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Poetry

Four Poems

By Cristiane Sobral
Translated from Portuguese by John Keene
In these four poems, Cristiane Sobral breaks down the door, is spat on by a dragon and deliberately burns the beans in the pot.

Black Eye

I am a black renegade
I refuse the mirror daily
Which tries to massacre me inside
Which tries to deceive me with white lies
Which tries to discolor me with its rays of light

I am a black renegade
Determined to face the system
I drum up the black without a hitch
I bum-rush the stage

I am a black renegade
I advocate a necessary darkening
I unmask any racists in the closet
I shove my foot in the door and walk in

 

Time

Time
is an essence
I carry within me
Time and its strands
They’ve been coiled inside me since my navel was knotted
It has as its complementary counterpart
The space between time and its options
Time, lord of the hours
reigns sovereign
Subtly, on a silver cord
People don’t kill time
He is the killer.

 

False Advertising

The first time I kissed
It was my girlfriends who kissed
They invented a flavor, a style, a smell
My lips weren’t there.

The first time I kissed
The prince was chosen by these dreaming girls
He was a jerk to me
A toad, a dragon that spat its fire on me

I don’t know what it was like
They didn’t see my closed eyes
I wasn’t there.

 

I Won’t Wash the Dishes Anymore

I won’t wash the dishes anymore
Or dust the furniture
I’m sorry
I’ve begun to read
The other day I opened a book and a week later I decided
I won’t carry the trash out to the trash bin
Or clean up the mess of leaves falling in the yard
I’m sorry
After reading I noticed each dish has its own aesthetic,
an aesthetic of traces, of ethics, of static
I look at my hands as they flip the books’ pages
Hands much softer than they were before
I feel that I can start to be all the time
I feel. If something happens
I am not going to wash anymore. Nor bring
your rugs in for dry cleaning
My eyes grow teary
I’m sorry
Now that I’ve begun to read I want to understand,
why, why?
And why
things exist
I read and I read and I read
I even smiled
And left the beans to burn. . .
See, the beans always take time to cook
Let’s just say things are different now. . . .
Ah, I forgot to say
I won’t do it any more
I’ve resolved to have some time for myself
I’ve resolved to read about what’s going on between us
Don’t wait for me
Don’t call for me
I won’t be going
From everything I’ve ever read, from everything I understand
It was you who went
Went too far, for too long, past the alphabet
It had to be spelled out for you
I won’t wash things to cover up the true filth
Or dust things clean and scatter the dust from here to there and from there to here
I’ll disinfect my hands and avoid your moving parts
I won’t touch alcohol
After so many years literate
I’ve learned to read
After so much time together
I’ve learned to make a break

My sneaker from your shoe
My drawer from your ties
My perfume from your scent
My canvas from your frame
That’s how it is, I’m not washing a thing anymore
And I stare at the filth at the bottom of the glass

The moment always arrives
of shaking things up, of moving forward, of making sense of things
I do not wash dishes anymore
I read the signature on my Emancipation Proclamation in black capital letters,
size 18, double-spaced
I set myself free

I do not wash dishes anymore
I want silver platters
Deluxe kitchens
And gold jewelry
The real kind

So is the Emancipation Proclamation decreed


“Black Eye,” “Time,” “False Advertising” and “I Won’t Wash the Dishes Anymore” © Cristiane Sobral. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 John Keene. All rights reserved.

English Portuguese (Original)

Black Eye

I am a black renegade
I refuse the mirror daily
Which tries to massacre me inside
Which tries to deceive me with white lies
Which tries to discolor me with its rays of light

I am a black renegade
Determined to face the system
I drum up the black without a hitch
I bum-rush the stage

I am a black renegade
I advocate a necessary darkening
I unmask any racists in the closet
I shove my foot in the door and walk in

 

Time

Time
is an essence
I carry within me
Time and its strands
They’ve been coiled inside me since my navel was knotted
It has as its complementary counterpart
The space between time and its options
Time, lord of the hours
reigns sovereign
Subtly, on a silver cord
People don’t kill time
He is the killer.

 

False Advertising

The first time I kissed
It was my girlfriends who kissed
They invented a flavor, a style, a smell
My lips weren’t there.

The first time I kissed
The prince was chosen by these dreaming girls
He was a jerk to me
A toad, a dragon that spat its fire on me

I don’t know what it was like
They didn’t see my closed eyes
I wasn’t there.

 

I Won’t Wash the Dishes Anymore

I won’t wash the dishes anymore
Or dust the furniture
I’m sorry
I’ve begun to read
The other day I opened a book and a week later I decided
I won’t carry the trash out to the trash bin
Or clean up the mess of leaves falling in the yard
I’m sorry
After reading I noticed each dish has its own aesthetic,
an aesthetic of traces, of ethics, of static
I look at my hands as they flip the books’ pages
Hands much softer than they were before
I feel that I can start to be all the time
I feel. If something happens
I am not going to wash anymore. Nor bring
your rugs in for dry cleaning
My eyes grow teary
I’m sorry
Now that I’ve begun to read I want to understand,
why, why?
And why
things exist
I read and I read and I read
I even smiled
And left the beans to burn. . .
See, the beans always take time to cook
Let’s just say things are different now. . . .
Ah, I forgot to say
I won’t do it any more
I’ve resolved to have some time for myself
I’ve resolved to read about what’s going on between us
Don’t wait for me
Don’t call for me
I won’t be going
From everything I’ve ever read, from everything I understand
It was you who went
Went too far, for too long, past the alphabet
It had to be spelled out for you
I won’t wash things to cover up the true filth
Or dust things clean and scatter the dust from here to there and from there to here
I’ll disinfect my hands and avoid your moving parts
I won’t touch alcohol
After so many years literate
I’ve learned to read
After so much time together
I’ve learned to make a break

My sneaker from your shoe
My drawer from your ties
My perfume from your scent
My canvas from your frame
That’s how it is, I’m not washing a thing anymore
And I stare at the filth at the bottom of the glass

The moment always arrives
of shaking things up, of moving forward, of making sense of things
I do not wash dishes anymore
I read the signature on my Emancipation Proclamation in black capital letters,
size 18, double-spaced
I set myself free

I do not wash dishes anymore
I want silver platters
Deluxe kitchens
And gold jewelry
The real kind

So is the Emancipation Proclamation decreed


“Black Eye,” “Time,” “False Advertising” and “I Won’t Wash the Dishes Anymore” © Cristiane Sobral. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 John Keene. All rights reserved.

Quatro Poemas

Retina Negra

Sou preta fujona
Recuso diariamente o espelho
Que tenta me massacrar por dentro
Que tenta me iludir com mentiras brancas
Que tenta me descolorir com os seus feixes de luz

Sou preta fujona
Preparada para enfrentar o sistema
Empino o black sem problema
Invado a cena

Sou preta fujona
Defendo um escurecimento necessário
Tiro qualquer racista do armário
Enfio o pé na porta e entro

 

O tempo

O tempo
 é uma entidade
que carrego comigo
O tempo e seus cordões
Estão enrolados em mim desde o umbigo
Ele tem como seu oposto complementar
O espaço entre o tempo e suas escolhas
O tempo, senhor dos horários
Reina soberano
Tênue, em um fio de prata
O tempo a gente não mata
É ele o matador.

 

Propaganda enganosa

Na primeira vez em que beijei
Foram as minhas amigas que beijaram
Elas inventaram um gosto, um jeito, um cheiro
Meus lábios não estavam

Na primeira vez em que beijei
O príncipe foi escolhido pelas garotas sonhadoras
Pra mim era um tolo
Um sapo, um dragão que em mim cuspiu o seu fogo

Não sei como foi
Não viram os meus olhos cerrados
Eu não estava lá.

 

Não vou mais lavar os pratos

Não vou mais lavar os pratos
Nem vou limpar a poeira dos móveis
Sinto muito
Comecei a ler
Abri outro dia um livro e uma semana depois decidi
Não levo mais o lixo para a lixeira
Nem arrumo a bagunça das folhas que caem no quintal
Sinto muito
Depois de ler percebi a estética dos pratos
a estética dos traços, a ética, a estática
Olho minhas mãos quando mudam a página dos livros
Mãos bem mais macias que antes
Sinto que posso começar a ser a todo instante
Sinto. Qualquer coisa
Não vou mais lavar. Nem levar
Seus tapetes para lavar a seco
Tenho os olhos rasos d’água
Sinto muito
Agora que comecei a ler quero entender
O porquê, por quê?
E o porquê
Existem coisas
Eu li, e li, e li
Eu até sorri
E deixei o feijão queimar…
Olha que o feijão sempre demora a ficar pronto
Considere que os tempos agora são outros…
Ah, esqueci de dizer
Não vou mais
Resolvi ficar um tempo comigo
Resolvi ler sobre o que se passa conosco
Você nem me espere
Você nem me chame
Não vou
De tudo o que jamais li, de tudo o que jamais entendi
Você foi o que passou
Passou do limite, passou da medida, passou do alfabeto
Desalfabetizou
Não vou mais lavar as coisas e encobrir a verdadeira sujeira
Nem limpar a poeira e espalhar o pó daqui para lá e de lá para cá
Desinfetarei as minhas mãos e não tocarei suas partes móveis
Não tocarei no álcool
Depois de tantos anos alfabetizada
Aprendi a ler
Depois de tanto tempo juntos
Aprendi a separar
 
Meu tênis do seu sapato
Minha gaveta das suas gravatas
Meu perfume do seu cheiro
Minha tela da sua moldura
Sendo assim, não lavo mais nada
E olho a sujeira no fundo do copo
 
Sempre chega o momento
De sacudir, de investir, de traduzir
Não lavo mais pratos
Li a assinatura da minha lei áurea escrita em negro maiúsculo
Em letras tamanho 18, espaço duplo
Aboli
 
Não lavo mais os pratos
Quero travessas de prata
Cozinhas de luxo
E jóias de ouro
Legítimas
 
Está decretada a lei áurea

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