Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ruy Duarte de Carvalho

You wake longing to know what happened

You wake longing to know what happened to the garlands that your blood
opened during the night. You face the morning naked and depraved
like the white wall from which you tear what’s left
of an old poster. The partitions of trust fall
and here, right in front of you, adverse like never before, the geography,
ever more tense.
You see the tongue of sand under a different light.
Memory vanished, crystallized in echoes.
The gestation of fear ruined the hours.

You practice the walk you used to know. You simply expose your skin,
without the outline of your old body
giving up a clue as to what’s happening within. You reinvent the implantation
of your human form in the world, for now washed of secure reasons.
To be alive and to assail the clarity implies a vocation
for adapting the body to the imposition of the town square.
There’s only one way to face the cold.
It’s to bring it, the cold itself, inside you. The decision doesn’t wound,
not more than the decisions of others.

Je wordt wakker en wilt weten

Je wordt wakker en wilt weten van de slingers die het bloed
in de nacht heeft uitgelegd. Je ziet de ochtend die naakt is en geschonden
als de witte muur waarin de vorm gekrast is
van een oud affiche. De schuttingen van vertrouwen zijn gevallen
en ziehier, vijandig als nooit tevoren, de steeds meer
gespannen geografie.
Je ziet de zandtong onder ander licht.
Herinnering is verdwenen, in echo’s gekristalliseerd.
Een zwangerschap van angst heeft de uren verwoest.

Je probeert het lopen dat je van vroeger kende. Je vertoont je huid slechts
zonder dat de omtrek van je oude lichaam
onthult wat in je omgaat. Je verzint opnieuw in de wereld
de inplanting van je gestalte, nu schoon van redenen en zekerheden.
Leven en het licht te lijf gaan impliceert de roeping
het lichaam te gewennen aan het opgelegde forum.
Er is slechts één manier de koude te trotseren.
Dat is de koude zelf naar binnen brengen. Die beslissing verwondt niet
veel meer dan andermans beslissingen.

Acordas ansioso por saber das grinaldas que o sangue
abriu na noite. Enfrentas a manhã nua e devassa
como a parede branca a que se rasga a forma
de um cartaz antigo. Caíram os tapumes da confiança
e eis presente, como nunca adversa, a geografia
cada vez mais tensa.
Vês a língua de areia servida de outra luz.
A memória sumiu-se, cristalizou nos ecos.
A gestação do medo arruinou as horas.

Ensaias o andar antes sabido. Apenas expões a pele
sem que o contorno do teu velho corpo
revele indícios do que te vai por dentro. Reinventas no mundo
a implantação do vulto, lavado agora das razões seguras.
Estar vivo e acometer a claridade implica a vocação
de afeiçoar o corpo à praça imposta.
Há uma maneira apenas de enfrentar o frio.
É transportar, por dentro, o próprio frio. Não fere, a decisão,
muito para além das decisões alheias.
Close

You wake longing to know what happened

You wake longing to know what happened to the garlands that your blood
opened during the night. You face the morning naked and depraved
like the white wall from which you tear what’s left
of an old poster. The partitions of trust fall
and here, right in front of you, adverse like never before, the geography,
ever more tense.
You see the tongue of sand under a different light.
Memory vanished, crystallized in echoes.
The gestation of fear ruined the hours.

You practice the walk you used to know. You simply expose your skin,
without the outline of your old body
giving up a clue as to what’s happening within. You reinvent the implantation
of your human form in the world, for now washed of secure reasons.
To be alive and to assail the clarity implies a vocation
for adapting the body to the imposition of the town square.
There’s only one way to face the cold.
It’s to bring it, the cold itself, inside you. The decision doesn’t wound,
not more than the decisions of others.

You wake longing to know what happened

You wake longing to know what happened to the garlands that your blood
opened during the night. You face the morning naked and depraved
like the white wall from which you tear what’s left
of an old poster. The partitions of trust fall
and here, right in front of you, adverse like never before, the geography,
ever more tense.
You see the tongue of sand under a different light.
Memory vanished, crystallized in echoes.
The gestation of fear ruined the hours.

You practice the walk you used to know. You simply expose your skin,
without the outline of your old body
giving up a clue as to what’s happening within. You reinvent the implantation
of your human form in the world, for now washed of secure reasons.
To be alive and to assail the clarity implies a vocation
for adapting the body to the imposition of the town square.
There’s only one way to face the cold.
It’s to bring it, the cold itself, inside you. The decision doesn’t wound,
not more than the decisions of others.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère