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English Corner
English Corner 		Portugal em Linha - O Ponto de Encontro da Lusofonia

Poems


Blinded by the Light

Take a pencil with which you write on a blank sheet of paper
Take a human being born sometime and somewhere
Living is leaving behind a string of memories-- is to dare
To become text with meaning, turn our being into letter

Each one of us was born, to write, to scribble, to draw
To be held by the hand of time and leave behind
Squiggles which will be read by time and time alone
Which meanings will have us shavings before we understand
Take this worn out stub of a pencil with lead for soul
Made many mistakes and erased them till it became dull
Was sharpened so many times, till a new was bought
Replaced, it was left at the bottom of an old drawer

With the new one, new thoughts came forward, they were formed
A poem rose, a sonnet surged, a sea of words gushed forth
Some poet became wrecked in waves of pure thought
Before you know it, he took the page, and tore it.
He took the pencil, broke it, threw it on the floor
There was a long silence and after the long silence, his sobbing
The sun outside shone as it always shone
He looked at it intently a long, long time till all around everything
turned dark


Silvério Gabriel de Melo
e-mail: silverio@mail3.bunt.com

TIME AND NOTHING MORE

In any place you mention,
in any house you prefer,
wherever the money flows...
where names don't seem to matter,

Where you buy love from solitude
in shares easy to trade
for Time and nothing more -

Where you may broker and dream,
and kill the stormy night...
In any place you mention,
in any terms you prefer,
There, where you may find:
Time and nothing more.

In any place you mention,
we are all just anyone
living a moment that fades

Into any place we mention,
Into any hope we possess,
Into moments that travel
Into nothing - into stories...

In any place you mention,
Where you buy love from solitude,
There you may broker and dream,
living a moment that fades...


Manuel L. Ponte - St. Louis, Missouri, August 18, 1988
e-mail: mlp@fclass.net

I REALLY DON'T WANT TO KNOW


Don't tell me I'm late
to discover
The first rainbow's birth,
or the laughter of children
catching hailstones
while seeing them
      magically disappear.
Nothing is ever late
to the beginner...
Don't tell me there are
no midgets dancing on the moon,
           answering my soliloquies
     while playing
hide and seek behind
           passing clouds.
Don't tell me I'm dreaming,
as grandmother's ghost
in skeletal smiles
frightens me. Would I
see her
peering from the closet
had I stayed
hidden in my bedcovers?
Nothing is unreal
to the believer...
Don't tell me about 
stars I haven't counted,
as if I knew not how many greet me,
or play with the friendly moth
whose lamp has retired,
or guide the rippling brook 
to quench thirsty seas
that get angry at Heaven's tears
until one morning she gives birth
to the rainbow.
 
Don't tell me...
Nothing is as it seems
even if stars could be counted.

Manuel L. Ponte - St. Louis, Missouri, July 11, 1982
e-mail: mlp@fclass.net

Português da Europa

Cantinhos da nossa Terra
-In mir ist ein Verlangen!
Cantinhos da nossa aldeia
Ein süssscchmerzhaftes Sehnen
Que não nos saiem da idéia
Nach dem Land woher wir stammen
Mundo de sonhos, quimera
Mir fallen schon die Tränen

A minha terra bordada
My deep sea green emerald island
De hortênsias azuis e brancas
Sweet sorrow, how deep my longing!
Da côr do céu, nuvens mansas
I find myself, my eyes closing
Berço, ilha, terra amada
Back again in my homeland

Livre por lombas, pastagens
Je suis livre oú je suis né
Há uma luz mansa que cobre
Ma île, comme je l’adore
Um sossêgo, que não dorme
Mais partir a eté mon sort
Que me chama, vive de imagens
Donc est elle pour moi sacré

Português da Lusa Pátria
Portuguieser ohne Grenzen
Pela Europa fora à deriva
Seemann unter so manchen Menschen
Caravela rumo a uma utopia
Träumer, die Welt will er gewinnen
Heroi numa nobre batalha
Will eine neue Ordnung finden


Silvério Gabriel de Melo
e-mail: silverio@mail3.bunt.com

Not Spanish

Not Spanish. Not black. Not Mexican, not Cuban, or Puerto
Rican. Not Jewish, or Persian, or Indian. Not Brazilian. Not
South American either. No, it’s not the same thing. It’s
different. Nope. Portuguese. Just half. No, my mother was born
here but she is still all Portuguese. My Gramma was born in Maui but
she’s all Portuguese. And my mother’s father was all Portuguese too.
My Gramma’s maiden name was Gomes also, just like her husband’s last
name. Not Gomez, but Gomes. Gomes is the Portuguese spelling.
But at school they all say, what are you anyway? We wear the
same uniform, the same blouse and sweater, the same socks and
shoes. The same plaid jumper. But I am darker. From laying out in
the sun and swimming all the time. They say, you’re not tan. You’re
just like that! No, not always.
When my mom was a girl, her father said, "Get out of the sun! Cover
up!" Because he liked her skin nice and white. White like her
mother’s. He said it was bad to let your skin get dark.
But me, I don’t care, I let it get dark. Let ‘em ask. And my mom
says, go on outside. You should be out in the fresh air, in the sun."
And she gives us all an otter pop or push up. An Alexander The Grape
or something. Something that makes your mouth all purple. Just
something to keep you cool in the sun.
Not Spanish. Not Mexican. Not South American. Not even
Brazilian. Just Portuguese. And when I have kids, they’ll probably
just be a quarter. Then an eighth. Then one sixteenth and so on.
Until no one knows. But they’ll be all Portuguese, as much as my mom,
so long as they remember. They’ll be all gramma, and my mom, and me.
They’ll be all of us. Full of stories. Not half, not empty. Full.
Full of memories.


Kristen Austin
e-mail: dgaustin@flash.net

I Found Him

I found him at a party,
Among an ordinary crowd.
He was different from them.
So unique,
Like no one I’d ever seen.
I was fascinated
And intrigued,
With his beauty.

But I was only three,
And nearly invisible.
So I just stared with awe,
At his wonderful blackness.
Until he noticed me.

And I was thrilled,
When he scooped me up,
Held me in his arms,
And allowed me
To touch his face,
And ask my question.

"How did you get so black?"

He opened his mouth,
Revealing brightness,
Opaque white teeth and
A florescent pink tongue.
He was laughing.

Finally he answered.
"I sat in the sun,
For a long, long time!"

So when he put me down,
I disappeared.
Until hours later
When Mom found me
Sitting outside
Among the shadows
And a sinking sun,
So disappointed
At my unchanged paleness.


Nicole Austin
e-mail: dgaustin@flash.net

Empty Rings

A heart beat,
Yet soon the world darkened
In vanishing hopes.
"Oh, God, won't she answer?"
A twopence coin readied
... but only the buzzing sound...
A meaningless ring pleading:
"I am here!..."
But love was not in that day,
The heart beat slowed,
... death walked away.


Manuel L. Ponte - St. Louis, Missouri
e-mail: mlp@fclass.net

PRIOR TO THE TEA DANCE/ WISHES OF AN OLD GENTLEMAN

What can you tell me
If your lies I already know?
You see no life,
though it passes you constantly
in changing images.
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."
staring at pain -
unfeeling, unpossessed,
unhoping, unremembering...
Show me not wrinkles of time.
Talk to me, instead,
of ragtime,
aching quick steps
following a stubborn sound.
Tell me of her smile,
the cupper raised
as memories flow.
She, who will be there again,
she, "...the fairest of them all..."
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall."


Manuel L. Ponte - Bogotá, Colombia, October 30, 1972
e-mail: mlp@fclass.net



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