AUTHOR ROSALIENE BACCHUS


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EARS OF DEW BY BRAZILIAN POET FABRÍCIO CARPINEJAR



FABRÍCIO CARPINEJAR is an award-winning poet, writer, journalist, and columnist. Born in 1972, the third of four children, in Caixas do Sul in Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil’s southernmost state, he is the son of the poets Maria Carpi and Carlos Nejar. At nine years old, after his parents separated in 1981, he was raised by his mother.


He moved to Porto Alegre, the state capital, where he studied journalism at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul, graduating in 1995. Upon launching his first book of poetry in 1998, he began signing his name as Carpinejar, the combination of his parents’ surnames. In 2002, following the success of his first four poetry collections, he became a master in Brazilian Literature at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul.


His first four award-winning poetry collections are, as follows:

• As Solas do Sol / The Soles of the Sun (1998), a finalist for the 1999 Açorianos Literature Prize from the Municipal Secretariat of Porto Alegre and awarded the Fernando Pessoa National Prize from the Brazilian Writers Union (Rio de Janeiro)

• Um Terno de Pássaros do Sul / A Suit of Southern Birds (2000), Standout Literary Award at the 2000 Porto Alegre Book Fair and the 2001 Açorianos Literature Prize in Poetry

• Terceira Sede / Third Seat (2001), 2001 Açorianos Literature Prize and the 2001 Cecília Meireles National Prize in Poetry from the Brazilian Writers Union (RJ)

• Biografia de Uma Árvore / Biography of a Tree (2002), Best Poetry Book Award 2002 from the Gaucho Writers Association and 2003 National Olavo Bilac Award from the Brazilian Academy of Letters.


In addition to publishing fifty books—poetry, chronicles, children books, and reports—Carpinejar has found time to coordinate the Training Course for Writers and Literary Agents at the University of Vale do Rio dos Sinos (RS), columnist for the newspaper Zero Hora (RS), presenter on TV Gazeta in São Paulo, contributor to the newspaper O Estado de São Paulo, and participates on the program “Encontro” on TV Globo.


Photo of the poet Fabrício Carpinejar by Rodrigo Rocha

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EARS OF DEW BY FABRÍCIO CARPINEJAR



In eternity, no one imagines oneself eternal.

Here, in this state, I think I will last

beyond my years, that I will have

another chance to get back what I didn't do.

If to forgive is to forget, the worst awaits me.

I will be forgotten when redeemed.


Don't forgive me, God. Don’t forget me.

Oblivion never returns its hostages.


Clarity doesn’t repeat itself. Life snaps just once.


Fire is a nut that cannot be cracked with the hands.

The voice comes from the fire, which only grows if reckless.

There's no walking back after excessive burning.

I was cast too soon into the ashes.


We are reactionaries on the way back.

When I was going to meet you,

I risked shortcuts and unknown paths.

I believed I could leave through the entrance.

On returning, don't improvise.


My conversion is through fear,

praying on my knees before the revolver,

without turning aside,

not sure if it's a toy or real.


The wind bends. I don't touch my pockets,

in the folder and conscience,

no guitar brusque gesture,

the science of a crosshair

and the trigger rotating close

to the eardrum of the teeth.


Poured into God, together with my waste.


I will mislead you in the act of naming.

Better to withdraw in silence.


We sing in chorus like animals of the dark.

The eyelashes did not germinate.

There is a lack of planting in our mouths, vegetation in the nails, impressions and herbs in the chest.

We plead for bass and treble, ecstasy and wonder,

composing corner with the night.


To sing is not relief,

but to pull the bells

beyond our weight,

waking up the dome of doves.


We are smoke and wax,

slime and tile,

fog and rudder.

Winter invented us.


It doesn't matter if I hear you

or if you explode my ears of dew.

Does that which I cannot talk about die?


I will be isolated and reduced,

a photograph emptied of dates.

Family members will try to decipher who I was

and what flourished from the legacy.

I would be a stranger in the portrait

with bright eyes on old paper.


I write to be rewritten.

I walk in the warehouse of haze, tense,

under threat from the sun.

I chew leaves, tasting the air, the washed earth.

After death, everything can be read.


I see steps even in flight.

Your violence is tranquility.

There is no deeper fall

than not being the chosen one,

bitter the end of the line,

to be what remains for later,

that records friends

through newspaper obituaries,

that buries and withdraws into exile,

the rose crumbles to the touch

in the paleness of petals and candles,

inspecting every wrinkle

and infiltration of ivy between the veins,

never an adult to understand.


There is nothing natural about natural death.

To divorce yourself from the body, to tremble on holding

the legs, to accommodate yourself in the finite

of a bed and to lie down with the tumult

that comes from an empty tomb.



TRANSLATION BY ROSALIENE BACCHUS



OUVIDOS DE ORVALHO POR FABRÍCIO CARPINEJAR



Na eternidade, ninguém se julga eterno.

Aqui, nesta estada, penso que vou durar

além dos meus anos, que terei

outra chance de reaver o que não fiz.

Se perdoar é esquecer, me espera o pior

serei esquecido quando redimido.


Não me perdoes, Deus. Não me esqueças.

O esquecimento jamais devolve seus reféns.


A claridade não se repete. A vida estala uma única vez.


O fogo é uma noz que não se quebra com as mãos.

A voz vem do fogo, que somente cresce se arremessado.

Não há como recuar depois de arder alto.

Fui lançado cedo demais às cinzas.


Somos reacionários no trajeto de volta.

Quando estava indo ao teu encontro,

arrisquei atalhos e travessas desconhecidas.

Acreditei que poderia sair pela entrada.

Ao retornar, não improviso.


Minha conversão é pelo medo,

orando de joelhos diante do revólver,

sem volver aos lados,

na dúvida se é de brinquedo ou de verdade.


O vento faz curva. Não mexo nos bolsos,

na pasta e na consciência,

nenhum gesto brusco de guitarra,

a ciência de uma mira

e o gatilho rodando próximo

do tambor dos dentes.


Derramado em Deus, junto meu desperdício.


Vou te extraviando no ato de nomear.

Melhor seria recuar no silêncio.


Cantamos em coro como animais da escureza.

Os cílios não germinaram.

Falta plantio em nossas bocas, vegetação nas unhas,

estampas e ervas no peito.

Suplicamos graves e agudos, espasmos e espanto,

compondo esquina com a noite.


Cantar não é desabafo,

mas puxar os sinos

além do nosso peso,

acordando a cúpula de pombas.


Somos fumaça e cera,

limo e telha,

névoa e leme.

O inverno nos inventou.


Não importa se te escuto

ou se explodes meus ouvidos de orvalho.

Morre aquilo que não posso conversar?


Ficarei isolado e reduzido,

uma fotografia esvaziada de datas.

Os familiares tentarão decifrar quem fui

e o que prosperou do legado.

Haverei de ser um estranho no retrato

de olhos vivos em papel velho.


Escrevo para ser reescrito.

Ando no armazém da neblina, tenso,

sob ameaça do sol.

Masco folhas, provando o ar, a terra lavada.

Depois de morto, tudo pode ser lido.


Vejo degraus até no vôo.

Tua violência é a suavidade.

Não há queda mais funda

do que não ser o escolhido,

amargar o fim da fila,

ser o que fica para depois,

o que enumera os amigos

pelos obituários de jornal,

o que enterra e se retrai no desterro,

esfacela a rosa ao toque

na palidez das pétalas e velas,

vistoriando cada ruga

e infiltração de heras entre as veias,

nunca adulto para compreender.


Não há nada de natural na morte natural.

Divorciar-se do corpo, tremer ao segurar

as pernas, acomodar-se no finito

de uma cama e deitar com o tumulto

que vem de um túmulo vazio.


SOURCE: Biografia de Uma Árvore / Biography of A Tree, Poetry Collection by Fabrício Carpinejar, published by Escrituras, Brazil, 2002.