Ana Luísa Amaral" />
  • ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Literature, PoetryJune 10, 2015

Das Mais Puras Memórias: Ou De Lumes

Artwork by Jamil Afridi. Image Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery

Click here to read this poem in English

 

Ontem à noite e antes de dormir,
a mais pura alegria

de um céu

no meio do sono a escorregar, solene
a emoção                     e a mais pura alegria
de um dia entre criança e quase grande

e era na aldeia,
acordar às seis e meia da manhã,
os olhos nas portadas de madeira, o som
que elas faziam ao abrir, as portadas
num quarto que não era o meu, o cheiro
ausente em nome

mas era um cheiro
entre o mais fresco e a luz
a começar                     era o calor do verão,
a mais pura alegria

um céu tão cor de sangue
que ainda hoje, ainda ontem antes de dormir,
as lágrimas me chegam como então, e de repente,
o sol como um incêndio largo
e o cheiro                     as cores

Mas era estar ali, de pé, e jovem,
e a morte era tão longe,
e não havia mortos nem o seu desfile,
só os vivos, os risos, o cheiro
a luz

era a vida, e o poder de escolher,
ou assim o parecia:

a cama e as cascatas frescas dos lençóis
macios como estrangeiros chegando a país novo,
ou as portadas abertas de madeira
e o incêndio                     do céu

Foi isto ontem à noite,
este esplendor no escuro e antes de dormir

……

Hoje, os jornais nesta manhã sem sol
falam de coisas tão brutais
e tão acesas, como povos sem nome, sem luz
a amanhecer-lhes cor e tempos,
de mortos não por vidas que passaram,
mas por vidas cortadas a violência de ser
em cima desta terra                     sobre outros mortos
mal lembrados ou nem sequer lembrados

E eu penso onde ela está, onde ela cabe,
essa pura alegria recordada
que me tomou o corredor do sono,
se deitou a meu lado ontem à noite

tomada novamente                     tornada movimento,
mercadoria bela para cesta de vime muito belo,
como belo era o céu daquele dia

Onde cabe a alegria recordada
em frente do incêndio que vi     ontem de noite?
onde     as cores da alegria?     o seu corte tão nítido
como se fosse alimentado a átomo
explodindo

como fazer de tempo? como fingir o tempo?

……..

E todavia         os tempos         coabitam
E o mesmo         corredor dá-lhes espaço
e lume

~ Ana Luísa Amaral

Tags

Ana Luísa AmaralpoetryPortuguese

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articlePost-Partition Noir
Next articleAbout the purest memories: or about light

You may also like

Billy Luck

To the Depths

Dearly Departed

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

Wenlock Poetry Festival 2014: In Review

The Missing Slate’s take on the 2014 Wenlock Poetry Festival.

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Author of the Month: Farah Ahamed

"Fiction writers need, aside from an imagination and self-discipline, a strong sense of self-belief." Farah Ahamed, The Missing Slate's Author...

Close