quinta-feira, 15 de dezembro de 2011


Hoje, novamente o encontro entre poesia e fotografia. As imagens são de minha autoria e foram feitas há anos atrás para editoriais de moda do Suplemento Viver Bem do Jornal Gazeta do Povo. Removo-as do baú do tempo para ilustrar os poemas de Miriam Adelman, e deixo que ela mesma se apresente:
Quem sou?
Nascida nos EUA, morei nove anos no México e agora tenho quase 21 anos de Brasil.  Professora de Sociologia  da UFPR e adepta dos Estudos Culturais, brinco – desde sempre –  com a poesia.  Meu poema, Memória, obteve segundo lugar no 15º. Concurso Nacional de Poesias “Helena Kolody” da Secretaria de Estado da Cultura do Paraná no ano de 2005, como categoria especial. Publiquei traduções de Sandra Cisneros, Diane Wakoski, Denise Duhamel, Tony Hoagland, Sylvia Plath, Lawrence Ferlinghetti e Yehuda Amichai na Revista Sibila.  Atualmente mantenho um blog, Juntando Palavras (http://www.conviteapalavra.blogspot.com/).


He wanted to have it all:
the round baskets of plenty,
smooth-legged women, a daughter’s
trust. To drink from the river
always where the water was
sweet and fresh. To give
openly his warmth
wherever and whenever
he wanted.
To hurt no one?

There were girls
waiting at every bend
in the river
with flowers, with shining
No time to waste.
No reason to linger too long
in any grove.
Tomorrow would always come again:
a red sun, the darkened hollow
of the heart.


Ele queria tudo:
as redondas cestas da abundância.
as mulheres de pernas macias, a confiança
de uma filha. Beber sempre
no lugar onde a água era mais
fresca, mais doce. Dar livremente
seu calor, em qualquer lugar
a qualquer hora.
Não magoar ninguém?

Havia garotas
esperando em cada curva
do rio, esperando com flores,
com dentes que brilhavam.
Não havia tempo a perder.
Nem motivos para vacilar
muito tempo em algum
O amanhã sempre viria:
um sol vermelho,
a escurecida cova
do coração.

"It Takes Two to Tango"

Avenida 18 de julio
y suave la entrada del invierno
en Montevideo
we take in the evening
you, chain smoking in the crisp air
me, unbuttoning the grey wool jacket,
the unexpected warmth of the season
and around us, the plaza, the couples

sliding so ever-so gently
to the long, sweet chords
such perfect synchrony
if only through the tender beats of
the evening, as long as the dance goes on.

Stubborn girl, crazy boy.
It could be that everyone finds their rhythm,
or their moment – to samba or salsa,
to dance the waltz or rock n’ roll
and i think if i could master the movements
i´d choose forró -
which like the tango must be danced
in pairs, but is quicker and makes you laugh
at the parting, or losing the beat

yet tonight in Montevideo
there is music floating around us
with a penchant for tragedy
and they tell us, this is a city
of the old, and a grandfather
pulls his granddaughter gently by the hand
and like me she cannot
master the beat and the steps
as time spills messily around us,
as if that were the formula - a life
unfolding always in pairs, a language
of complicity or duplicity,
in which i am only falsely fluent.

what grabs you more?
is it tragic or comic,
together, apart?
the dancing ends early here,
but there is still Malena, singing
into the night of this city of old.

my choice, perhaps, should be
the pampas,
solitary ride under moonlit dome
or moving with the throngs,
just one more in a galloping herd
where if i lose the rhythm,
fall out of synch, don´t
deliver the goods
no one will notice:
no cruel duels,
no emptied side of the
bed or the closet,
and we can just get on with our lives
under the stars
of this planet
of billions

"Mother’s Day, 2011"

My mare and I climb
the last street of slum,
past the smoggy clot
where some boys burn garbage-
a red t-shirt, plastic coke bottles,
milk cartons – and then,
around the hill to the top, to the
boulder overlooking
this little corner of the world.
Suddenly, no more people.
No more yappy yellow mutts at our heels
Just Madja and I
her small ears flicking forward,
backward to capture my voice,
forward again for the perfect canter
the sandy trail coiling around a wall of stone
and pine trees split open near the root

Return is through the village,
my mare taking careful
baby steps over hardened sandstone.
One small hoof at a time,
she is protecting me
and the foal to be born
when the seasons shift again
toward  longer days,
and again we descend
past the spot where the boys
have left their wrinkled pile of rubble
and the yellow mutts return
yapping underfoot,
and the senhoras, arms folded under the
yellow winter sun, arrange their yellow
trash bags all so neatly
for collection day.
A girl with baby in arms:
hers ?
Last night’s film:
a mother whose son
went up in flame,
history taking its course
like those days we can do nothing
to stop it.
Stony roads, sandy paths
to the top or the botton of the world,
wasteland burning on both sides
and no use trying to stop the boys
once they’ve gone astray.

" The monkeys"   

the chattering monkeys have left me speechless -

perched here on a barren limb
i watch them, their nimble dance,
how in their mirth they swing from branch to branch,
a tail just as useful as a hand, a foot,
how anger swells and then again joy,
how easy to reconcile: child, mate, the
members of their restless band,
how easy to share, the reddened fruits passing
quickly from paw to paw

i wait and watch from a distant treetop,
a makeshift platform sagging underfoot
in the  early morning.
the orange African sun is slow in rising
and here in our human order
each gesture so hard to learn,
each glide such peril.


He loves a devastated land.
the warring tribes have stilled
but the uprooted fields, the children
with open hands and limp hair,
cows gone to bone, still swaggering on their feet,
the utter impossibility to reconstruct –

it is not like the way his kinsmen repopulate,
not like the way age comes to green mountainsides
in the Pyrenees, where balding hikers set down to
an evening meal they have chosen to make meager, the dry wine,
the goat cheese, so carefully selected

perhaps a bit closer it is, to we who have chosen love
in its strangest formulae-
the broken-winged sparrows, our children’s freedom,
happiness or toil in the hardest tongues or feats.

                                                    Miriam Adelman em Girona, Espanha.


Poemas: Miriam Adelman 
Fotos: Izabel Liviski

Izabel Liviski é Fotógrafa e Mestre em Sociologia pela UFPR.  Pesquisadora de História da Arte; Sociologia da Imagem e da Cultura.  Escreve a coluna INCONTROS quinzenalmente às 5as feiras na Revista ContemporArtes.

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