Poems From The Portuguese
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Nuno Brito

(B. 1981)

A poet from this brand new generation, Nuno Brito addresses us through disconcerting and frequently corrosive poetics. His poetic universe is a fragmented one, ranging from a cosmic-visionary outlook and inspiration in comics to exorcisms of the immediate existential reality. His writing embodies a very personal exacerbation of process, a temptation for automatism and a tendency to disconnected expression where both post-modern echoes of surrealism and re-workings of the disjointment of the self collide (often bringing Mário de Sá-Carneiro [1890-1916] to mind).

Nuno Brito was born in Porto. He has a BA Hons in History and an MA in Medieval and Renaissance History. He also attended the Institute for Medieval Studies in Rome where he pursued studies on Abelard. He published a book of short stories and his poems are published in various literary magazines. He now lives in California.

Poetry books since 2000:

Delírio Húngaro (2009), Crème de la Crème (2011), Duplo Poço (2012), As abelhas produzem sol (2015)



21 Setembro, 2018By bitcliq

People secrete Future –
We want that which people secrete
The mountains’ Vigil, the Southern warmest wind,
the humid morning and the certainty of expansion
Sun rays and laughter as a bridge
thirst’s warmest feel before there is water

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Sunset Boulevard

I’ve never wanted to be a poet, I’ve always wanted to be a mirror at the centre of Australia, I’ve always wanted to be “people hungry” like mirrors – Thin golden threads, To guard something, a hypermarket, a secret, protect that thing from wolves; To be several kangaroos all over the desert reflected in my fuzzy face, one cheek and the other, a fuzzy face which is just a mirrored desert loaded with red clouds over the glass and thirsty for Many Tongues – a Composer Desert Creating a Requiem in Braille so that the blind may sing a Perfect Hosanna – so that the blind may see it, multi-form,

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It happened that one of Medusa’s sisters cut
both wrists with glass and then stood, frightened, at the mirror.
She realised it wasn’t blood pouring out but moss,
From her milky wrists green and fresh moss was trickling around the bluish
thinner veins, green and fresh moss like the one from Minos’
fountains, then she looked again in the mirror and realised she could not die
Not because she was dead already, but because she had been given the sweetest
of sentences, that of being reborn without noticing;

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Orgasmatic mankind

Snow that pierces your eyes with sun
is me
sweating orgasmatic mankind, coming
in hot cold spasms,
snow piercing your eyes
I’m he who refuses to publish Joyce,
she who wipes semen stains from Proust’s shirts,
she who hugs Robert Diaz, she who caresses Borges

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Hungarian delirium

Like Morphine, I take away the pain from man
Whoever stares into my eyes will no longer be free
I’m the most beautiful woman in all mythologies
Paradise on earth – the most dangerous of all,
I’m creative madness
Patricia, the Sister of God
My sons are all things, all possibilities
my daughters
I induce the most complex suicides,
Give and take life and don’t think it good or bad because I’m
a flower and flowers are without judgement – they’re indifferent and sad
I advise the German romantics to take up
arms and fight for useless causes. I stuff powder
into their guns,
Provoke in them the Greatest pleasures
I’m made of flesh and blood and not of light –
I’m Our Lady of the North Pole
seeing sun drip on the ice:

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At saturday prayers in the great Synagogue, the rabbi said
‘The miracle is not that an orange may become cubical, the miracle is
that already oranges are spherical’
There was nothing better than that stone.
A few hours. I should do this with all things.
Sometimes one doesn’t need that long, 12 minutes looking at
a wonky faulty traffic light and already nothing more beautiful than
a broken down traffic light!
The city is very frightened.
In these days before your death, the city became very frightened
of us.

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