If the soul and the ego were objects we could look at, the soul would be a translucent heart beating.
—
George Condo
From speak low
in japan there are four hundred sixty-five
colors catalogued with names
that people use day in day out
the color of faded flowers
the color of sunflower
the color of silver
the color of oil
the color of sand
the color of tea leaves
in all there are thirteen hundred
including those without a name
the color of this tree: fire red?
scarlet, desperation red?
the neighbor demonstrates how to poach an egg
water in the frying pan just before it boils
stir the water with a spoon
and toss the egg into the twister
three minutes later
you have your egg creamy
on the inside
when waking up
the cup near the cushioned pillow
the walls covered in polka-dots
she wouldn’t be surprised
no matter where she was
perhaps in a hotel room perhaps
at the home of her oldest friend from school
the one with the giant dog
or was it a horse
she can’t forget to trim her nails
these extremities that grow and weigh her down
the fingernails
toes and bangs
the tips of her hair
scattered round the sink
two full moons of cottonballs
atop streaming eyes
her name in hebrew
means golden jewel
his name in german means
he who holds the key to the dungeon
he who controls
who gets in who
leaves who stays
in japan no one worships nature
the way it is
it must be conquered first to be offered
back to the gods
carefully wrapped like a gift
the precise angle of the branch stretching upward
the dew from the flower that’s just
been picked
the slime on stones
wet just so
eyes when they wake
are sorrow-filled eyes
in the field a crow draws closer curious
about three little girls
as though they were specks of food
it took a closer look
reconsidered
and continued its flight
before long you too
will be off
that night we crumbled cookies
into tiny little parts
until our fingers were sore
to make the pie crust
to beat the eggwhites
to put the pie in the bain-marie
wait for the pie to cool
sundays stretch on
this time next week
we’ll make pudding
but hey, listen, what do you call
the color of this tree:
effusive red? exhuberance red?
when i lived in brasil, she says
people would tell me the same stories
over and over
it would drive me wild
to listen to the same story
only later did i realize
there’s no need to get to
the point all the time
they repeat the same story
a way to be together
to stay together
the bed in the same room as the refrigerator
at night its pregnant buzz
dreams interrupted by this chatter
of household appliances
she can’t forget to buy milk
paper towels and a few vegetables
after that cream of chicken soup
from a can, unfit for consumption
she’s resolved to eat better
torment red? intemperance red?
crustacean red?
when i still lived in brazil, she says
there was a mute boy
who never stopped talking
he’d knock on the window
each afternoon
and when we’d all gone hush
pretending no one was home
when the mute boy began to talk
he never stopped
the glow of the clock
in the middle of the night
shoes rent asunder
at the front door
the morning sun creeps through the blinds
that don’t block the light
a thin layer of sweat
last night, i did not dream
she noticed a fresh freckle on her cheek
a souvenir
a tattoo
that time saw to
back inside the house
is it the void she hears or is it silence?
one winter, he says, it was so cold
a friend used a coat
that left only his eyes uncovered
and his eyeballs
froze
another winter, he says, or summer
i traveled to a city
where hundreds of lobsters
were tossed inside a gigantic pot
…
speak low is available for purchase here.
This book—the third collection from the thirty-two year-old from Rio de Janeiro, widely hailed as a revelation in Brazilian poetry—was the result of a Masters in Literature at PUC-Rio, written during a Visiting Felow at Brown University in 2013. Other collections include Dobradura and Rabo de baleia (published in English as Tail of the Whale, Toad Press, 2016), which won the 2013 APCA Poetry Prize from the São Paulo Art Critics’ Association. Sant’Anna’s other publications include the chapbook Pingue-Pongue with esteemed Brazilian poet Armando Freitas Filho, as well as a collection of her entire oeuvre to date, published in Portugal as Aula de natação in 2018. She has co-edited Brazilian literary magazine Serrote since 2010 and since 2016 works as an editor at publishing house Companhia das Letras. Her work has been translated into Spanish and English and she has been a guest at literary festivals in Sweden, Latvia, France, USA, and elsewhere.
Eric M. B. Becker is editor of Words without Borders and an award-winning literary translator from the Portuguese. He has earned fellowships and residencies from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Fulbright Commission, PEN America, and the Louis Armstrong House Museum. In 2019, his translation of Mia Couto’s Rain and Other Stories received honorable mention from the Aldo and Jeanne Scaglione Prize, and his translation of Djaimilia Pereira de Almeida’s That Hair (Tin House 2020) is a finalist for the 2021 PEN Translation Prize. He is a cofounder of the transatlantic Pessoa Festival. His work has appeared in the New York Times, Foreign Affairs, Freeman’s, and other publications.
Related
when you say / erase / do you mean / stop existing?
i will erect the new paradise / i will build and decorate it / LIKE a garden in an outgoing/incoming vessel / with ornamented walls / with a basin in the floor
The language and objects of collective dreaming.
