Sobre Antonio Miranda
Currículo Lattes
Grupo Renovación
Cuatro Tablas
Terra Brasilis
Em Destaque
Textos en Español
Xulio Formoso
Livro de Visitas
Links Temáticos
Indique esta página
Sobre Antonio Miranda
















Guilherme de Almeida (1890-1969) was born in Campinas, near São Paulo, in a traditional, monarchist honsehold. Hisfirst works were two plays written in French, in partnership with Oswald de Andrade, in 1916. His first book, Nós, was published in 1917. He established himself as a technically proficient, romantically-inclined and popular Parnassian poet over the next five years. He was 31 years old at the time of the Semana da Arte Moderna, and while a most welcome adherent to the movement, lending weight and prestige to its reforming programme, he can be seen as something of  a misfit. As one critic said, where Mdrio and Oswald de Andrade saw toucans and sabiás, Guilherme de Almeida continued to see nightingales. While willing, in the name of Modernism, to forswear rhyme and set rhythms, his main themes (exile, nostalgia, heroism, transcendence) and imagery continued to be romantic. He later reverted to his more traditional poetic tendencies. When he died, at 79, he left 27 books of poetry, as well as prose and translations from French.


(Note adapted and translatedfrom Carlos Vogt's Introduction to Os Melhores Poemas Guilherme de Almeida, Editora Global, 1993. The follounng poems are taken from the same edition.)





Translated by David Coles



Someone passed me by


Someone passed me by. Their shadow

fell into my path like a cloak

dropped with a languid gesture.


The sun has gone. Slow night comes on.

Yet the shadow remains

sharp, naked, hurled

on the ground like a cloak unfurled.


It is cold.

A rough shudder runs through my body...

I feel a tentative mad desire

to wrap myself a while

in the cloak's warm shade ...


                                      But someone

returns in the pale night:

returns to seek their forgotten shadow.


It is day. Along the road, arid and grey,

my life walks shivering away.



Poem of Poorest Rhyme


Poor predictable song

without a single new rhythm,

or unpredictable rhyme

and without a single thought.


Poem without interest

which someone made for no-one,

with complete disinterest,

where no-one can feel anyone.


Poor song without happiness,

always the same, always equal,

without pleasure, without unhappiness,

and nothing exactly unequal.


Poem so indifferent,

no end, no reason,

without anything different

or good or bad, even!


Poor unhappy song

but that's my song;

and yet it's not unlike

my happy life...





I have lost my savage flute

among the reeds of the glassy lake.


Restless rushes of the shore;

burnished coppery and silvery fish

who live in the waters' stirring life;

crickets in the tall trees;

dead leaves whom the nymphs' wing-footed passing awakens;


clean beautiful algae:


— should you find the flute I have lost,

come, with each dusk,

and stoop to examine it! You shall hear

its deep-toned secrets, forgotten by my lips and fingers

among the shy and sandy silences

of its belly.





She came one day knocking at my door,

smiled on her way upstairs and said,

"Good day, tree without leaves and nearly dead".

"My daughter, good day, who died long before."


She entered; and no further word to me said.

Until the day (what day matters no more !)

when songs from the crooked branches did pour
and on the road flocked those-to-be-wed.


She called me and said, "I am leaving now.

I am Felicity! Live on somehow

by the memory of the much I did for you !"


Thus only when parting, with Spring in full leaf,

did she speak her name, bringing me grief,

and taking the only happiness I ever knew !






I have been smoking and thinking for perhaps an hour

under this lamp, and under the wings of silence.

Upon the table,

the golden light has torn, like a circus arena,

a broad disk

and pitched a blue cone above my head.


That is my circus. I watch

my thoughts' pantomime.

Some are joyous and forceful

like shy-wild Amazons ...

others, slender and lithe

like knife-throwing jugglers

who imbue their throws with luxury.

Others are incredible and phlegmatic

like the men who eat fire ...

others are sad, sadder than white-faced clowns

and mime sadly, wearing sequined suns on their bellies.

others, unattainable

and light as blond dancers

balancing on a ball... and others impossible

like those tiny Japanese

with oblique eyes, their feet together,

balancing long poles between

silks from distant lands ...

And the great company invisible and slow

presents its show ...


But suddenly something

passes : it is a moth

that turns and turns, light-drunk.

And 1 set to following it:


all my taciturn troupe evaporates into the air.

All that is left is the importunate moth,

— sole real character

in all that singular circus.



Second Song of the Pilgrim


Half-dead, exhausted, wholly beaten,

I cut myself a branch from your garden

and from it made my staff.


For this to be my touch and sight

was ever the pact that dark night

sealed with me constantly.


For neither ghoul nor torrent

nor footpad nor snake

prevailed on the path 1 had to take.


Only the men who saw me passing

alone, were laughing, laughing,

I knew not the reason.


And then, when resting, once,

I heard the cry, "There goes the dunce

with the tree in his hand."


And looking up, saw leaves, flowers,

fruits, birds, lights, and colours

— my staff had burst into bloom.





Who shall come towards me

Along the street that crosses mine ?


Angles of chance,

crossroads of time,

elbows of space,

face to face with the new,

startled by the unrecognisable,

bumping into the unpredictable:

corners of the world.


Life dwells on the corners.





I have not been present

when the crime of living

was perpetrated:

when the eyes stripped

when the hands touched

when the mouth lied

when the bodies shuddered

when the blood rushed.

I have not been present.

I have been out, far

from the world, in my world,

tiny and forbidden

which I have wrapped and tied

with tightest twine

of my meridians

and of my parallels.

The lines I have written
prove I have been absent.


So I am innocent.



The Three Girls


Three girls on the verandah

each at her lonely trade:

one spins transparent thread

of finest crystal made;

another, stringing amber beads

twists silken and golden braid;

the third embroiders, stitch by stitch,

a fine wedding brocade.


Three girls on the verandah,

each at her lonely trade.

A horseman on his kingly courser

fast by their dwelling strayed,

a damask rose in his gauntlet

of gold and coral inlaid.

The rose he tosses to the three girls

(with whom shall his heart be laid ?),

spurs on his destrier Vendaval

and flees, no longer delayed.


Aside at once their virtuous arts

have the three girls laid.

-"Oh who has cut the lucent thread

of clearest crystal made ?"

-"Oh who has spilt the amber beads

and sundered the golden braid ?"

-"Oh who has broken the silver needle

that sewed my rich brocade ?"

Three girls on the verandah,

fluttering kerchiefs displayed:


-"Return, return, Sir Horseman

on your steed Vendaval arrayed.

Come and reclaim your rose

that is of mischief made:

each petal is a heart,

each thorn, a dagger's blade !"

Three girls on the verandah.
No more. The story´s played.



From:  MODERN POETRY IN TRANSLATION.  New Series / No. 6 / Winter 1994-95. Special Feature: Modern Poetry from Brazil.   Published by King´s College London.
University of London.  Edited by Daniel Weissbort



AN INTRODUCTION TO MODERN BRAZILIAN POETRY. Verse translations by Leonard S. Downes.  [São Paulo]: Clube de Poesia do Brasil, 1954.  84 p.   14x20 cm.  “ Leonard S. Downes “ Ex. Biblioteca Nacional de Brasília.



The last winds of day-light fanned
The branches like a vagrant band
Of evil-doers wandering round
At random.
And monstrous darkness at the breeze
Fell like a night fruit from the trees
Heavy and soft upon the ground.



The landscape like a transfer sharp and clean.
In the new suburb bathed in light
the bangalows are staked like cubes of white
and in the gardens on the seats of green
and parallel slats the sun falls
and with the leaves plays games with yellow balls.
The great striped awnings on the porches shed
a stylized light from overhead.
Strong shadows with unerring hand
trace geometrical pergolas on burning sand.

Pinned on the white day, the colours call
like a strident hand:
a modernist poster on a whitewashed wall.






Home Poetas de A a Z Indique este site Sobre A. Miranda Contato
counter create hit
Envie mensagem a webmaster@antoniomiranda.com.br sobre este site da Web.
Copyright © 2004 Antonio Miranda
Click aqui Click aqui Click aqui Click aqui Click aqui Click aqui Click aqui Click aqui Click aqui Click aqui Home Contato Página de música Click aqui para pesquisar