SIbilA – AN INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL OF POETRY

THREE POEMS BY CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE

POEM OF SEVEN FACES

When I was born, a twisted angel,
one of those who live in the shadow,
said: Go, Carlos! be gauche in life.

The houses spy on men
who chase after women.
The evening might have been blue,
had there not been so many desires.

The streetcar passes by full of legs:
white, black, yellow legs.
My God, my heart asks, why so many legs?
And yet my eyes
question nothing.

The man behind the mustache
is serious, simple and strong.
He seldom talks.
He has a few, rare friends
the man behind the glasses and the mustache.

My Lord, why did you abandon me
since you knew that I wasn't God
since you knew that I was weak.

World, world, vast world,
if my name was Twirled
it'd be a rhyme, it wouldn't be a solution.
World, world, vast world,
even vaster is my heart.

I shouldn't tell you
but this moon
but this cognac
shake a person up like hell

SHOULDERS BEAR THE WORLD

Comes a time when you no longer say: my Lord.
A time of absolute purification.
A time when you no longer say: my love.
For love turned out to be useless.
And the eyes do not cry.
And the hands weave only the rough work.
And the heart is dry.

Women knock at the door in vain - you won't open it.
You keep to yourself, the light has burnt out,
but in darkness your eyes shine enormous.
You are convinced: you no longer know how to suffer.
And you expect nothing from your friends.

The aproach of old age matters little - what is old age?
Your shoulders bear the world and it weighs no more
than a child's hand.
Wars, famines, the arguments inside the buildings
prove only that life goes on
and not everybody has freed himself yet.
A few (the delicate ones), upon finding the show
cruel, would rather die.
A time has come when to die is useless.
A time has come when life is an order.
Merely life, without mystification.

JOSÉ

What now, José?
The party's over,
the lights, are off,
the gang has gone,
the night's grown cold,
what now, José?
what now, you?
you who are nameless,
who make fun of others,
you who write verses,
who love, protest,
what now, José?

Got no woman,
got no speech,
got no love,
can't drink,
can't smoke,
can't even spit,
the night's grown cold,
daybreak has stalled,
laughter has stalled,
and everything's over,
and everything's fled,
and everything's mouldy,
what now, José?

What now, José?
Your sweet talk,
your moment of fever,
your feasting and fasting,
your library,
your gold mine,
your suit of glass,
your incoherence,
your hatred - what now?

Key in hand,
you want to open the door -
there is no door;
you want to drown in the sea,
but the sea has dried up;
you want to go to Minas -
Minas no longer exists;
José, what now?

If you could scream,
if you could groan,
if you could play
a Viennese waltz,
if you could sleep,
if you could tire,
if you could die...
But you don't die -
you are tough, José.

Alone in the dark
like a beast of the wild,
without any theory of gods,
without even a naked wall
to lean against,
without a black horse
to gallop away,
You march, José!
Whereto, José?

Anonymous translations from the website of the Greek-Armenian G.I. Gurdjieff http://www.4c.com.br/index_en.htm
For more information:
http://www.gurdjieff.org
http://www.ogrupo.org.br/informativo/boletim.htm

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