Marcia Theophilo - Wind (more under cut)
A brasilian anthropologist in love with the Amazon forest, one of my most beloved poets.
'Wind'
Wind keeps
devouring the night
it’s there, real and changing
and holds inside the music of the branchesWind arrives
sounds explode
leafing through its body
it waves the branches
the body of wind wraps and bends
it lays the loved body down
its leaves both abstract and concrete
Sinuous falls of wind
pour into the wood
I’m dancing, are you?
It’s reverberating, dancing, whistling and singing
it’s among the trees
born like a fruit
born like a child
its laughter has the rhythm
of water on stone
sweet at first, almost monotone
then stronger, full of resonance
Something vague
smoke and similar flavours
---
'The Night'
At the beginning there was no night.
The night was unknown.
There was only light and it was so intense,
in the tropics,
one seemed to be moving through aeons of blue,
of vermilion, of green.
The light was so strong that it seemed to be surging
in the colors
in the plants.
That which did not have words spoke:
trees talked amongst themselves
and exchanged thoughts with the flowers.
No one knew black:
only colors existed
which emanated light,
which gave out energy-thought
There was no sleeping
for man didn't know weariness
knew not, the sweetness of rest
silence and music
because music was born
with the knowledge of the first rhythm
and with the night was born the first song.
---
'I am the fruit of a tree'
I am stone and I live in every corner
I am a bird an I do not know the winter
I am alive and want them to know it
the rain's dampers, the heat and the wind's freshness
I am air, water and I come from the bowels of the earth.
I am the fruit of a tree.
----
'Butterfly kites'
Ubirajara left the village,
the desire he felt for Yací
was slaying him:
hammered in the sky two butterfly kites.
The forest was leaving his life through the river.
The river skims over the surface, the river is not water,
the river is a serpent, it is the sea,
reflecting that which it touches,
changing color, the river is not. It is all it touches.
It is born with life: I want to live.
The bed is made of images: triangles and squares.
And my story with you is over,
I shake the wings that still envelope our embraces
to know how your caresses feel when the jaguar nears.
The passion persists dragging signals of lust
an unhealthy lust multiplied by cold thoughts.
The consumed voice in the penumbra,
crystal turbulence
insentient the silent contact of your skin.
Flying, head held high, in the vastness of the forest.
Between the trees, in the water's course from the marshes
to the still planes
the roar of the "Pororoca" could be heard,
meeting between the river and the sea.
The sea is a great lake, an immense lake.
'Wind'
Wind keeps
devouring the night
it’s there, real and changing
and holds inside the music of the branchesWind arrives
sounds explode
leafing through its body
it waves the branches
the body of wind wraps and bends
it lays the loved body down
its leaves both abstract and concrete
Sinuous falls of wind
pour into the wood
I’m dancing, are you?
It’s reverberating, dancing, whistling and singing
it’s among the trees
born like a fruit
born like a child
its laughter has the rhythm
of water on stone
sweet at first, almost monotone
then stronger, full of resonance
Something vague
smoke and similar flavours
---
'The Night'
At the beginning there was no night.
The night was unknown.
There was only light and it was so intense,
in the tropics,
one seemed to be moving through aeons of blue,
of vermilion, of green.
The light was so strong that it seemed to be surging
in the colors
in the plants.
That which did not have words spoke:
trees talked amongst themselves
and exchanged thoughts with the flowers.
No one knew black:
only colors existed
which emanated light,
which gave out energy-thought
There was no sleeping
for man didn't know weariness
knew not, the sweetness of rest
silence and music
because music was born
with the knowledge of the first rhythm
and with the night was born the first song.
---
'I am the fruit of a tree'
I am stone and I live in every corner
I am a bird an I do not know the winter
I am alive and want them to know it
the rain's dampers, the heat and the wind's freshness
I am air, water and I come from the bowels of the earth.
I am the fruit of a tree.
----
'Butterfly kites'
Ubirajara left the village,
the desire he felt for Yací
was slaying him:
hammered in the sky two butterfly kites.
The forest was leaving his life through the river.
The river skims over the surface, the river is not water,
the river is a serpent, it is the sea,
reflecting that which it touches,
changing color, the river is not. It is all it touches.
It is born with life: I want to live.
The bed is made of images: triangles and squares.
And my story with you is over,
I shake the wings that still envelope our embraces
to know how your caresses feel when the jaguar nears.
The passion persists dragging signals of lust
an unhealthy lust multiplied by cold thoughts.
The consumed voice in the penumbra,
crystal turbulence
insentient the silent contact of your skin.
Flying, head held high, in the vastness of the forest.
Between the trees, in the water's course from the marshes
to the still planes
the roar of the "Pororoca" could be heard,
meeting between the river and the sea.
The sea is a great lake, an immense lake.