that alias of his on Google and you'll find plenty a results. (Just take a look at this and you'll see exactly what I mean.)