Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Epic Win!

painted by the wonderful

Once again my friend and former student, Andrew, has hit me with an Iron Chef style challenge (actually, that may be overdramatizing things a bit ). What it is is that he recently shared an article with me about Ademir Jorge Goncalves,
a Brazilian bricklayer, who, to the surprise and delight of his mourning family, showed up alive and well at his own funeral. It's a compelling little story, and I am tempted to dig in and have a go at it.

Before I decide whether I'm fit to tackle it or not though I have to do some ... well, some work to begin with ... but along with that I need to do a bit of research, looking up things like Finados and cachaça and the like. It seems a perilous topic to take on when I don't know dick about Brazil and it's rich heritage (not even enough to know that it really has a rich heritage - I mean I'm just assuming here. I'm sure it has and all, but I can only say it because it's probably true and not because I know that it is).

So I've started peeping around a bit and, being a sociable lad, I thought I'd share a thing or two from the blog Brazilian Poetry in Translation, which has caught my attention. First, to get the brain going, there's this nifty quote by poet and political agitator Paulo Leminski:

Poetry is a kind of heroism. For you to believe across the years in this useless thing that is the pure beauty of language, that is poetry -- it’s an act of heroism. It’s almost (I’d like to believe) a sort of sainthood.

And then there's any of a number of spiffy poems by the poet, novelist, and playwright Hilda Hilst. How about this one?! (I've provided the original along with the English translation just like Lavinia Saad does in her wonderfully informative blog).

I.

From cicadas and stones, words want to be born.
But the poet lives
Alone in a corridor of moons, in a water-house.
From world maps, from shortcuts, voyages want to be born.
But the poet inhabits
The field of inns of insanity.

From the flesh of women, men want to be born.
And the poet pre-exists, between the light and the nameless.


I.

De cigarras e pedras, querem nascer palavras.
Mas o poeta mora
A sós num corredor de luas, uma casa de águas.
De mapas múndi, de atalhos, querem nascer viagens.
Mas o poeta habita
O campo de estalagens da loucura.

Da carne de mulheres, querem nascer os homens.
E o poeta preexiste, entre a luz e o sem-nome.

That's good sauce. Imma getting increasingly interested with each read. And now - the eye candy.






On a totally different note, I have caved in and opened up a Facebook account. Time to join the 21st century it was. Time to learn something about tomorrow (now that it's yesterday). Maybe I'll see ya' there





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