Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Lêdo Ivo

THE SOUND OF THE SEA

Sunday afternoon, I return to the old Maceió cemetery
where my dead never stop dying
their consumptive and cancerous deaths
that penetrate the ebb tide stench and constellations
with coughs, groans, imprecations
and their dark mucus
and in silence I summon them to return to this life
where from childhood on they slowly lived
with the bitterness of long days fixed to their monotonous existence
and the fear of dying of those who witness the close of day
when, after rain, the ants are scattered
across the maternal ground of Alagoas and can no longer fly.
I say to my dead: Arise, come back to this unfinished day
that has need of you, of your persistent cough and your tired gestures
and your footsteps on Maceió’s crooked lanes. Return to those insipid dreams
and windows opening on to suffocating heat.

On Sunday afternoon, among mausoleums
that seem suspended by the wind
in the bluish air,
the silence of the dead tells me they won’t come back.
No use calling them. From the place where they are now, there’s no return.
Just names carved in stone. Just names. And the sound of the sea.

HET RUISEN VAN DE ZEE

Op deze zondagnamiddag, in Maceió, sta ik weer op het oude kerkhof
waar mijn gestorvenen nooit ophouden hun dood
te sterven van tuberculose en van kanker
die door de zeelucht heengaat en door de gesternten
met zijn gehoest en zijn gekreun en zijn gevloek
en met zijn zwarte fluimen
en ik sommeer hen zwijgend terug te keren tot dit leven
waarin ze sinds hun kinderjaren langzaam leefden
met de alsem van hun dagen klevend aan hun monotoon bestaan
en met de doodsangst van degenen die de namiddag zien vallen
wanneer, na de regen, de vliegende mieren zich verspreiden
over de moederlijke grond van Alagoas en al niet meer kunnen vliegen.
Ik zei tegen mijn doden: ‘Staat op, keert terug tot deze onvoltooide dag
die behoefte heeft aan u, uw taaie hoest, uw kwijnende gebaren
en uw voetstap door de kronkelige straten van Maceió. Keert terug tot
uw kleurloze dromen
en tot de vensters met hun uitzicht op de klamme hitte.’
 
Op deze zondagmiddag, tussen praalgraven
die door de wind wel lijken te zijn opgehangen
in de blauwe lucht,
zegt mij de stilte van de doden dat zij niet weer zullen keren.
Het is zinloos hen te roepen. Daar waar zij zijn, is geen weg terug.
Enkel namen op zerken. Enkel namen. En het ruisen van de zee.

O BARULHO DO MAR

Na tarde de domingo, volto ao cemitério velho de Maceió
onde os meus mortos jamais terminam de morrer
de suas mortes tuberculosas e cancerosas
que atravessam a maresia e as constelações
com as suas tosses e gemidos e imprecações
e escarros escuros
e em silêncio os intimo a voltar a esta vida
em que desde a infância eles viviam lentamente
com a amargura dos dias longos colada às suas existências monótonas
e o medo de morrer dos que assistem ao cair da tarde
quando, após a chuva, as tanajuras se espalham
no chão maternal de Alagoas e não podem mais voar.
Digo aos meus mortos: Levantai-vos, voltai a este dia inacabado
que precisa de vós, de vossa tosse persistente e de vossos gestos
enfadados e de vossos passos nas ruas tortas de Maceió. Retornai aos sonhos insípidos
e às janelas abertas sobre o mormaço.

Na tarde de domingo, entre os mausoléus
que parecem suspensos pelo vento
no ar azul
o silêncio dos mortos me diz que eles não voltarão.
Não adianta chamá-los. No lugar em que estão, não há retorno.
Apenas nomes em lápides. Apenas nomes. E o barulho do mar.
Close

THE SOUND OF THE SEA

Sunday afternoon, I return to the old Maceió cemetery
where my dead never stop dying
their consumptive and cancerous deaths
that penetrate the ebb tide stench and constellations
with coughs, groans, imprecations
and their dark mucus
and in silence I summon them to return to this life
where from childhood on they slowly lived
with the bitterness of long days fixed to their monotonous existence
and the fear of dying of those who witness the close of day
when, after rain, the ants are scattered
across the maternal ground of Alagoas and can no longer fly.
I say to my dead: Arise, come back to this unfinished day
that has need of you, of your persistent cough and your tired gestures
and your footsteps on Maceió’s crooked lanes. Return to those insipid dreams
and windows opening on to suffocating heat.

On Sunday afternoon, among mausoleums
that seem suspended by the wind
in the bluish air,
the silence of the dead tells me they won’t come back.
No use calling them. From the place where they are now, there’s no return.
Just names carved in stone. Just names. And the sound of the sea.

THE SOUND OF THE SEA

Sunday afternoon, I return to the old Maceió cemetery
where my dead never stop dying
their consumptive and cancerous deaths
that penetrate the ebb tide stench and constellations
with coughs, groans, imprecations
and their dark mucus
and in silence I summon them to return to this life
where from childhood on they slowly lived
with the bitterness of long days fixed to their monotonous existence
and the fear of dying of those who witness the close of day
when, after rain, the ants are scattered
across the maternal ground of Alagoas and can no longer fly.
I say to my dead: Arise, come back to this unfinished day
that has need of you, of your persistent cough and your tired gestures
and your footsteps on Maceió’s crooked lanes. Return to those insipid dreams
and windows opening on to suffocating heat.

On Sunday afternoon, among mausoleums
that seem suspended by the wind
in the bluish air,
the silence of the dead tells me they won’t come back.
No use calling them. From the place where they are now, there’s no return.
Just names carved in stone. Just names. And the sound of the sea.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère