Throne of weapons
After the sculpture of the same title, by Cristóvão Canhavato (1966-) The weapons here disarmed are exhausted, like the sky of Mozambique. Like…
Read MoreNatan Barreto was born in Salvador, Brazil. He has lived in Rio, Paris, Rome, and, since 1992, in London.
He is the author of six collections of poetry in Portuguese: Under the Roofs of the Night (1999), Hiding Places on Paper (2007), Still Movement (2016), Creatures: animal sketches (2017), A backyard and other corners (2018), which won the Sosígenes Costa Poetry Prize, awarded by the Academy of Letters of Ilhéus, in Bahia, and The Rhythm of the Circle: photographic poems (2019).
He has also published a volume of translations from the French of Madagascan writer Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo, Almost-Dreams & Translated from the Night (2009), and the biography Among the Mango Trees: the Life of Eunice Palma (2011).
In 2019, an anthology of his poetry was published in German, Ausgewählte Gedlchte.
Here is a selection of his poems translated into English.
After the sculpture of the same title, by Cristóvão Canhavato (1966-) The weapons here disarmed are exhausted, like the sky of Mozambique. Like…
Read MoreAfter the painting The Milkmaid, by Johannes Vermeer (1632-75) The milk that here falls forever and flows as if it were true, a…
Read MoreAfter the sculpture Slave “Atlas”, by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) The force expanding in the body, trying to escape the brute state, makes him…
Read MoreAfter the painting of the same title, by Frida Kahlo (1907-1954) The wings of her eyebrows invent the flight of a seagull on…
Read MoreAfter the painting Portrait of Sebastián de Morra, by Diego Velázquez (1599-1660) The direct gaze of this dwarf does not lower. (Whoever considers…
Read MoreAfter the painting Washerwomen, by Candido Portinari (1903-1962) In the bundles on the heads of these girls there are dirty clothes worn by…
Read MoreAfter the painting Portrait of Jan Van Amstel and Anna Boxhoorn, by Abraham van den Tempel (1622-1672) He’s nobody, the painting tells us:…
Read MoreAfter the painting Dance, by Henri Matisse (1869-1954) In the music of this silence, the dance of the magic of holding hands that…
Read MorePoem inspired by a photograph by Sebastião Salgado, in which a woman with her children watch their own house go up in flames….
Read MoreFor Gema The title of this poem, as well as the idea from which it began, comes from the book Le Pas Si…
Read MoreOn 22 June 1937, the poet Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo, born in Madagascar, committed suicide by swallowing 10 grams of potassium cyanide. We don’t know…
Read MoreI already know that I’ll never be a perfect polyglot. Neither can I try and make the journey back. The rule of the…
Read MoreLearning to read a language – whatever language – is to drag to the surface the taste of words anchored to the paper…
Read MoreTo take me in, Paris gave me birth, inside out. But its womb was cold. I penetrated with my body and soul. Her…
Read MoreMy mother died in London, though she had her death in Salvador. In me, she died in London. And I, alone, hidden in…
Read MoreI napped on the floor, on a mattress. He slept on the bed. He got up many times to go to the bathroom…
Read MoreFor my father My father’s fingers yearned for the chalk dust on the hands of a teacher, the wiped-off words – the ashes…
Read MoreFor my mother In that classroom beyond the school, the ground was Periperi’s beach, the walls floated, no end in sight, the blackboard was…
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