EGOPRESS:  three awards???

My poem "Terminal" was awarded 2nd place in

Ben Gurion Concurso Literário
Hebraica

Esta foi a sétima edição deste concurso, do qual inúmeros participantes também têm sido agraciados com prêmios em concursos de maior alcance, tais como Deborah Goldemberg, Moacyr Amâncio, Bernardo Kucinski.  Sinto-me pequena - e honrada - por estar em tão nobre companhia.  

 

Recebi meu prêmio da Diretoria da Hebraica - o livro!
 

 

Terminal

 

Mine is an unclaimed chest                         

stuffed with contraband goods                     

in a remote high latitude,

airstrip.                                                                     

 

Dense clouds of gauze

keep my fingernails from digging               

into my own skin, finishing

what has long ended.

 

Knife eyes, needle hands

strip my dignity, shear my spine

cover ulcerated shame

with powder, ointment, prayer.

 

Lights blink in abyssal night

between living and living death.

Yellow pains whistle

through slits in plastic tubing.

 

Eyes closed, I see better now:

connoisseur of interior spaces

I now glide through sheets, shark

slicing the waters of memory.

 

Spurned by Charon,

neither here, nor there,

a day deaf and dumb 

but not blind.

Terminal

 

É meu esse baú abandonado

recheado de bens contrabandeados

em remota pista de pouso,

brancas latitudes.

Densas luvas de gaze

impedem minhas unhas de se enterrar

na minha pele, terminar

aquilo que há muito se acabou.

 

Olhos de faca, mãos de agulha

despem a dignidade, tosquiam a medula

cobrem a vergonha ulcerada

com talco, cremes, preces.

 

Piscam luzes no escuro da fenda

entre o viver e viver a morte.

Dores amarelas sibilam

de orifícios em tubos plásticos.

 

Olhos fechados, enxergo melhor:

connoisseur de espaços interiores

agora deslizo, nos lençois, tubarão,

a cortar águas da memória.

 

Desdenhado por Caronte,

nem aqui, nem lá,

o dia surdo e mudo

mas não cego.

 

-x-x-x-


EGOPRESS:  another award!

My poem "Queda livre" (Free fall) was awarded an Honorable Mention in an international poetry contest,

Premio Mondiale di Poesia Nosside
 

I placed among the top 30 of over 600 poets, from 71 nations that entered the contest.  The award is a medallion, a certificate, and most important, my poem will be published in the Winners' Anthology, distributed throughout the world.  The contest is based in Italy, where the awards' ceremony will be held, but they also hold events in several other countries, Brazil being one of them, so hopefully I will be able to attend that one.

The idea for the poem came to me one night as we were driving home along a large boulevard and came across an accident (?) underneath a massive overpass.  Someone, clearly young though not a child, was lying on the asphalt, partly covered by newspaper.  I dedicate the award to this unfortunate youth.  

QUEDA LIVRE

                                

Eu não estava lá quando você caiu.

Eu decidia se comeria o petit-four

antes ou depois do café.

Não ouvi tua angústia

quando você decidia

se saltava ou se caía.

Te ouço agora,

um fêmur

cravado no concreto,

morte de cisne no asfalto.

Um antebraço delicado

ultrapassa as fronteiras

das folhas de jornal, indiscretas

mortalha improvisada

tua mão clamando

feito braço erguido em sala de aula.

Em algum lugar tua mãe

deve ter imaginado você

a salvo nos braços de uma garota.

Deus me livre, eu também teria imaginado.

Nunca sou

bastante

para ouvir meus filhos,

para agarrá-los

no ar.

Free Fall

                                                                      

I wasn’t there when you fell.                                   

I was deciding whether to eat the macaroon           

before or after coffee.                                                          

I did not hear your anguish                          

when you decided                             

to jump or to fall.

                                                          

I hear you now,         

a femur                                                                     

caught fast in concrete,                                            

swan death on asphalt.

                                              

A thin, smooth forearm                                           

trespassing the boundaries                                       

of the newspaper, heedless                                      

improvised shroud                                                   

your hand vehement                                                 

like a raised hand in a classroom.                           

Your mother somewhere                                                     

must have thought you                                             

safe in some girlfriend’s arms.                                

God forbid I should think so, too.                            

I am never                                                                

enough                                                                                  

to hear my children                                                  

to catch them                                                            

        in midair.