Carta de bia d’ideal Letter from Bia d’Ideal

Carta de bia d’ideal

              19 deste mês
              a barlavento das almas que sabiam
 
Junzin! até na boca de Soncente
Bô nome agora ê Vário ô T. Thio Thiofe
                  E Corsa de David dzê
C’ma bô ê um negro negro greco-latino
                  Ma! dvera dvera
 
As ondas
            já trepam
                 os degraus do teu poema
E quebram no violão da ilha
Tectos d’Europa
                        sob as nossas cabeças
 
Junzin! há muito
Que não bebes a água
                    Da Nossa secura
Dvera dvera
Há one driba d’one
                            ma cinq’one e um dia
 
Que pedra ê regode pa sponja dnos coraçon
C’ma spiga de sangue na dor dum concha de lête
Oh dor de cara contente
                            dor calode
                            dor sentode
                            dor lançado —
                                                  ma dor!
 
C’ma dor de som na viola
C’ma dor de s’mente na tchon
C’ma dor de vulcon na coraçon —
                                                  ma hoje!
 
‘M ca ta dzê
             merci
             thank you
                           danke schön
                                       Paquê!
 
Konde Djosa
              saí porta fora
                     c’se caxa d’engraxâ
 
Tanha morrê na bandera de porta
C’se fome de maçã travessode na boca
 
Oh pove de Rua de Craca
Alimentode
          nesse cold d’pêxe de 16 toston
Boçes bem ovi
             viola de Patada
                                       ma
                                       violão d’Antonzin
Ta rasgâ na sangue de Tanha
             Um silêncio de tantas portas
Boçes bem oiâ
 
             mostre de navi         
                                 ma
                                 vela de navi
Rasgode
           quebrode
                        na oi de Tanha
                        Paquê! Konde Djosa
 
Abri na morada
            camim de sol aberte
 
Tanha plantâ na vente
             Se boca de maçâ mordide
 
Junzin! ‘m tem três cosa
             marrode n’alma
Três rios para nunca mais
             um scrite na mon
             dôs scrite na boca
             três scrite na sangue
 
ê sol ta quebrâ na rotcha
             se fome de gema d’ove
ê vente ta mordê na pedra
             se grite de farinha bronque
ê pove ma dede de pove
             ta screvê na tchon sentence de mon compride
E long time ago
             Notcha
                          já dizia
Ao contrário de Saint-John Perse
                         Que nem sempre
“O remo rebenta na mâo do remador”
 
Mantenha da Bibia
                              Bena
                                   Garda
                                         Vavaia
 
E tod’esse pove de Rua de Crava
 
                          Everybody
 

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
 

Original Poem by

Corsino Fortes

Translated by

Daniel Hahn with Sean O’Brien Language

Portuguese

Country

Cape Verde