Letter From Bia d'Ideal
19 of this month
the windward of the souls that know
Junzin! Even in the mouth of São Vicente
Your name now is Vário or T. Thio Thiofe
And Corsa de David [another name for CF] says
That you are a Greek-Latin black black man
But! really really [The Port. version punctuates this line: “But, really? Really?”]
The waves
already climb
the steps of your poem
And in the guitar of the island break
Roofs of Europe
over our heads
Junzin! It has been a long time
Since you have drunk the water
Of our dryness
Truly truly
It’s been years on top of years
and five more years and a day
That stone/rock is watered by the sponge of our hearts
Like the spike [also ‘ear of corn’] of blood in the pain of a shell/ladle of milk
Oh pain of a happy/contented face [or ‘guy’]
silent/mute pain
seated pain
thrown pain –
but pain!
Like the pain of the sound on the viola
Like the pain of the seed on the ground [‘chão’]
Like the pain of the volcano [‘vulcão’] in the heart [‘coração’] –
but today!
I will not say
merci
thank you
danke schön
Why?
When Djosa
left out of the door
with his shoe-shiner’s box
Tanha died at the flag of the door
With her apple hunger stuck in her mouth
Oh people of Rua da Craca [Craca Street]
Fed
on this 16-tostão [small coin] fish broth
You all come to hear
Patada’s viola
and
Antonzin’s guitar
Tear/Rip in Tanha’s blood
A silence of so many doors
You all come to see
the mast of the ship
and also
the sail of the ship
Torn
Breaking
in the eyes of Tanha
Why! When Djosa
Opened in the city
a path of open sun
Tanha planted/placed/coined in the wind
Her mouth of bitten apple
Junzin! I have three things
tied to the soul
Three rivers for never more
one written in the hand
two written in the mouth
three written in the blood
is the sun breaking on the rock
its egg yolk hunger
is the wind biting the stone
with its white flour cry
is the people and the finger of the people
writing on the ground its long hand sentence
And a long time ago [NB ‘long time ago’ is in English]
Notcha
was already saying
Unlike/Contradicting Saint-John Perse
That not always
“The oar breaks in the hand of the oarsman”
Greetings from Bibia
Bena
Garda
Vavaia
And from all these people from the Rua da Crava
Everybody *
The literal translation of this poem was made by Daniel Hahn
The final translated version of the poem is by Sean O'Brien
Notes
* Everybody’ is in English
© Poetry Translation Centre 2004-2012
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