isattheleft.Ahigh vox
humanasomewherewails:
Thegrayhorseneedsshoeing!
It’salwaysthesame!
Whatareyoudoing,
there,beyondtheframe?
Ifyou’rethedonor,
youmightdothatmuch!
Turnonthelight.Turnover.
Onthebedasmutch—
black-and-goldgesso
onthealteredcloth.
Thecatjumpstothewindow;
inhismouth’samoth.
Dreamdreamconfronting,
nowthecupboard’sbare.
Thecat’sgonea-hunting.
Thebrookfeelsforthestair.
Theworldseldomchanges,
butthewetfootdangles
untilabirdarranges
twonotesatrightangles.
Sandpiper
Theroaringalongsidehetakesforgranted,
andthateverysooftentheworldisboundtoshake.
Heruns,herunstothesouth,finical,awkward,
inastateofcontrolledpanic,astudentofBlake.
Thebeachhisseslikefat.Onhisleft,asheet
ofinterruptingwatercomesandgoes
andglazesoverhisdarkandbrittlefeet.
Heruns,herunsstraightthroughit,watchinghistoes.
—Watching,rather,thespacesofsandbetweenthem,
where(nodetailtoosmall)theAtlanticdrains
rapidlybackwardsanddownwards.Asheruns,
hestaresatthedragginggrains.
Theworldisamist.Andthentheworldis
minuteandvastandclear.Thetide
ishigherorlower.Hecouldn’ttellyouwhich.
Hisbeakisfocussed;heispreoccupied,
lookingforsomething,something,something.
Poorbird,heisobsessed!
Themillionsofgrainsareblack,white,tan,andgray,
mixedwithquartzgrains,roseandamethyst.
FromTrollope’sJournal
[Winter,1861]
Asfarasstatuesgo,sofarthere’snot
muchchoice:they’reeitherWashingtons
orIndians,awhitewashed,stubbylot,
Hiscountry’sFatherorHisfostersons.
TheWhiteHouseinasad,unhealthyspot
justhigherthanPotomac’sswampybrim,
—theysaythepresentPresidenthasgot
agueorfeverineachbackwoodslimb.
OnSundayafternoonIwandered—rather,
Ifloundered—outalone.Theairwasraw
anddark;themarshhalf-ice,half-mud.Thisweather
isnormalnow:afrost,andthenathaw,
andthenafrost.Ahuntingman,Ifound
thePennsylvaniaAvenueheavyground…
Thereallaroundmeintheuglymud
—hoof-pocked,uncultivated—herdsofcattle,
numberless,wond’ringsteersandoxen,stood:
beeffortheArmy,afterthenextbattle.
Theirlegswerecakedthecolorofdriedblood;
theirhornswerewreathedwithfog.Poor,starving,dumb
orlowingcreatures,nevertochewthecud
orfilltheirmawsagain!Th’effluvium
madethatdamnedanthraxonmyforeheadthrob.
Icalledasurgeonin,ayoungman,but,
withasorethroathimself,hedidhisjob.
WetalkedabouttheWar,andashecut
away,hecroakedout,“Sir,Idodeclare
everyone’ssick!Thesoldierspoisontheair.”
VisitstoSt.Elizabeths
[1950]
ThisisthehouseofBedlam.
Thisistheman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thisisthetime
ofthetragicman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thisisawristwatch
tellingthetime
ofthetalkativeman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thisisasailor
wearingthewatch
thattellsthetime
ofthehonoredman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thisistheroadsteadallofboard
reachedbythesailor
wearingthewatch
thattellsthetime
oftheold,braveman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thesearetheyearsandthewallsoftheward,
thewindsandcloudsoftheseaofboard
sailedbythesailor
wearingthewatch
thattellsthetime
ofthecrankyman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat
thatdancesweepingdowntheward
overthecreakingseaofboard
beyondthesailor
windinghiswatch
thattellsthetime
ofthecruelman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thisisaworldofbooksgoneflat.
thatdancesweepingdowntheward
overthecreakingseaofboard
ofthebattysailor
thatwindshiswatch
thattellsthetime
ofthebusyman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thisisaboythatpatsthefloor
toseeiftheworldisthere,isflat,
forthewidowedJewinthenewspaperhat
thatdancesweepingdowntheward
waltzingthelengthofaweavingboard
bythesilentsailor
thathearshiswatch
thatticksthetime
ofthetediousman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thesearetheyearsandthewallsandthedoor
thatshutonaboythatpatsthefloor
tofeeliftheworldisthereandflat.
ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat
thatdancesjoyfullydowntheward
intothepartingseasofboard
pastthestaringsailor
thatshakeshiswatch
thattellsthetime
ofthepoet,theman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
Thisisthesoldierhomefromthewar.
Thesearetheyearsandthewallsandthedoor
thatshutonaboythatpatsthefloor
toseeiftheworldisroundorflat.
ThisisaJewinanewspaperhat
thatdancescarefullydowntheward,
walkingtheplankofacoffinboard
withthecrazysailor
thatshowshiswatch
thattellsthetime
ofthewretchedman
thatliesinthehouseofBedlam.
TranslationsfromthePortuguese(1969)
Seven-SidedPoem
( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)
WhenIwasborn,oneofthecrooked
angelswholiveinshadow,said:
Carlos,goon!Be gaucheinlife.
Thehouseswatchthemen,
menwhorunafterwomen.
Iftheafternoonhadbeenblue,
theremighthavebeenlessdesire.
Thetrolleygoesbyfulloflegs:
whitelegs,blacklegs,yellowlegs.
MyGod,whyallthelegs?
myheartasks.Butmyeyes
asknothingatall.
Themanbehindthemoustache
isserious,simple,andstrong.
Hehardlyeverspeaks.
Hehasafew,choicefriends,
themanbehindthespectaclesandthemoustache.
MyGod,whyhastThouforsakenme
ifThouknew’stIwasnotGod,
ifThouknew’stthat
Iwasweak?
Universe,vastuniverse,
ifIhadbeennamedEugene
thatwouldnotbewhatImean
butitwouldgointoverse
faster.
Universe,vastuniverse,
myheartisvaster.*
Ioughtn’ttotellyou,
butthismoon
andthisbrandy
playthedevilwithone’semotions.
Don’tKillYourself
( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)
Carlos,keepcalm,love
iswhatyou’reseeingnow:
todayakiss,tomorrownokiss,
dayaftertomorrow’sSunday
andnobodyknowswhatwillhappen
Monday.
It’suselesstoresist
ortocommitsuicide.
Don’tkillyourself.Don’tkillyourself!
Keepallofyourselfforthenuptials
comingnobodyknowswhen,
thatis,iftheyevercome.
Love,Carlos,tellurian,
spentthenightwithyou,
andnowyourinsidesareraising
anineffableracket,
prayers,
victrolas,
saintscrossingthemselves,
adsforabettersoap,
aracketofwhichnobody
knowsthewhyorwherefore.
Inthemeantimeyougoonyourway
vertical,melancholy.
You’rethepalmtree,you’rethecry
nobodyheardinthetheatre
andallthelightswentout.
Loveinthedark,no,love
inthedaylight,isalwayssad,
sad,Carlos,myboy,
buttellittonobody,
nobodyknowsnorshallknow.
TravellingintheFamily
( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)
toRodrigoM.F.deAndrade
InthedesertofItabira
theshadowofmyfather
tookmebythehand.
Somuchtimelost.
Buthedidn’tsayanything.
Itwasneitherdaynornight.
Asigh?Apassingbird?
Buthedidn’tsayanything.
Wehavecomealongway.
Heretherewasahouse.
Themountainusedtobebigger.
Somanyheaped-updead,
andtimegnawingthedead.
Andintheruinedhouses,
colddisdainanddamp.
Buthedidn’tsayanything.
Thestreetheusedtocross
onhorseback,atagallop.
Hiswatch.Hisclothes.
Hislegaldocuments.
Histalesoflove-affairs.
Openingoftintrunks
andviolentmemories.
Buthedidn’tsayanything.
InthedesertofItabira
thingscomebacktolife,
stiflingly,suddenly.
Themarketofdesires
displaysitssadtreasures;
myurgetorunaway;
nakedwomen;remorse.
Buthedidn’tsayanything.
Steppingonbooksandletters
wetravelinthefamily.
Marriages;mortgages;
theconsumptivecousins;
themadaunt;mygrandmother
betrayedamongtheslave-girls,
rustlingsilksinthebedroom.
Buthedidn’tsayanything.
Whatcruel,obscureinstinct
movedhispallidhand
subtlypushingus
intotheforbidden
time,forbiddenplaces?
Ilookedinhiswhiteeyes.
Icriedtohim:Speak!Myvoice
shookintheairamoment,
beatonthestones.Theshadow
proceededslowlyon
withthatpathetictravelling
acrossthelostkingdom.
Buthedidn’tsayanything.
Isawgrief,misunderstanding
andmorethanoneoldrevolt
dividingusinthedark.
ThehandIwouldn’tkiss,
thecrumbthattheydeniedme,
refusaltoaskpardon.
Pride.Terroratnight.
Buthedidn’tsayanything.
Speakspeakspeakspeak.
Ipulledhimbyhiscoat
thatwasturningintoclay.
Bythehands,bytheboots
Icaughtathisstrictshadow
andtheshadowreleaseditself
withneitherhastenoranger.
Butheremainedsilent.
Thereweredistinctsilences
deepwithinhissilence.
Therewasmydeafgrandfather
hearingthepaintedbirds
ontheceilingofthechurch;
myownlackoffriends;
andyourlackofkisses;
therewereourdifficultlives
andagreatseparation
inthelittlespaceoftheroom.
Thenarrowspaceoflife
crowdsmeupagainstyou,
andinthisghostlyembrace
it’sasifIwerebeingburned
completely,withpoignantlove.
Onlynowdoweknoweachother!
Eye-glasses,memories,portraits
flowintheriverofblood.
Nowthewaterswon’tletme
makeoutyourdistantface,
distantbyseventyyears…
Ifeltthathepardonedme
buthedidn’tsayanything.
Thewaterscoverhismoustache,
thefamily,Itabira,all.
TheTable
( CarlosDrummonddeAndrade)
Andyouneverlikedparties…
Oldman,whataparty
we’dgiveforyoutoday.
Thesonsthatdon’tdrink
andtheonethatlovestodrink,
aroundthewidetable,
gaveuptheirgrimdiets,
forgottheirlikesanddislikes;
itwasanhonestorgy
endinginrevelations.
Yes,oldman,you’dhearthings
toshockyourninetyyears.
Butthenwedidn’tshockyou,
because—whatwiththesmiles,
andthefathen,andthewine,
goodwinefromPortugal,
aswellaswhatwasmade
fromathousandingredients
andservedupinabundance
inathousandchinadishes
—we’dimpliedalready
thatitwasallinfun.
Yes.Yourtiredeyes
usedtoreadingthecountry
indistancesofleagues,
andinthedistanceonesteer
lostintheblueblue,
lookedintoourverysouls
andsawtheirrottenmud,
andsadlystaredrightthroughus
andfiercelysworeatus
andsweetlypardonedus
(pardonistheusualritual
forparents,asforlovers).
Andthen,forgivingall,
youinwardlycongratulated
yourselfuponsuchchildren…
Well,thebiggestscoundrels
haveturnedoutalotbetter
thanIbargainedfor.Besides,
chipsofftheold…Youstopped,
frowningsuddenly,
inwardlygoingover
someregrettedmemory,
andnotallthatremote,
smilingtoyourself,seeing
thatyouhadthrownabridge
fromthegrandfather’scrazydance
tothegrandsons’escapades,
knowingthatallflesh
aspirestodegradation,
butonafieryroad
ben
eathasexualrainbow,
youcoughed. Harrumph. Children,
don’tbesilly.Children?
Greatboysinourfifties,
bald,who’vebeenaround,
butkeepinginourbreasts
thatyoungboy’sinnocence,
thatrunningofftothewoods,
thatforbiddencraving,
andtheverysimpledesire
toaskourmothertomend
morethanjustourshirts,
ourimpotent,raggedsouls…
Ah,itwouldbeabig
mineiro*dinner…Weate,
andhungergrowswitheating,
andfoodwasjustapretext.
Wedidn’tevenneed
tohaveappetites;everything
wasdisposedof;themorningafter,
we’dtaketheconsequences.
Neverdisdain tutu. †
Theregoessomemorecrackling.
Asfortheturkey? Farofa*
needsanicelittle cachaça†
tokeepitcompany,
anddon’toverlookthebeer,
agreatcompanion,too.
Theotherday…Doeseating
holdsuchsignificance
thatthebottomofthedish
alonerevealsthebest,
mosthuman,ofourbeings?
Isdrinkingthensosacred
thatonlydrunkmybrother
canexplainhisresentment
andoffermehishand?
Toeat,todrink:whatfood
morefragrant,moremysterious
thanthisPortuguese-Arabian,
andwhatdrinkismoreholy
thanthisthatjoinstogether
suchagluttonousbrotherhood,
big-mouths,goodfellowsall!
Andthesister’stherewhowent
beforetheothers,andwas
arosebyname,andborn
onadayjustliketoday
inordertograceyourbirthday.
Hernametastesofcamelia
andbeingarose-amelia,
amuchmoredelicateflower
thananyoftherose-roses,
shelivedlongerthanthename,
althoughshehid,insecret,
thescatteredrose.Besideyou,
see:ithasbloomedagain.
Theoldestsatdownhere.
Aquiet,craftytype
whowouldn’tmakeapriest,
butlikedlowlove-affairs:
andtimehasmadeofhim
whatitmakesofanyone;
and,withoutbeingyou,
strangely,theolderhegrows,
themorehelookslikeyou,
sothatifIglimpsehim
unexpectedlynow
itisyouwhoreappear
inanothermanofsixty.
Thisonehasadegree,
thediplomaofthefamily,
buthismorelearnedletters