the traveller

(first draft of a poem written last year, 

in Portuguese - ah, the challenges of self-translation!)

her morning

i awaken to the sun, lavish

as never before.  day to start

moving, against the image of the

night preceding,  a mediterranean

scene,  boats  lying still on the bay,

the white of a mosque reflecting

the dreams in porto. i tell you

 i too will be gathering routes: between a

woman  and the sea, there are years by the

thousands, traces, cries, pleasures

that refuse to take leave of memory,

a chiaroscuro still waiting to be

painted.

second day

if you have heard the fury

of the wind beating against sails, you will never

forget it.  it knots your chest, tangles

your hair, occupies memory. for 

experienced captains, the story is different:

a maestro’s handmade mast resists the

wind, from wherever it blows,  the simplest
and surest betrayal.

third day

time to step off the ship.

it was raining and smelling of

autumn. walking barefoot

over the stony beach, and up

the hill leading into the city

i felt muddy slippage, wet

leaves between my toes. i

would try to record them, their deep

orange, precise shape,  like

little damp hands pointing

to a path.  a condescending

gesture held me back for

some seconds, but i went

on.  with concentration,

the path will always reappear.

fourth day

it was market day. the

sun in hiding came back out

to ravish the village, to brighten

the colors of its garments,

heating the wine that was

always served warm. they 

offered me chokers, earrings and

the roasted chestnuts that i

could accept, a pair of dark eyes

asking, “and you, who are you?”.

being a stranger can sometimes be

precious,  enigma

intact

fifth day.

the children of the village gather at

the base of the fountain. i open my

heart to their mischief, just as i once

did for you, opening up all the gates to

the green pasture, and letting the

colts and calves in too. but today

the boys go around and around the

well, fishing for coins that lie at the

bottom, and are all as ordinary as

a day with no surprises.  just me, who

had switched tongues without

noticing.

sixth day

against the light of an old moon

and the oil that continues to

rage in a bronze lamp, burns in

me the wariness of moving on,

making my way once again

southward. the cabin of my

crossings smells of salt, of

fish. i who was beginning to

love too much the rain-drenched

soil, the trustworthy donkeys

who carry firewood on their backs.

nothing is darker than a night at sea.

habitat suspended. continents losing

their outline against the horizon.

seventh day.

the letter that i write

is but reinvention.

i cannot tell you my first

dream, or how while the oil

burned, i felt my fever

rising.  the eyes that followed me

were not yours. they promised to

decipher the labyrinth of the

map. we walked slowly, careful

with our water, the scarce nourishment.

my steps were no longer those of

a woman, but of an elephant, a female.

or a tiger. we went out in search of

that which would be only light,

only sound, only flesh.  there would be

no argument.  nothing-  between the

silences - but acquiescence.

eighth day

today i discover

myself member of an old

tribe.  history listens to

me, as i hear her. long

gone,  my ancestral Red

Sea navigators, and the

rustic horsewomen of the Altai

mountains, but together,

we are. i delight in the

feeling of bare feet over

ancient minerals, grasses

and the stony road to the temple.

and  long for the legends

of your people. i try to time

my steps to yours. but it isn´t

working. it must be something

 taken from  sorceresses, it gave

 me impulse, it gave me  road.

in spite of my short legs. in spite

of my female smell and the

breakings of childbirth. i cannot

comprehend what the gods babble on

with their followers or with those who

 interpret their faith. i choose instead

    to move through the night

alongside the animals, the camels

chewing patiently, the calves and

the goats. while  you sit amidst the

men, the hours of cards, chess, arak,

the sun that awaits us in different

ports.