domingo, 26 de janeiro de 2014

ISTANBUL 2014 festivali için Brezilya

Recebo, hoje, o convite para participar do Festival Internacional de Poesia 2014 - Turquia,  como representante brasileiro (se é que alguém pode sê-lo). Que voemos, sempre, através das não-fronteiras!

Coloco, aqui, o material exatamente como publicado naquele país, inclusive com traduções de alguns poemas meus, alguns ainda inéditos por aqui (por Alexandre de Abreu) para o inglês e pequenas informações biográficas traduzidas (por Viviana de Oliveira). Meu muito obrigado a todos nesta caminhada.

Aqui, também, o link do site do Festival em sua edição do ano de 2013:

Lucas Guimaraens is Brazilian, 34 years old. With a Bachelor in Law, he lived for years in France, where he developed his MA in Philosophy at the University Paris 8. He also worked as an interpreter, translator and reviewer in CCFD (Committee against Hunger and for Sustainable Development), a body created by the UN. Back in Brazil, he became ambassador of the Universal Circle of Peace Ambassadors (UNO/UNESCO) and develops international agreements in the field of culture and education. Concurrently, he created his own company, Villa Cultura, which works with cultural production in various sectors. He is also co-founder and President of the Friends Association of AlphonsusGuimaraens' Museum House. Since 2012, he occupies the chair No 1 at Mariana´s Academy of Arts - Minas Gerais. He has published poems in various anthologies, journals and magazines in Brazil and abroad (among which, the magazine “Poesia Sempre”, of Brazil's National Library Foundation, the magazine of the Academia Mineira de Letras (Brazil), the spanish magazine “En Sentido Figurado” and the french “Caravelles”). He also received some literary prizes. In 2011, he launched his book: “Onde (poeira pixel poesia)”, published by 7Letras. In this book, Guimaraens weaves a poetic network interspersed with pop and erudite references, combining a full mastery of language to the gift of creating highly metaphorical images. Pixels and megabytes punctuate the lines of this debut book, in poems that flow with lyricism and imagetic strength. The author's verses reveal an eclectic poetic affiliation, drawing inspiration from Ginsberg, Whitman, Lorca, Cecilia Meireles and also from the symbolist poet Alphonsus Guimaraens - his great-grand father. In 2013/2014, he will publish the book in philosophy, "Michel Foucault et la dignité humaine", edited by L'Harmattan, Paris, France. 

Translated poems

To the 00 generation

there´s no lightness in the sky.
there are fear and contrariness.
there are the boots of giants
the shaking of the cordel literature[1]from the north
Torn clothing in a fictional frame.

there´s no lightness in the sky.
although roses and pealedmelopoeia gush out from the mouth
unbuttoned, thin faces – hopeful- fooling  themselves.
waiting for a god? are we?
are we alone alive or digitalizing emotions at the edge of an abyss?

dorothy parker lowers scythes or waits
for the spasms of a thirteen-year-old that lights candles and fires
with his weapon in the outskirts in some place in america?

caged the boy thinks:
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.”[2]

in my childhood the birds had no emphysema
the benches, broken nowadays, invite me to rethink my life with virtual shopping and pornography.


when the maze between teeth
release chemical substances of emancipation

when the ferns no longer drain
the fair curls throughout the hallway that lead to the garden

when the slits in the hands
no longer are remains of animosity

when you are able to laugh at the present
baby we will have a beautiful spinning ballad
between the eyelashes of night.

then our children will be born in peace.


I´d like to take you to the north of happiness.
There, to the right of the instrument: enter.
Where pain shows and with them
the sky’s recycling.  Other skies of humanities.

I´d like to take you to the north of happiness.
In the ancient Western of my dreams.
Before them, even. In that drawer adrift in the shipwrecked sea
where whores, aids and death
lived beyond my horizons(always beautiful although distant).

Where I discovered man as an anathema of life
the candle lifted in his mast already tired.
Where addictions are welcome and words from the floor
are lights.  They sole are the barers of the crosses.
that identify and recognize a city.

I want to invite you to where the Wind doesn’t blow
but where seeds always renew.

I want to convince you about me:
write in Sanskrit: man are men.
Where my north is your south.

Where machine guns and bacteria exist
and can only be silenced in the night where
- awaken-
menwill not exist separated.

(Just between us,
ego to ego,
I want to take you chained to the word utopia).


“No. No me encontraron.
Pero se supo que la sexta luna huyó torrente arriba,
y que el mar recordó; ¡de pronto!
los nombres de todos sus ahogados.”
(Federico García Lorca, Fábula y rueda de lostres amigos)

bergman (the one known as ingmar)
filmed the brightness of life as an appetite of a raven shone by the light of gold.

those army boots made of leather and plaster and iron always stomped coldly
in the evenings of conspiracy.  Entered heavily as brute emperors of that map of salty drops from a Dali eye.

hollow noises followed by sharp ones.
crooked supersonics that can’t be heard.
daily doses of wine and sweat in the houses of restlessness.
wreckfromthe deepness of the already sunken torpid cities.

and that bird cut clouds as if it were sowing the silence of men.

and that bird traced the sky as if it sawed all the traps and basement grids.

and that bird turned into a brick of oneiric constructions.

and that bird turned to dark.  Spinned.

flew another refrain and the prison buildings fell:
in its beak the caustic shinning of the dust of red screams and whispers
stars in the diamond sky of sadness from parents and grandparents.

and man bore wings and started a vertiginous adventure on foot.
feet on the ground.


I wait for your pictures in the office drawer
your perfume or a dense cloud of cholera and heavy rain
your dripping red pendants left between the bed and the nightstand.

I wait for stories to tell and drunken loads of disappointments
I await kneaded tickets in the pockets of filmlight
in the phone wire and the promise of the absence of solitude of the line.

I wait for scandinavian cold on pillows
and the light of my laptop beside me five in the morning.
I wait for the lack of money, whitman´s leaves of grass
the hypnotic edges and future eyes of disapproval.

I get up and say good-bye to you with your skin under my nails
and the lipstick that will no longer leavetraces of years of an archeology done by a couple.

I rip from the ripe sofa the cotton waste of various seats
and wait for your existence in my dreams.
I warm myself with a knife, hope and eyes behind the computer screen.

I wait unsatisfiedinsatiably for dulcinea and hours of therapy in megabyt

General Song

“Puedoescribirlos versos más tristes esta noche”.
(Pablo Neruda, Poema XX)

I’ll scratcha general song.
although forests do not count words
andthere is no lyricism.  Rivers and stones enclosed by dams and mining.
there are no blistered hands
but inflammations on the wrists of the ATMs and production lines.

therearen’t any condors and the petroleum burnt with the last bombs of this world

there aren’t any steps in the sand
birds with oxygen
balloons in these depressurized airs.
birds smoke because of the lack of catalyzers.
(men live because of the lack of cataclysms).

flowers do not blow life
cups of lilacs are just cups
of concentrated pollution and of white stained dirt
andthe shining serpent extinguished as the last cigarette drag.

the general song is a battlefield and men’s myopia.

whistle of the sole survivor
these verses die in the seven green seas of the shipwrecked poet.

epilepsies of electromagnet epiphanies.
tickets for the bateaux mouches reserved for German invaders of the 40’s.

I’ll walk my orchids on a leash.
after they piss in the light posts
can I eat some junk food without being electrocuted?


these cities smell of wounds
dust scratches the skin of the damned
streets pollute childhoods in fields
eyelids cover in white the hours of the day.

without triumph arches and tunnels
drive the shivering cups of water mad
and the clairvoyant metrossubwaysbring chaos
and catharsis to man.

the shroud falls.
the dough is frozen.
frozen are dreams.
self-helpbooks kill releases.

ina queue fallen angels buy their return tickets.

The world is not enough

birds seem to follow the bones of the future
thornycarcasses of electronic dinosaurs.

kerosenehoarses liberty
the burnt meat is a diamond of dried eyes.
submersed men float heavy wingsin a city
of avalanches and guaranislostin a maze of blind plagues.

marketers promise the plenitude of chinese products
and distorted pirate images replicate unfocused dreams.

fast cars skimp fields.
above the debris, flies with human eyes still see:

a love without splinter
a morning of sun
an embrace with no false intensions of peace
a crowd’s whistling in games without rivals
and the stanched blood of angles
the world is enough to dream.


even in the gully
coughs of civility
handrail of abysms
(acrobatic vertigo
acrophobia of roots
birds with no anchor)

an inconsiderate snow
takes over the sidewalks
the judge says he does not know
apocalypse of the knot
damaged product
auction of lost souls.


name of open claws
lead is your soul and cars roam in the sea
the blinds of your fingers hide gold and pain in the eyes

infinite name
name fishery

submerged arms amongst sailing cars
prayers sink
sights in chalk and flesh and glass
soluble saints as yourworker’scoffee

there’s still a cloud and over the shade a light
shock-word that rhymes with love
and may it be love.

[1]Cordel literature (from theportuguese term Literatura de cordel, literally "string literature") are popular and inexpensively printed booklets or pamphlets containing folk novels, poems and songs, which are produced and sold in fairs and by sidestreet vendors in the Northeast of Brazil. They are so named because they are hung from strings in order to display them to potential clients. They form one of the least altered continuations of the Western traditions of popular literature, such as chapbooks and popular prints.
[2]Walt Whitman, Song of Myself.