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INDULGING IN A SOLILOQUY
To write. To let poetry emerge without insisting, without ordering one's thoughts, ordering the chaos of loose words. It's been a long time since I read poems... Where are those old verses of my youth? ... To listen to a poem well sung, well said ... it's been such a very long time ! Prose in verse, verse in prose, no matter ! To be rid, for heaven's sake, of this mediocrity which seems to have plunged its nails in my flesh. Leave, please, you normalised human being, deep in your muddy soil... Go away, just go!
No, really not that way ! Please, let me be spared, I do not want to increase the numbers of those, and they are legion, who have just given up, who are just living in comfortable resignation. I want the talent of those who can fly higher, using words for wings ! No less ! They fly so high that they inflict virtigo and break the barrier of sameness. To make of language - of grammar, verbs, nouns, adjectives - something more than just story telling, or the description of events or letter writting. To make it tell everyday things, life itself. To go beyond describing what no one has seen, for it has not occurred and never will. Writing is like a secret den, where one can hide and stay to protect oneself from human beings who carry that contagious plague, normality (Save me, Lord!). They contaminate, they are contagious exterminators and we remain, thus, an army of mutes, or otherwise,of blabberers it no longer matter what one says.
Without realising, we have allowed words to falter, to become of no importance in communication between men. What is said today are mere sounds that soon become codes, obeyed as if they were the commanding keys of a computer.
I refuse to write that way ! I want to be the enchantress once again, to return to that matrix where I belong, before I became the woman I am. To return to the limbo I inhabited before my foetal existence. To be "the friend of the King" as the poet once said speaking of that magic realm from the sadness of his human life. Poets are delicate, fragile beings, who bear with difficulty the fact that they have to spend their life as human beings. They do not master the language that is spoken around them, because they are poets. They run away from the world where they have to spend hours and hours, until one day death takes them back to the place where they came from, without having received proper training to be just men among men, on this earth ... poets, children, so very fragile ! All it takes is a somewhat stronger wind and they let themselves die of illness, of sadness or just simply tiredness of living. Because they are poetry itself, they cannot use empty words, nor live among their fellow contemporaries who smile and cry repeating patterns that they learned while growing up, conditioned...
Poets ! wish I should be!
Translated by Marcia Brito
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