Poems From The Portuguese
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Miguel Manso

(B. 1979)

Miguel-Manso created a singular space within the most recent Portuguese poetry: he brings back an effect of estrangement which most poets of his generation seem to have forsaken (except perhaps Nuno Brito). He uses language with a most chiselled technique and presents to the reader language games, fine irony or elegiac graveness through the most unexpected solutions, never losing sight of the constant tension between opaqueness and transparency.

Miguel Manso was born in Santarém and lives in Lisbon in an attic. He trained in drawing and documental sciences. His first book was published in 2008, and so was his second... and so forth. He writes and doesn’t write poetry full time.

Poetry books since 2000:

Contra a manhã burra (2008), Quando escreve descalça-se (2008), Santo subito (2010)



21 Setembro, 2018By bitcliq

left over, from August, this luminous
where everything is still in its right place:
the mouth in the artifice of flavours
the slowness of sugars
sweaty hands dissipating inner
white legs, a dress glued to those legs’
the vibrant heat of the Sun, on top
underneath, sandals
at the first autumnal suggestions
the awnings were pulled in

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there’s a photograph of ruy belo*
and there’s also that very faint beach of ‘there’s neither death
nor beginning’
or there’s a photograph of my father on
a mozambican seashore
sitting with some man I never
knew, sun glasses – youth

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i’m a parish where it’s stopped raining
and doesn’t remember the rain of blood
this heart has once been
i haven’t got all my life (i’ll be
thirty next month) and the truth is
not once could death ever be trusted
badly told tale, that stuff about death

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Poetry, sort of,
doesn’t need, I mean,
it’s not exactly a song, a square or a park in the autumn
clues, unicorns, a classical capital
helennistically erected under drizzle and neon
You used to sit over the Romans in the Library
that summer we chained god
to a Portland Road window grid
the year: 1967 and a few drinks too many

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with cigarettes giving on to high windows
with sombre bottles empty tunes
I meditate on schemes lacking financial
viability – how relaxing these dilettante
portuguese imaginings in the out of the way
city of Budapest

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