Aug 2
howard altmann, kyiv
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howard altmann, kyiv
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PALAVRAS
Temos saudade do que temos saudade.
Na idade adulta, saudade da infância.
Em Janeiro, saudade de Julho.
Na cidade, saudade do campo.
No deserto, pedimos nuvens.
Temos saudade do que temos saudade.
Diante de uma paisagem, saudade de outra.
Diante de uma memória, é outra quem fala.
Diante do desejo, outro suspira.
Diante da noite, outras noites se acendem.
Temos saudade do que temos saudade.
Quando passa, fica.
Quando sacia, cresce a fome.
Quando se enche, vaza.
Quando amadurece, não tem idade.
Temos saudade do que temos saudade.
À saudade que temos, anos.
A como a temos, segundos.
Para onde, sem tempo.
Porquê, a eternidade.
Temos saudade do que temos saudade.
E em toda a saudade, uma vida.
E em toda a vida, um desgosto.
E em todo o desgosto, uma história.
E em toda a história, palavras.
~ Howard Altmann
enquanto uma fina neve cai
trad. eugénia de vasconcellos
guerra & paz
2019
A Barrar com Chocolate
Pega na tua tristeza e põe-na naquele frasco de doce vazio que guardas. Pega no teu esconderijo e adoça-o. Compra o jornal antes de te sentares. Lê os obituários depois de leres a banda desenhada. Come uma sopa que a tua mãe costumasse fazer. Toma uma bebida que o teu pai costumasse pedir. Imagina o mundo habitado por órfãos. Depois procura o homem que se senta sozinho e pergunta-lhe se podes pendurar o teu casaco ao lado do dele.
-- Howard Altmann
"The Bleached Field" by Howard Altmann (North American Review Vol. 306, No. 3 (Fall 2021))
Budapest 1944
Howard Altmann - in memory of Elie Wiesel
In the unswayable darkness a tree shivers at night. By the sweeping light of noon an old grip holds. At the shaking of the spirit a half moon touches ground.
Hand over hand, body over body wisdom never makes it home. Page after page, book after book bruised apples make the sauce. Mouth to water, glass to table truths get put down.
The ocean knows the sun goes only so deep. The melting of the snow freezes memory to that place. And a generation passing down colors colors the icicles of spring.
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Today’s Poem
Apertures --Howard Altmann
Old and blind and in love with light, he’d reach for the hands of writers to guide him back to the landscape, once the subject of his photo- graphs. Often he’d see just how hard it was to render it right, and would feel free of such burdens. A last cloud on a lake he’d let carry him into night. Breaking sounds of autumn he’d leave a pond to compose, rustling the stream of images. The panicked flight of the hunted he’d let the dry grasses capture, their golden yield his release. Even in the crimson cusp of an evening he’d wedge himself, curling into a ball without twilight ever sinking him. The man swam with the fog and its very touch of resolve. Further than any writer his shadows lapped up the sand. All this in the ebb and flow of a ninth decade by the tide, an inlet mapped by its egress to the sky. And when moonlight would come to wash his window, a heavy tome floating lost worlds on his lap, often his other hand would read the apertures of old cameras, an author’s intent the subject of his alignments. But when the milky skies would dip the hand of a writer in the milky seas, to the light- house he’d ascend, dreaming of being a writer who was blind, tracing a horizon.
“Budapest, 1944,” Howard Altmann
For my father
In the unswayable darkness a tree shivers at night. By the sweeping light of noon an old grip holds. At the shaking of the spirit a half moon touches ground.
Hand over hand, body over body wisdom never makes it home. Page after page, book after book bruised apples make the sauce. Mouth to water, glass to table truths get put down.
The ocean knows the sun goes only so deep. The melting of the snow freezes memory to that place. And a generation passing down colors colors the icicles of spring.
In memory of Elie Wiesel
“In Vino Veritas,” Howard Altmann
And I gave myself to the poem. And the poem gave to me. And I gave myself to the sky. And the sky gave to me. And I gave myself to the wind. And the wind took what I gave and passed it to the sky.
And I gave myself to women. And women gave to me. And I gave myself to the wound. And the wound gave to me. And I gave myself to hope. And hope took what I gave and passed it to the wound.
And I gave myself to wine. And wine gave to me. And I gave myself to candlelight. And candlelight gave to me. And I gave myself to memory. And memory took what I gave and passed it to candlelight.
And I gave myself to music. And music gave to me. And I gave myself to the tree. And the tree gave to me. And I gave myself to change. And change took what I gave and passed it to the tree.
And I gave myself to silence. And silence gave to me. And I gave myself to light. And light gave to me. And I gave myself to night. And night took what I gave and passed it to the stars.