Poem
Luiza Neto Jorge
THE HOUSE OF THE WORLD
Sometimes what seemsto be a birthmark on one’s face
is the house of the world
is a mighty armoire
with bloody tissues stored there
and with its tribe of sensitive doors
It smells of erotic cobwebs. A delirious chest
on the scent-of-the-sea of sensuality.
A bracing sea. Roman walls. Any and all music.
The hallway recalls a rope stretched between
the Pyrenees, the windows between Greek faces.
Windows that smell of the air outside,
of the air’s marriage to the ardent house.
I reached the door gleaming.
I interrupt the family objects, I throw open
the door.
I switch on the lights, switching everything around,
the new landscapes are lucid, light
is a clear painting, I remember more clearly:
a door, an armoire, that house.
A green, oval-shaped mirror
seems to be a tin bulging
with a shark writhing in its stomach,
its liver, its kidneys, its bloody tissues.
It’s the house of the world:
it’s here, it disappears.
© Translation: 2005, Richard Zenith
A Casa do Mundo
A Casa do Mundo
Aquilo que às vezes pareceum sinal no rosto
é a casa do mundo
é um armário poderoso
com tecidos sanguíneos guardados
e a sua tribo de portas sensíveis.
Cheira a teias eróticas. Arca delirante
arca sobre o cheiro a mar de amar.
Mar fresco. Muros romanos. Toda a música.
O corredor lembra uma corda suspensa entre
os Pirinéus, as janelas entre faces gregas.
Janelas que cheiram ao ar de fora
à núpcia do ar com a casa ardente.
Luzindo cheguei à porta.
Interrompo os objectos de família, atiro-lhes
a porta.
Acendo os interruptores, acendo a interrupção,
as novas paisagens têm cabeça, a luz
é uma pintura clara, mais claramente lembro:
uma porta, um armário, aquela casa.
Um espelho verde de face oval
é que parece uma lata de conservas dilatada
com um tubarão a revirar-se no estômago
no fígado, nos rins, nos tecidos sanguíneos.
É a casa do mundo:
desaparece em seguida.
© 1966, Luiza Neto Jorge
From: Poesia
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
From: Poesia
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of Luiza Neto Jorge
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THE HOUSE OF THE WORLD
Sometimes what seemsto be a birthmark on one’s face
is the house of the world
is a mighty armoire
with bloody tissues stored there
and with its tribe of sensitive doors
It smells of erotic cobwebs. A delirious chest
on the scent-of-the-sea of sensuality.
A bracing sea. Roman walls. Any and all music.
The hallway recalls a rope stretched between
the Pyrenees, the windows between Greek faces.
Windows that smell of the air outside,
of the air’s marriage to the ardent house.
I reached the door gleaming.
I interrupt the family objects, I throw open
the door.
I switch on the lights, switching everything around,
the new landscapes are lucid, light
is a clear painting, I remember more clearly:
a door, an armoire, that house.
A green, oval-shaped mirror
seems to be a tin bulging
with a shark writhing in its stomach,
its liver, its kidneys, its bloody tissues.
It’s the house of the world:
it’s here, it disappears.
© 2005, Richard Zenith
From: Poesia
From: Poesia
THE HOUSE OF THE WORLD
Sometimes what seemsto be a birthmark on one’s face
is the house of the world
is a mighty armoire
with bloody tissues stored there
and with its tribe of sensitive doors
It smells of erotic cobwebs. A delirious chest
on the scent-of-the-sea of sensuality.
A bracing sea. Roman walls. Any and all music.
The hallway recalls a rope stretched between
the Pyrenees, the windows between Greek faces.
Windows that smell of the air outside,
of the air’s marriage to the ardent house.
I reached the door gleaming.
I interrupt the family objects, I throw open
the door.
I switch on the lights, switching everything around,
the new landscapes are lucid, light
is a clear painting, I remember more clearly:
a door, an armoire, that house.
A green, oval-shaped mirror
seems to be a tin bulging
with a shark writhing in its stomach,
its liver, its kidneys, its bloody tissues.
It’s the house of the world:
it’s here, it disappears.
© 2005, Richard Zenith
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