Maria do Sameiro Barroso (Portugal)

 
Maria do Sameiro Barroso (Portugal)
 
Maria do Sameiro Barroso is a medical doctor and a multilingual poet, translator, essayist and researcher in Portuguese and German Literature, translations studies and History of Medicine. She has authored over 40 books of poetry, published in Portugal, Brazil, Spain, France, Serbia, Belgium, Albany, USA, and translations and books of essays. Her poems are translated into over twenty languages. She was awarded national and international prestigeous prizes.
 
 
BLUE STRING
 
I was born to a bright world
behind the closed curtain
out of the darkest bushes of the night,
surviving the hoovering whirls,
the marsh fields.
Then, I grabbed a soft blue string
and came up slowly,
breathing deeply,
inhaling the sacred scent
of yellow healing amber,
keeping green emeralds,
blue good luck sapphires
and malachite protecting eyes,
Once, I lived under the ocean.
I couldn’t breathe.
Life was exhausting, painful.
No silver lines showed up.
Just a dead bird.
And the silent beating of the night
concealing a sheltering wing.
 
 
BYGONE DAYS
 
I write from a golden age
as old as childhood,
veiled and mysterious
like a garden of Hesperides.
But I never forget about the sick
animals of the night,
nor about harpoons of stars
waking me up.
I always retain a memory
of sea pebbles,
round glasses of aroma,
velvet orchids, amber rows
and fish swimming
under the boat hulls.
My islands are memories
of camellias, transparent doors,
sparkles of light,
and demiurge birds flying over
forgotten nightmares
and dreams of bygone days.
 
 
THINKING ABOUT PAUL CELAN
 
I think about the sea, the sky,
the moist enamel of polished shells.
Somewhere, my heart was dark.
Walking in the sun, sharing the infinite
of the fresh waters and melancholic
violets, I was thinking about Paul Celan:
the world was an impenetrable
language,
and the silence was an exact word,
a bright flame.
Jerusalem was a burning, gloomy city
floating on an empty space
where the waves of time
and flames of the spirit are still
converging in pages and gestures
of heavenly white peonies.
In the ancient walls, the odorous nards
were still speaking about the redeeming
loneliness.
Meanwhile, in the dark, the brightness
of never uttered words
and beams of sunlight echoed
in ethereal gardens
and never opened books.
 

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