Poems From The Portuguese
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Maria Andresen

(B. 1948)

Maria Andresen writes an ambitious poetry in the sense that, through it, we no longer listen to ‘God’s voice in a covered well’, as Fernando Pessoa-Álvaro de Campos would say, but we are touched by the impossibility and by the echo of despair that inhabits that same impossibility.'

Maria Andresen was born in Porto but has always lived in Lisbon. She teaches at the Humanities Faculty in the Universidade Clássica de Lisboa and is also an essayst and a translator.

Poetry books since 2000:

Lugares (2001), Livro de Passagens (2006), Lugares (2010)

Poems

WEST COAST

21 Setembro, 2018By bitcliq

The spotlights hit you, Mick, as if they were the sun and brighten up
your teeth, your dark tongue, your intensity, your scream, your gibe
‘My body is my music, my cunning, my house
a woman who’s gone (the one haunting my dreams), your
roar, how your voice is delirious in me’
And I picture you in your sleep, your arrogance, tiredness
and that your love making is a rhythmic howling of the masses

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THE ROLLING STONES CONCERT (COPPOLA)

The spotlights hit you, Mick, as if they were the sun and brighten up
your teeth, your dark tongue, your intensity, your scream, your gibe
‘My body is my music, my cunning, my house
a woman who’s gone (the one haunting my dreams), your
roar, how your voice is delirious in me’
And I picture you in your sleep, your arrogance, tiredness
and that your love making is a rhythmic howling of the masses

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LONG GONE SUMMER

there is a smell, a scent
between the gorse and you – the fig tree
almond cicadas
the sun’s uncertain step
a sitting dog a hand
a cat light and slow
growing up
the advancing afternoon
so eager the world
astonished hunger
the hand
the way to the lighthouse
through the dusty earth

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DIES IRAE I

(Dreyer)
Nature is sparse and the sun when it shines is dim;
joy is furtive around here
when it visits with almost no warning
There’s a beam of light tracing the world
cold light, ungiving light:
for the death of Herlof Marthe
resounds and spreads
The morning tide is high in Anne’s heart
as high are the flames of retribution
– here the sun is cold –
Herlof Marthe and his foreboding gift
haunt us like a persistent song
The verdict will go forth with its restricting light
its propitious knife
the verdict will go forth in its coldness
Only Anne summons love, the poisonous love
and walks with Martin over stones –
in the distance, the sound of the axe cuts coldly in air

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