Letter from Bia d’Ideal
The 19th of the month
to windward of the souls that know me
Junzin! Even to the people San Vicente
Your name is Vario or T. Thio Thiofe
And I, Corsa de David, say
You’ve become a black black Greco-Latin man
But really – really
The waves
already climb
the steps of your poem
And inside the guitar of the island
The roofs of Europe
break over our heads
Junzin! A long time now
Since you drank the waters
Of our thirst
It’s true — it’s true
Years upon years
plus five years more, then a day
That the sponge of our hearts has wet the rock
And a conch of milk holds a thread of blood
Oh the pain of a cheerful man!
silent pain
pain in repose
pain cast out
but pain always
The ache of the viola’s note
Ache of the seed in the earth
Ache of the volcanic heart
but today
I will not say
merci
thank you
danke schön
Why?
When Djosa
went out of the door
with his shoeshine box
Tanha died by the flag at the gate
With the apple hunger stuck in her mouth Oh people of the Rua de Craca
Fed
on fish-broth for 16 tostãos
You all gather to hear
Patrada’s viola
and
Antonzin’s guitar
Open in the blood of Tanha
A silence made of many doors
You gather to see
the ship’s mast
and
the ship’s canvas
Torn
breaking
in Tanha’s eyes
Why! When Djosa
Opened in the city
the sun’s open road
Tanha sowed the wind
with the bitten apple in her mouth
Junzin! Three things
are bound to my soul
Three rivers for nevermore
first written on the hand
then written in the mouth
then in the blood
on the rock the sun breaks
the egg of hunger
the wind grinds the stone
with the flour’s white cry
the people and the people’s hand
write the longhand sentence in the earth
And a long time ago
Notcha
was already saying
Saint-John Perse notwithstanding
That it is not always true
"That the oar will break in the oarsman’s hand"
Greetings from Bibia
Bena
Garda
Vavaia
And all the people of the Rua da Crava
Everybody