Poems From The Portuguese
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Maria do Rosário Pedreira

Maria do Rosário Pedreira’s poetry has been, since her very first book, ‘A Casa e o Cheiro dos Livros' (The House and the Smell of Books), a musically melancholy writing, infused in a unhurried tune of harsh beauty in which, like the wind in the cypresses, the feelings of loneliness and forsakenness blow, together with a lyricism embroidered by a sort of needle of time guided by distance and memory.

Maria do Rosário Pedreira was born in Lisbon. She has a degree in Modern Languages and Literatures and has worked in publishing since 1987 - her brief includes the discovery of writers of new literary fiction in Portugal. She has also written a novel and two series of books for young people which were both adapted for television. All her poetry books are now collected in one volume published in 2012.

Poetry books since 2000:

O Canto do Vento nos Ciprestes (2001), Nenhum nome depois (2004), Poesia Reunida (2012)


Your place at the table…

21 Setembro, 2018By bitcliq

Your place at the table was empty. Somebody came to tell us
you wouldn’t be back, no one can be back from so far.
And since then our wounds are as deep
as your silence, our visits only feel welcoming
at other tables. The rug remains shriveled
underneath your chair just as you left it.
It will probably stay so forever.

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Read this…

Read this, these are the names of the things you
left – me, books, your smell filling
the room; half the dreams and twice
the pain, kisses all over my body
like deep cuts which will
never heal; and more books, loss,
the key of a house that was never
ours, a blue flannel dressing gown
I’m wearing as I write this list:

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That summer…

That summer, the wind dishevelled the fields and the boats
yelled over the waves. The excessive beauty
of children burst the mirrors; and the girls,
coming upon the intimacies of their parents, went mad
in the passage ways and sought perdition
in the voluptuousness of days. On the centenary trees

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Come to me before…

Come to me before I die of love – blood
is cooling inside my body and roses are fading
in my hands. From my bed I hear the storms
on the continents; I’ve already felt like leaving, letting the wind
randomly carry my suitcase; I planned to travel the world
to forget you – but I never opened the door.

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