It is in his lyrical incursions, at times elegiac, in works published already in the 21st century, that Alberto Pimenta’s most political gesture is manifested, carrying with it an affirmation of freedom and living values and making him one of the greatest voices in Portuguese contemporary poetry.
Bernardo Pinto de Almeida Alberto Pimenta was born in Porto and lives in Lisbon. He spent many years in Germany (1960-1977), where he taught at the University of Heidelberg. After returning to Portugal, he became a professor at Lisbon’s Universidade Nova. Besides being a poet he is also an essayist and a translator Poetry books since 2000 [su_row][su_column size="1/2" center="no" class=""] Ode pós-moderna (2000), Grande colecção de inverno 2001-2002 (2001), Tijoleira (2002), A encomenda do silêncio  [Antologia] (2004), Marthiya de Abdel Hamid segundo Alberto Pimenta (2005), Imitação de Ovídio (2006), [/su_column] [su_column size="1/2" center="no" class=""] Indulgência plenária (2007), Planta rubra (2007), Prodigioso Acanto (2008), De nada (2013), Autocataclismos (2014) [/su_column][/su_row] [su_youtube_advanced url="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVRJLNkzz-c" rel="no" modestbranding="yes"]  
Teste descrição Ana Hatherly

The new Poets

I Say

28 Abril, 2017By bitcliq

I say this: you shouldn’t write with fear. You should ask poets to whom they read their verse, before having it published. All of them go through this safety net. Today’s poem reminds me of a Modern Times in which poets are workers and poetesses are dutiful housewives. I choose gender’s androgyny.

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It’s almost dark

It’s almost dark.
Women of different ages await the arrival of someone who’ll take them. While waiting, they talk to the stones with eyes that bear the widowhood of days. I’ve seen them all my life. Away from the stones, close to the sea. In the days when striped beach huts were hired, picnic lunches and folding chairs were taken to the sand and the children were learning to swim in the sea, well away, golden little dots appearing in the tides.

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Eyes

To speak so low no one can hear, to write so small no one can read, to empty my ears and my eyes so that I’ll be found gone into the ground I walk on. My absent self, buying porcelain houses for my mother.

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In the distance they’re all Stones

It was my mother who taught me to fear vagrant things or the injustice of stones’ lives – so lifeless! Stray animals that die on the roadside – no: they die on the road, I don’t know who moves them to the side, but that’s where they’re found – a cat, eyes open, one eye hanging out still attached to its cavity – will it see better now, its eye touching the ground? Mother tells me not to look at it; neither me nor the lifeless life of stones’ injustice.

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Bones

Dead birds’ bones as relics of saints: I’d wear them if they brought me good luck. And if asked whose bones I boasted around my neck, I’d reply they belong to the most polluting saints of this land no longer inhabited by seagulls alone.

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The coming Poets

Sara F. Costa

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Alberto Pimenta

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Sérgio Godinho

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Teste 03 2021
(SCRIPTURE)
Home Made Brews
Black Bile
I write
I Say
23.
ENDS
Monte*