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O Perfume da Mentira
Nunca tivemos má fé contra a Camila Penca. Simplesmente rezámos pelo regresso do sossego e da harmonia à aldeia e, graças a Deus, as nossas preces foram ouvidas. Camila nasceu de boa gente, na nossa respeitada aldeia, anichada entre os dentes aguçados do penhasco da Baía da Boca do Inferno. Uma aldeia ainda de pé, com orgulho e oposição, após séculos de ira Atlântica. Camila cresceu no seu próprio mundo, subia e descia o escarpado colecionando penas de gaivota, chapinhava nos lagos de maré baixa, depenando os ouriços-do-mar, bem-me-quer, mal-me-quer, depois com as primeiras ondas da puberdade, ama-me, não me ama. Alguns dizem que Camila sempre mostrara inclinação para criar…
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A Millstone, Always a Millstone
The blessed water trickled upon the infant’s sleep, pronouncing him Maria das Dores. His cry of betrayal echoed in the serene sanctuary, pleading upwards to the gothic columns, where it ricocheted from the stone ears of the Saints, deaf from centuries of parishioners’ petitions. Padre Lucas proceeded with the baptismal ceremony, his austere voice disregarding Maria das Dores’ supplications. “I shall remove the heart of stone from your body and give you a heart of flesh. I shall place my spirit in you, and make you keep my laws and sincerely respect my observances.” Maria das Dores, for consolation, moulded his tiny body closer in his mother’s arms, just as…
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Birthing Stones
Along cornfields, past woods, across creeks, Francisco led the villagers to the birthing stones. Large boulders, christened by him as the mothers, covered the crest of the ridge on the rocky landscape of Serra da Senhora da Freita. The Sunday excitement was so high that Mass was prayed on the trail while the rosary of people following Francisco trekked beneath dawn’s first rays. The villagers could have been his goats, but for the prayers echoing against the rising escarpment. Prayers far louder than the tinkle of livestock bells. Francisco had been criss-crossing the range since he was a child. First, accompanying his cousins and the herds of sheep, later,…
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The Visible Horizon
Olive and cork trees will dot the landscape. We will not fan wind into this image. Instead, we will ignite a blazing sun, tinting the landscape crimson, blurring the horizon lines in the fashion of southern memories. The stunted yellow grass will rest still. We will prompt a raven to shriek and burst the silence. We will place three little shepherds on their backs under a holm oak, name them Lúcia, Jacinta and Francisco. For the sake of pastoral as well as literary coherence, let us surround them with a flock of sheep. The sheep are secondary to the story but may become a minor recurrent symbolic theme. We…
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Impressive Stories – Edmonton Journal
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Coral Bracho – Four poems
Coral Bracho – Four Poems translated by paulo da costa La voz indígena Es un dolor de voz que se apaga. De voz eterna y profunda que así se apaga. Que así se apaga para nosotros. The indigenous voice It is the ache of a dying voice. Eternal voice and profound thus dying. Thus dying to us. Con abismada transparencia Eres el fuego del inicio Eres la luz en el instante sabio de hacinarse en el agua. Eres la voz, la transparencia que penetra, que engendra; la nota viva y diáfana que cae, con el candor de una certeza en el centro…
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Viva Da Costa
Viva Da Costa by Patricia Robertson Award-winning writer a hybrid spirit paulo da costa enjoys earthly pleasures now, and then confesses later “The gentle morning breeze found Prudêncio in his hammock, enveloped in a blanket of butterflies. The butterflies fanned their wings. The hammock swayed. Robins, perched on the hammock’s rope, sang. Through the overcast sky, a beam of sunshine wrapped Prudêncio’s body in gold. Frogs croaked a solemn requiem. Sunflowers graciously turned their heads and bowed. A white rain of almond petals floated from the sky. The morning had arrived to greet Prudêncio Casmurro before he returned to the earth.” – from The Scent of a Lie When…
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The Music of Translation
Each particular text requires that the translator be attuned to its needs. The needs are varied and complex in any transposition from one language, one culture to another. Here I will focus on the exploration of a text’s specific musical needs. From the poetic to the technical, and to varying degrees, each text will require assorted scales of attention to facilitate the flow of language. To accomplish this a translator must be an attentive listener and, in addition, competent at hearing the music in the words. What does the text shout, and what does the text murmur? Will the range of notes touch all ears across all cultures? Translation…
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Na Lavra da Palavra
(excerto) paulo da costa Um dos intervenientes num encontro de escritores no qual participei pediu desculpas por se encontrar num palco, onde como escritor era objecto de reconhecimento e distinção, enquanto a audiência se encontrava segregada e anónima na plateia. A pessoa expressou o seu desencanto pela situação, alegando que não deveria existir distinção entre os escritores e o público uma vez que “toda a gente pode escrever.” Deste modo perpetuava-se a artificial superioridade burguesa das artes sobre o cidadão. “Somos todos iguais e não existe necessidade de se criar esta classe demarcada de escritor uma vez que qualquer um de vocês pode escrever e poderia aqui estar nesta…
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Sobre: The Scent of a Lie
SOBRE THE SCENT OF A LIE, DE PAULO DA COSTA Vamberto Freitas paulo da costa, nascido em Angola e criado até à adolescência na Beira Litoral, reside desde 1989 na costa oeste do Canadá, em Alberta e Calgary. O seu livro, The Scent of a Lie, apresenta-nos um caso pouco habitual entre nós: um imigrante a escrever em inglês, quando podia muito bem ter optado pela sua língua natal. Caso semelhante, mas de perfil algo diferente, foi o de Alfred Lewis, na Califórnia (falecido em 1977), autor do romance Home is an Island, e outra ficção e poesia. Numa recente entrevista à página literária (da net) luso-canadiana Satúrnia, Paulo explica…
