Silence is the place where you scream

Chego atrasado à frisa dos teus olhos.

A música violeta pestaneja na sala.

Há uma actriz transida que tirita

              transita

                                   mas não fala.

Entro no teu olhar

                                    Sou uma seta

que te cega e nos cala.

O silêncio é o sítio onde se grita

e a noite, minha amiga,

é mais discreta

como convém ao poeta

que se veste de gala.

 

O Smoking, José Carlos Ary dos Santos

 

I am late to the frieze of your eyes.

The violet music blinks in the room.

There is a transient actress who

               transits

                                    but does not speak.

I enter your gaze

                                     I’m an arrow

who blinds you and keeps us silent.

Silence is the place where you scream

and the night, my friend,

is more discreet

as befits the poet

who dresses up.

 

The Smoking, José Carlos Ary dos Santos ( my imperfect translation)

Photo: Written on the wall, Braga (November 26, 2017)

The syntax of things

since feeling is first

who pays any attention

to the syntax of things

will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool

while Spring is in the world

my blood approves

and kisses are a better fate

than wisdom

lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry

—the best gesture of my brain is less than

your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then

laugh, leaning back in my arms

for life’s not a paragraph

and death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings, Since feeling is first

Photo: streets of Porto. May there be forgiveness for the word.

I do pay too much attention to the “syntax of things” and it’s becoming harder to move beyond words.