Poet, art critic, translator and essayist. Ferreira Gullar He is considered the greatest living poet of Brazilian literature. One of the most important names in our literature, José Ribamar Ferreira began his career in 1940, in São Luís, Maranhão, his hometown. In 1951 he moved to Rio de Janeiro, where he collaborated with several publications, including magazines and newspapers, in addition to having actively participated in the creation of the neoconcrete movement.
Ferreira Gullar's poetry has always stood out for its political engagement. Through words, Gullar turned poetry into an important instrument of social denouncement, especially in the production of of the 1950s, 1960s and 1990s, given that, later, the poet reconsidered old placements.
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His engaged poetics gained strength from the 1960s onwards when, breaking with avant-garde poetry, he joined the Centro Popular de Cultura (CPC), a group of leftist intellectuals created in 1961, in Rio de Janeiro, whose objective was to defend the collective and didactic character of the work of art, as well as political engagement of the artist.
Persecuted by the military dictatorship, Ferreira Gullar went into exile in Argentina during the years of repression, an exile provoked by the strong psychic and ideological tensions found in his work. The importance of the poet was recognized late, in the 1990s, when Gullar was finally awarded the most important literary prizes in our country. In 2014, aged 84, he was elected immortal of the Brazilian Academy of Letters, occupying Chair number 37, which had belonged to the writer Ivan Junqueira, who died that same year.
In order for you to know a little more about the poetic work of this important writer, the website School Education selected fifteen poems by Ferreira Gullar so that you can immerse yourself in verses full of engagement and social concern, elements that made the man from Maranhão one of the icons of literature Brazilian. Good reading.
No vacancies
the price of beans
does not fit in the poem. The price
of rice
does not fit in the poem.
The gas does not fit in the poem
the light the phone
the evasion
of milk
of the flesh
of sugar
of bread
the civil servant
does not fit in the poem
with your starvation wages
your closed life
in files.
As it does not fit in the poem
the worker
that grinds its steel day
and coal
in the dark workshops
– because the poem, gentlemen,
it is closed:
"no vacancies"
It only fits in the poem
the man without a stomach
the cloud woman
the priceless fruit
The poem, gentlemen,
does not stink
it doesn't even smell.
translate
A part of me
is everyone:
another part is nobody:
bottomless background.
A part of me
it's crowd:
another part strangeness
and loneliness.
A part of me
weigh, ponder:
Other part
raving.
A part of me
lunch and dinner:
Other part
is amazed.
A part of me
is permanent:
Other part
you know all of a sudden.
A part of me
it's just vertigo
Other part,
language.
translate a part
in the other part
- which is a question
of life or death –
will it be art?
On body
What's the use of trying to rebuild with words
what the summer took
Between clouds and laughter
Along with the blown old newspaper
The dream in the mouth, the fire in the bed,
the call of the night
Now they are just this
twitch (this flash)
of the jaw inside the face.
Poetry is the present.
Neoconcrete Poems I
blue sea
blue sea blue landmark
blue sea blue landmark blue boat
blue sea blue landmark blue boat blue arch
blue sea blue landmark blue boat blue arch blue air
Apprenticeship
Just as you opened yourself to joy
open yourself now to suffering
which is her fruit
and its fiery reverse.
In the same way
what a joy you were
in the background
and you got lost in her
and you found yourself
in this loss
let the pain work itself out now
no lies
no excuses
and in your flesh vaporize
every illusion
that life only consumes
what feeds it.
subversive
the poetry
when she arrives
She respects nothing.
Neither father nor mother.
when she arrives
From any of its abysses
Ignore the State and Civil Society
Infringes the Water Code
neigh
as a bitch
New
In front of the Alvorada Palace.
and only after
Reconsider: kiss
In the eyes of those who earn badly
packs on lap
Those who are thirsty for happiness
And of justice.
And promises to set the country on fire.
The deads
the dead see the world
through the eyes of the living
eventually hear,
with our ears,
certain symphonies
some slamming of doors,
gales
Absent
body and soul
mix yours with our laughter
if indeed
when alive
found the same grace
song not to die
When you go away,
snow white girl
take me.
In case you can't
carry me by the hand,
snow white girl,
take me in the heart.
If in the heart you can't
take me by chance
girl of dream and snow,
take me not to remember her.
And if you can't either
for as much as it takes
already live in your mind,
snow white girl,
take me into oblivion.
Promise me to own it
Promised myself to own her too though
she redeemed me or blinded me.
I sought her in the catastrophe of dawn,
and in the fountain and the wall where his face,
between hallucination and sound peace
from water and moss, solitary is born.
But whenever I get close, he leaves
as if he feared or hated me.
So I pursue it, lucid and demented.
If behind the transparent afternoon
I glimpse her feet, soon in the attics
From the clouds flee, bright and agile!
Vocabulary and body — fragile gods —
I reap the absence that burns my hands.
[Portuguese Poems]
loss
Where do I start, where do I end,
if what's outside is inside
as in a circle whose
periphery is the center?
I'm scattered in things,
in people, in drawers:
suddenly I find there
parts of me: laughter, vertebrae.
I am undone in the clouds:
I see the city from above
and in every corner a boy,
that I am myself, calling to me.
I got lost in time.
Where will my pieces be?
A lot is gone with friends
who no longer hear or speak.
I am dispersed in the living,
in your body, in your sense of smell,
where I sleep like aroma
or voice that also does not speak.
Ah, to be only the present:
this morning, this room.
dawn
From the back of my room, from the back
of my body
clandestine
I hear (I don't see) I hear
grow into the bone and muscle of the night
at night
the western night obscenely lit
about my country divided into classes.
On this Bed of Absence
In this bed of absence where I forget
awakens the long lonely river:
if he grows from me, if I grow from him,
little does the unnecessary heart know.
The river runs and goes without beginning
nor mouth, and the course, which is constant, is varied.
It goes in the waters taking, involuntarily,
moons where I wake up and fall asleep.
On the bed of salt I am light and plaster:
double mirror — the precarious in the precarious.
Flower a side of me? In the other, on the contrary,
from silence to silence I rot.
Between what is pink and necessary slime,
A river flows without a mouth and without a beginning.
[Portuguese Poems]
My people, my poem
My people and my poem grow together
how it grows in fruit
the young tree
In the people my poem is being born
as in the cane field
sugar is born green
In the people my poem is ripe
like the sun
in the throat of the future
My people in my poem
is reflected
as the ear of corn melts into fertile soil
To the people your poem here I return
less like who sings
than plant
MY MEASUREMENT
My space is the day
Open arms
touching the fringe of night and night
the day
that spins
glued to the planet
and who holds the dawn in one hand
and in the other
a twilight of Buenos Aires
My space man
it's earth day
let the birds of the sea lead you
or the trains of the Estrada de Ferro Central do Brasil
the day
measured more by the wrist
than
by my wristwatch
My space — unmeasured —
it's our people there, it's ours
people,
with open arms touching the edge
of one and another hunger,
the people, man,
who holds the party in one hand
and in the other
a time bomb.
Luana Alves
Graduated in Letters
