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All the contents of this journal, except where otherwise noted, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution License. Man, Paul De. The Rhetoric Of Romanticism. Rillaterre, Michael. Semiotique De La Poesie. Trans, par Jean-Jacques Thomas. Paris: Editions du Seuil, Trabalha regularmente na dramaturgia de espectaculos. Email: nevesnanet netcabo. The poetry of Joao Miguel Fernandes Jorge is a continuous attempt to grasp the spirit of the place: a poem is what is retained by the poet after his travels around the world.
Avoiding the trap of simply describing his journeys, the poet creates images that reshape historical and geographic realities, that is to say, in his own poems he goes beyond his mere physical presence in a place to find the mysterious laws of poetry. In his poems, he builds homes for the gods so that they will strengthen his words and images. Since the gods know the mysteries that poets want to translate into poetry, the poet follows them, enters the deep sea, searches among ruins, overhears enigmatic dialogues, and travels around the world like an ancient oarsman.
Sometimes we read a poem and are astonished by its clarity, its familiar tone, by the straightforward logic that pervades it. Is death something we choose, like we choose a poet from the book- case to read at night? The singularity of this poem is that a place is the place of poetry and that the death of Pound enhances Venice as a place. Who is supposed to be the chronicler of such a trivial wish? An anonymous passerby who aspires to be eternally connected to Venice and poetry?
ITe answer most certainly is: the poet himself The poet is the ghostlike being whose function it is to overhear the dialogues hov- ering about him. Sometimes we have the impression, as we have in this case, that the inquiry coincides with the poem — what is the point of knowing how to start a poem when the poem is already written?
The poem is half-written as soon as the poet eavesdrops on a conversation, or when he has a conversa- tion with someone he does not bother to identify. Antonello, a famous Italian painter , was not from Venice. Neither was Pound. Antonello, however, did not die in Venice. One thing is certain: the mystery of the title matches the subject matter of the poem. For now we have to divine the spirit that connects these bodies or parts. Antonello was from Massina, in Sicily.
Pound was from Hailey, Idaho. Fernandes Jorge is from Bombarral, Portugal. Pound died in that Italian city, adding his poetic persona to that already mythical place. As for the Portuguese poet, he tries to overcome his belatedness by uniting his name and poetry both with those two monumental figures and with the history of Venice. Antonello impressed the Venetians with his artistic virtuosity, by creating forms with color rather than with the usual lines.
Fernandes Jorge tries to grasp or evoke the place enriched by the painter and the American poet. His virtue lies in his poem and the fact that he seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Like Eliot, he was there to capture the dialogue or invent more or less frivolous characters, that is to say, to impress by means of his poetic virtuosity. If Eliot imitated Laforgue, Fernandes Jorge imitates the spirit of the place. More properly, a poem Is made of names and places that acquire a particular meaning because they are evoked by the poet, because it is the poet who sees everything.
It is his point of view that exerts a pull on the images and reshapes historical and geographic realities. A poem is, therefore, an overlapping of figures and places; it is what is retained by the poet after his travels around the world, after avoiding the trap of simply describing his journeys. The work of the poet consists in going beyond his mere physical presence in a place.
We are condemned as it would be useless to put up doors to contain the sea. We have a body and we are not body a soul a Ireedom and we are not soul or freedom. All of this is body soul Ireedom and what we invent discover defend. Although Pound died in Venice, even there he too was condemned to live beyond his existence, that is to say, in poetry. The poet travels and by doing that he establishes his own place. Between what is hidden to him and what he exposes, there is the place of poetry. He was con- demned to create his own place.
From coffee shop to cof- fee shop, the poet intertwines the reality of his inner nature, always in motion, always creating news and unexpected paths, with the reality he sees in front of him. Seated on a chair, he broods over his youth while he flips through a newspaper or plays with a piece of lemon peel in his fingers as he observes other customers.
His dreams, his inventions are, conseqtiently, the point of view of his spirit, although it is important to point out that the oneiric part of his poetry is nothing but the amalgamation of chunks of reality. It goes without saying that both this reconfiguration and the revisitation of the cul- tural past only occur when the poet asks himself how he can write a poem with this material. There is a daydream-like atmosphere that makes him jump from one place to another, stranger place, but the dream, the mental wandering, is deeply rooted in reality.
The poem may take us to winding roads and African nights, to impossible dreams, but it always brings us back to our daily reality. It brings together geographically, cultur- ally, and historically shadowy regions; yet, those experiences are used to test the reality of the place that the poet uses as a point of departure. In the morning, some of those sentences may form a poem. It Is an enigmatic dia- logue between the poet and someone else, an interlocutor who frequently appears in his poems.
That time was abandoned but can be revisited, was forgotten but still sends echoes that permit the poet to wander over the sea of ruins. After all, he is the dreamer who is attracted by the melancholy sight of autumn leaves and ends up identifying himself with someone whose only and final destiny is to sing love songs.
He was saved from a shipwreck only to become a component of the landscape of the poem, that is, he is another ruin in the sea, living there beyond his existence. The poet chroni- cles what he sees and hears and by doing this he is, at the same time, telling the reader the way he wanted the poem to be. And we have good reasons to believe that the way he wants the poem to be is the way the poem is actually written.
Its lines are conceived in remote and anonymous hotel rooms; they bring to light experiences and voices with which we are not familiar, but the clear will of the poet helps them to reach us, or, more properly, lets us know that he was in a specific place at a precise moment. Put differently, the poet wants us to see him as a witness of a particular state of mind and also to note that the mental and physical landscapes he has taken hold of can be described with a certain splendor.
His ambition is to reach all places and all times and we, his readers, are included in these categories — we are the place and the time of the poem. Be that as it may, this outlandish world of poetry seems to be built upon doubts. Trivial doubts, for they are the doubts that emerge from daily experience, which is the most fantastic of the ruins.
And each moment of the future is a repetition of the past. Hence, the poet is the voice of the past, hut his voice is subtlety covered with a shadowy aura, precisely because it materializes from his memory — it is his memory that gives shape to the memories of his characters. As a result, the figures of the past, when seized by the memory of the poet, become a combination of nos- talgia and dislocated historic vigor; consequently, memory is also the silence and the shadow of the place where the past is evoked as a sea of forgetting, as we can see in this short poem included in By the Sea in June.
This year the summer crossed Lisbon. The summer was invisible.
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It crossed the city and the others it took from my body memories ol your name. What the poetry of Joao Miguel Fernandes Jorge tells us about the past is that it is a time we remember but also forget. In many of his poems, we do not precisely feel the effort to recuperate the time forgotten; instead, we expe- rience the attempt to seize the act of forgetting. What we see here is the poet assuming the role of the mental chron- icler of the past, in which History is inhabited by ghosts that dwell in aban- doned castles.
For this reason, the past is not a whole entity but only allusions lying amidst the slender, flimsy sand of History. The past is brought to the present by the act of writing the poem, but only birds, small lizards, and beetles subsist in the rocks that were once its glory. This brings to mind an idea the Italian essayist Roberto Calasso has recently stated, according to which this sort of debt to the ancient world is like a spell that frustrates our ambition to seize the whole of the past.
What really oppresses us, something that also especially oppressed Holderlin, is the notion that the past will never belong to us in its entirety. That is the spell of the past that keeps haunting our relation with kings, angels, and gods. They cross it with the trail of their names and are soon gone. Every time the writer sets down a word, he must fight to win them back.
How can we be certain that the gods are still among us? How can we recognize them? This god or ensemble of gods is coming, as is noticed by Calasso and by those who read modern poetry. No, now they are multitudes, a teaming crowd in an endless metropolis. Up to a certain point, the plasticity of the poem coincides with the nature of god to the extent that in both there is a mystery, a dramatic igno- rance of the circumstances of human and divine existence.
God provides the poet with a destiny and the willingness to live the stories of the dreams. The poet lives between the laws of the earth and the order of the gods.
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A poem may be the earthly sign that confirms that the nature of the poet will never be similar to the gods, but it is also, without any doubt, a robe in which the gods can wrap themselves. I he father cradles the son and we can almost hear their conversation in a church near the sea — immense is the light in the Jewish Port, the blue of its narrow bay, those who travel far from their homeland disappear. In the houses, fires are lit. The ancient place, its rocks so beloved that the eye always comes to rest on them — those who travel afar return no more.
Death deserves the son, transmitted by the father: this is the life that leads to the other life. The ash deserves the opposite, the reward for a much tattered body: the spirit is absent, it was stolen. I see no difference between that and other hand that holds, not the punished hand of the son, but a mighty glove. Humiliated and distraught; martyrdom and blood are not worth the brief hour of his time; light, not blood among wounds and pain and the lost eyes of human suffering; see the plurality of the world; light, not fire is the keeper of the heart of nature.
The holy ghost is absent and this fact cripples the Trinity — the ghost may be missing from the sculpture seen in the Museum in Angra do Herofsmo, in the Azores, but the spirit is undoubtedly present throughout not only the poem but also in the passionate expression of the Nazarene. Again, the poet himself is another kind of spirit that almost hears this most private of con- versations, the one the father holds with the son in a Catholic church near the sea the poets strongest ally, as we know , close to the Jewish port — it is from this place that those who have to leave depart, those who will not return.
As the father transmits death to the son, which puts him beyond death, those who head off are going to die only to live a different life. I hat is the reward for his dispersed, lacerated body. Although the spirit is not present, its function is performed by the soul, which is a ritualized belief in blood and martyrdom. Hence, the hand that links this life with the other world beyond life breaks through an intense and prodigious blend of gold and green. Yet, that hand also merges with the myriads of hands that are both humiliated and distressed. Their light is always accidental: [ Then they killed the king — and the king let himself be killed, Ibmorrow what will happen to the blue of the sky and the blue of the sea?
There will be always someone who sings someone who dies in a different manner. When someone disappears, the blue of the sky becomes brighter, the angels radiate with light, and at night the golden flames of the can- dles accentuate the bleak color of dead things. After the death of God and the king, the poet acquires an absolute freedom to bring them back in different forms. His ideal is to give meaning to the exact place where his trip begins. This is, indeed, a very significant feature in Fernandes Jorges poetry — the assimilation of the poet to a different body, with a new form, always trying to find a privileged interlocutor.
But times have changed and so the forms of the gods have also been modified. One thing is certain: now, more than ever, the gods are closer to men, at least to poets, than they have ever been. It is as if the spirits that used to exist in statues and sculptures are now free to run wild in the world. Dressed in this way by Battista Moroni he left.
He was short, broadshouldered. I did not hesitate.
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For him I drank my hurried, much too burnt coffee; and I smoked what remained of my cigar. I was also in a hurry because I had quickly burnt the days of my fire. That man, whoever he was, I saw him at the forbidden limits of this land upon the ruins of authority and throne. Without greeting anyone as he walked he was the dark shadow that looks much like the solitary bull that runs away through the mountains of the city. Again, the site of the apparition is a coffee shop, an anonymous place along a famous avenue in Lisbon.
This time, the figure that is the origin and the end of the poem is portrayed with all the details available to the poet face, hair, suit, shirt, tie. If anything, the poet wants us to be quite familiar with the physical traits of the man. There is, however, something that separates the poet from the individual he describes: while the man reads aimlessly, the poet admits that he is in a hurry, that throughout his entire life he has been running. Fdis life is running out. Ironically, the one who is in a hurry is the one who stays there brooding over his life. Why was he at the forbidden lim- its of the earth, assuming a human form, upon the ruins of an unspecified throne?
As a black shadow, absolutely indifferent to human beings, he was the mythical bull whose spirit dwells in the highest and darkest paths of the polis. For a brief moment, though, the poem was able to describe him, to outline his bodily form, probably because he was allowed or allowed him- self to go beyond his outward appearance and place himself above the high- est shadow. In the poem above, the poet tried to be worthy of the greatness of the moment that soon would vanish from his eyes. Be that as it may, the poem is written so that the image of these semi-physical, semi-ethereal beings can be preserved.
Yet, the poem also aims to preserve the physical image of the poet and his body that lies in a hotel room and begins a sort of movement or expedition towards his memory and his past. Fie does not hes- itate to imagine himself looking at his former self FFe sees himself in the reflection of a window in a train, although he is fully aware of the passing of time, and that the flame of his life is quickly vanishing.
And that gave me pleasure In this poem, a true self-portrait with a mirror, or a double self-portrait, soul and body are a single entity. The poet is incapable of portraying himself without resorting to a negative kind of pleasure, noting that his image can- not he contemplated forever in the mirror. It is as if, for only a short moment, the soul allowed the body to be seen, which his heart experienced as a calm, subtle reward.
What this and other incomplete self-portraits make clear is the absolute inexistence of a perfect image. There is always a kind of noise that impedes the image from being shown in its full splendor. Like the gods, the poet can- not be totally seen, his existence goes beyond the image reflected in the mir- ror. What the poet observes when he sees himself for an ephemeral moment in the mirror are intimations of his own death, visions of death.
For him, death is a slow business; it is the condition of History, of heroes — the death of the latter is the death of the poet, although the death of heroes, brought by oarsmen from distant regions, fuels the poems the poet is willing to devote to the mythical past. Above all, death is for him being alone, among tourists, in a plaza, seated at a silent table, sipping coffee, looking at a blind musician without actually seeing him, mentally wandering from flower to flower in the nearby garden.
This is the way his body is reminiscent of ancient monuments covered with sand. This empower- ment of the body allows it to be loaded with a cargo of thousands of images and dreams that will transform it into a succession of new and distant bod- ies, that is to say, of new and different poems. The symbiosis of the body of the poet or the body of poetry with the images he grasps is sometimes so intense and vivid that the poet looks at him- self and what he sees is a boat, a beach, a sea.
These are indeed aspects extremely crucial for the movement of the poet between different temporal and geographic categories. The sea is like an incommensurable plastic object sustained by ruins, and the blue of the water is the ideal mirror for the poet. With one foot on the ground and the other in the sea, the poet can configure the poem as a mirage of forts, boats, and kingdoms.
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His temporal dimension coincides with the existence of the myth- ical boat, the boat he relies on to show him the way: I cannot think but about the boat that is going to take me away. It is necessary that it leaves quickly white, crossing the Tagus. I Seated here, a bottle and a glass on the marble, iron table, I drink to a quay, a sun, a river to the white ship that is going to take me away.
The mythical sea, with birds, sun, boats, and beaches, is an archetype of a real or invented childhood spent in the southern seas. This archetype evolved and is now the solitary place of the poet. The sea is now a sea of images, an attempt to redeem the present time but also to comfort the navi- gator who once built his kingdom in the middle of undulating dunes. The whiteness of memory is counterbalanced by the blue of the present time, and June seems to be the bluest month for the poet, when his sight can reach the vastness of the blue horizon. The sea provides the poet with the intimate light that breeds his silence and soli- tude so that he can imagine the noise and bewilderment of some legendary quay, with white smoke and the smell of fish.
Blueness is what makes him pay special attention, in his imagination, to the hands and arms of the oarsmen, who, with their instruments, plough the seas, following the invisible path that leads them to the time of the poet, bringing to him the sea of Herodotus. Most of all, blue is the color of his dreams — in this indeterminate space, the poet is able to go on with his obscure kind of existence, adding more mystery to his mysterious journeys.
By and large, the aim of the trips is to give the poet the opportunity to confirm his dreams, it is a kind of repetition of his experience inside the labyrinth of images. He crossed the woods. I he foggy weather allowed him to wander. He did not need to go to any place. He walked aimlessly he lost himself in the fields in the water of the night.
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What mysterious appeal lies in the water of the night, what kind of fog is this that impels the poet to travel to its heart? To feel them is to live through the mysterious laws of poetry, or the sacred nature of beauty. When the poet shows us his own place of creation, when he admits that poetry is the inter- pretation of the past and the future, when he intertwines several strata of time, when he goes beyond himself to reunite his being with the prophets of History, when he describes the new forms of the gods, when he looks at the sea and realizes that what he sees in the blue immensity is his own dreamt-of image, when he does all of this, the poet lets us have a glimpse of the magni- fied image of his mysterious laws.
Each poem is a palimpsest of epochs, fig- ures, states of mind, and other displaced elements. It goes without saying that this person who inquired about the meaning of the visual scenery is not identified, adding, thus, one more ingre- dient to the puzzle and the mystery of the poem. The future of the poet is unpredictable, and that is his best legacy to poetry.
Holy and blessed mystery. We need only a small light in the distance to see where wt are going. They may even revolve around us in the guise of artists. I'he luminosity Fernandes Jorge sees in Mark Rothko, for example, puts the painter on the same level as other divine entities. It was i Feldman who said that in order to experience Rothko, one has to find a way j out of his abstraction. But, to create the. I envisioned an immobile procession not unlike the friezes on Greek j temples.
What trivial doubts can you do? The poet hesitates, he cannot decide what he should do, he is torn between action and inaction, between his inner motion and the weather outside. Fdis mind is filled with doubts: he lives among them, sees them in his own face, in the coffee cup, scattered among the books and newspapers.
As for the painter, the poet is absolutely certain he must remain silent. Words are for poets, and we know that Antonello and Rothko, and also Clyfford Still and Vieira da Silva, among the many others that turn up in Fernandes Jorges poetry, do not speak in this poetry, because the poet speaks for them — he is the one who is qualified to expand on their doubts. Painters and musicians, as well as princes and seamen, cannot be confounded with the voice of the poet, the one who puts them into his subjectivity. According to this account, the trivial doubts associated with the objects of our daily life only lead to other doubts, to many more doubts.
But I know that what I am saying is not an explanation for the photographs of Jorge Molder. What about the poet? Does he explain? Probably not, because a poem only amplifies the act of seeing, not the actual object. Knowing that the perfect image is an ideal, the poet inter- rogates the image he sees, and this becomes his own evidence, his own real- ity, his own doubts. To come to the point, his own myth.
Permeated by doubts, poetry is for Fernandes Jorge what mythology was for the ancients. This new mythology comes forward from the ruins that sus- tain the poets atemporal sea, from the stories and legends that he overhears in his journey to the daily dreams that help him to divine the point of view of the gods. The remote past is alive again and is mixed up with the chaotic remains of present time, with books and pajamas in an obscure room.
Besides, the past is a kind of oracle that shows the poet multiple paths to happiness. That is the reason he writes poems based on legends, avoiding putting them into an emotional nutshell, because the sublime quality of this mythology cannot be contained in emotional glass- cases.
If his poems do not have gods and heroes, if there is noth- ing to mediate between his mysterious imagination and what simply is in the world, then the poet is nothing more than the guardian of a mere discrepancy, of the same void that used to lock the gods within decrepit libraries and onto disintegrating pedestals.
Occasionally, these three entities are so entangled that the triangulation of the 1, the Self, and the Divine cannot be understood except as a manifestation of the immortality of the poet. His body, as well as his spirit, incessantly shifts from poem to places and mental attitudes. Many were no more than guard houses; small forts, batteries, watch-posts, most of them are now piles of stones. Next follows the list of commanders-in-chief, captains and sergeants, and a bit of the tale that connected them to the islands.
In Fajanzinha, before we arrive at the church, just after the small plaza, there is an ochre-painted house, with a window hovering about the floor, the exterior stairs made of stone.
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At Faja Grande. The streams tumble down the cliffs. They form with the land of Faja and the sea a circular body. Families follow the natural movement, creating and destroying themselves: variation, instant, mobility: along the hazy path and the green darkness, in another centtiry and in this one, a fleet boy is the messenger. He ran along the difficult foot-path, bringing from the port the news of someone who managed to return from the not-so-distant America. He receives a silver piece for the good news, the messenger who seems constant and eternal in his agile run between time and heaven.
His callused hand accepts the steaming mug of coffee, poorly made from toasted fava beans. The poem begins with the ruins, so old that some of the fortresses now only exist in history books. I here are also the military men who served there, and the poet almost yields to a narration of their stories, their tales. He fiees over the old village, Fajanzinha, and sees a church, a plaza, and a house. Surrounding the old village, mountains, the sea, and brooks form a circular body. So far, the voice of the poet is indistinguishable from the voice of the divine being who knows anci sees everything.
Fhe mythological voice suci- denly breaks through, enlightening us about the biological movement of fam- ilies that are like poems — some are built over the ruins of others, and that constitutes the history of their existence, their ephemeral life. But out of the darkness comes the herald who, like the poet when he tells tis the story of this poem, brings the news from one century to the other. Between the Azores and the mythic American lands there is the sea, the privileged element of the poet. And the courier is paid twice for being what he is: a silver coin for his mythical journey and a cup of coffee made from fava beans for his earthly task.
Both the rewards and the poem invigorate him, encouraging him to continue on as the eternal, light-heeled messenger between time and heaven. After all, he is a being surrounded by a type of wall that will not perish, and his story is not going to be told by any Francisco Pimentel Gomes simply because his story is the poem, which includes both the past and the historian. In his ceaseless journeys between time and heaven, the poet also commu- nicates with dead heroes, thus bringing them to the life that is poetry. He has his own dead people to remember, and he sees them in the streets and in the churches, as well as in his memory.
His relation with the literary dead is somehow painful on account of the bliss he once shared with them. These are the literary myths of the poet, which will acquire a new form, for they are part of the life of this poem.
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What is remarkably important is the idea that, in reality, some of these writers are still alive e. This literary heritage cannot but be a painful, heavy weight — when the poem trav- els from place to place, from poem to poem, some of the literary relics are left behind while others are carried in his baggage. History, as well as poetry, has many actors, many witnesses, and Fernandes Jorge uses them to conjure up a certain theatricality, which is another name for the ordered delirium of his memory. When he visits shadovyy regions, establish- ing dialogues with sacred beings half-hidden in the past and behind artistic masks, assuming his role of messenger between sea and myth, time and heaven, the poet crafts poems as eternal miscellany of different eras.
The sight of an ordi- nary person evokes mythical activities and places, and memories of remote, mythological beings are transposed to the present time. There are commonplace activities that endure for centuries, without being lost or forgotten, and this poetry is a physical process that permeates the mystery that bridges different times and different heroes. Each place reminds the poet of another place, each face brings hack the memory of another person, real or imagined, who, at a certain moment, came across the poet.
Above all, each seascape is a reminiscence of the dreamt life of the poet on his distant, imaginary Olympus. And we are here, traveling with him, following his random itinerary, dreaming his dream within a dream, seeing him weaving his immortal plots. His mysteries will be illuminated by the same gods that con- ceived them: the always absent and always present spirits of poetry. Ohras Completas. Calasso, Roberto. Literature and the Gods. Tim Parks. New York: Knopf, Feldman, Morton. Cambridge: Exact Change, Fernandes Jorge, Joao Miguel. Direito de Mentir [ The Right to Lie].
Lisbon: Regra do Jogo, Lisbon: Assirio e Alvim, 1 Beilis Azorica.
Proust, Marcel. John Sturrock. New York: Penguin, Quental, Antero de. Dublin: Mermaid Turbulence, Schlegel, Friedrich. Ernst Behler and Roman Struc. Carlos Veloso received his B. He is now doing research in the fields of aesthetics, the history of architecture, and contemporary literature. E-mail: cvl4 is8. A melancolia em sua escrita como resultado do questionamento sobre o sujeito, a linguagem, o mundo e o lugar da poesia na sociedade contemporanea, num tempo reconhecido como pos-rnoderno.
Tais transformaqoes incidem diretamente sobre as culturas nacionais e as formas de recepqao, compreensao e debate dos temas que circunscrevem a nossa existencia cotidiana. A discussao, desde meados da decada de setenta, sobre uma pos-modernidade se fortalece, sob essa perspectiva, a partir do questionamento sobre a contemporaneidade globalizada, sem utopias, num mal-estar existencial que advem da contraposiqao entre desejos diversos e a impossibilidade de realiza- los tanto no niVel coletivo nas areas politico-economica e sociocultural quanto no niVel pessoal em relaqao as experiencias diversas do sujeito.
Isso, muitas vezes, significou a produgao de obras pouco preocupadas com o mVel estetico e mais interessadas em atingir uma parcela significativa de publico, com a defesa de que o fundamental e comunicard Tambem a escrita poetica refletiu essa crise e essa demanda, questionando de forma cada vez mais critica suas possibilidades de existencia e interferencia sociocultural. Sempre desafiadoramente nos limites, ou contra eles, considerada freqiientemente escrita da subjetividade, sem utilidade especifica, a poesia parece estar, neste tempo tao visivelmente pragmatico, condenada ao desaparecimento.
Como a palavra poetica pode competir com a mass-media e o poderio tecnologico? Como enfrentar os sistemas politico-economicos que vem redefmindo as fronteiras do mundo atual num movimento de indiferenciagao das culturas? No entanto, os poetas continuam a produzir e a encontrar os sens leitores entre aqueles que nao seguem as regras de mercado. Entre esses nomes, destacamos Nuno Judice como uma das mais representativas vozes poeticas da contemporaneidade, com uma escrita que tensiona os limites limites? Em , publicou Obra Poetica, reunindo sens livros I de poesia editados de a Em voltou a publicar o conjunto S de sua obra poetica, Poesia Reunida , incluindo um poema de e um texto de prosa poetica, de Tambem as reflexoes esteticas que Nuno Judice desenvolve, como ensaista e critico literario, confirmam a imagem do poeta que logo se configura para o leitor de sua poesia: um teorizador da linguagem poetica e um pesquisador dos seus limites e processos imageticos.
O poetico torna-se igualmente um lugar I'mpar ii da linguagem, pois e nele que todos os discursos sobre o ser, o mundo e a j' propria linguagem estao em tensao crftica. A arqueologia de que falamos se organiza para re-significar o que se encontra sem sentido. O poema, no entanro, nao tern obrigatoriamente de dizer tudo. A sua essencia reside no fragmento de um absoluto que algum deus levou consigo. De que eternidade me esque ;o, entao, no hindo da estrofe? O Movimento do Mundo 7 Ao longo dos seculos o homem foi construindo uma historia coletiva que estabeleceu como as grandes unidades Deus, o Sujeito e o Mundo.
Na poetica de Judice, tais unidades estao fragmentadas e o que se encontram sao seus vestigios espalhados pelos poemas. O mundo fragmentado que se recolhe na poesia de Judice e exatamente esse mundo cheio de lacunas, com os sujeitos vivendo a tensao entre o natural e o artificial, o isolamento e a multidao, a cultura e a massifica ;ao.
Assim, tambem se oferece como lugar de acolhimento no meio de ruinas. O homem de munique nao me pediu nada, nem tinha o ar de quern precisasse de alguma coisa, isto e, tinha aquele ar de quern chegou ao ultimo estado que e o de quern nao precisa nem de si proprio. No entanto, falou-me: numa lingua sem correspondencia com linguagem alguma de entre as possiVeis de exprimirem emogao ou sentimento, limitando-se a uma sequencia de sons cuja logica a noite contrariava. Perguntar-me-ia se eu compreendia acaso a sua lingua? Ou queria dizer-me o seu nome e de onde vinha — aquela hora em que nao estava nenhum comboio nem para chegar nem para partir?
E que, a certas horas da noite, ninguem pode garantir a sua propria realidade, nem quando outro como eu proprio, testemunhou toda a solidao do mundo arrastada num deambular de frases sem sentido numa estaQo morta. O que desejamos dizer e que a escrita do poeta se vale de vestigios, sinais e indicios de OLitros textos ou sistemas de significagao como a miisica, a pintura. Por todos os livros, os poemas apontam as marcas de outros textos que foram lidos pelo poeta ou que estao presentes no imaginario do leitor ocidental contemporaneo.
Os proprios indices de seus livros apontam a superfkie da obra poetica de que a escrita se faz de leituras e que o poeta habita tambem a linguagem alheia. Como exemplos, citemos alguns titulos entre os muitos que poderiam ser destacados: Stephane Mallarme; Holderlin; WB.
R; Quadras com citagdes de Sartre e Shakespeare; Imitagao de Propercio; Se, numa noite de Natal, a prostituta; Arte poetica com citagao de Holderlin; Romance de cordel do banqueiro suicida e da comoda D. Nao havia nada a ligar a opera inglesa, o poeta portugues e a portuguesa de pisa, a nao ser a que as proprias circunstancias de um acaso de tarde estabeleceram; e no entanto uma imagem unica se sobrepunha a essas, a que se poderia dar o nome de poesia se a poesia nao fosse algo de abstracto numa paisagem que nada tinha a ver com um sentimento preciso — a melancolia de uma breve primavera entre campos e predios, susceptiVel de trazer ate mim a tao vaga imagem da mulher antiga com a musica de purcell.
Sei, no entanto, que nao e so o motivo pessoal da memoria de um poeta, nem a tentativa de reconstituir a figura de uma portuguesa morta em italia, nem o canto sacrificial de dido na opera de purcell, que me levaram a escrever, agora, este poema. Assim, o soldado de Giorgione sai do quadro onde o pintor o fixou e, trazendo atras de si o cao que, seculos depois, afugentOLi as vacas do pasto de wittigkofen, pergunta-me pelo ruy belo — sem que eu possa responder, ocupado a escrever este poema e a tentar explicar a portuguesa enterrada em pisa por que e que, precisamente, foi a aria de dido numa opera de purcell que a trouxe ate junto de mim.
Esse desejo contrasta fortemente com o tom elegi'aco e descrente que atravessa sens versos pontuados de ruinas, escolhos, restos do mundo e do sujeito, naufragados numa realidade sem sentido. A arte poetica de Nuno Judice acentua a solidao do leitor e do poeta, personagem deambulador na cidade, mas tambem aponta formas de reencontrar sentidos no cotidiano por meio do exercicio e da experiencia poetica.
Nao e, afinal, o que faz o poeta ao partilhar imagens, ao buscar nossa perdida memoria? Lisboa: Averno, Para onde vai a literatura? In: O livro por Vir. Maria Regina Louro. Sua obra literaria somava entao 31 titulos. Inquerito realizado pela revista portugtiesa Relampago 2, abril de , com a publicaq:ao de depoimentos de oito poetas portugueses contemporaneos.
Obras Citadas Amaral, Fernando Pinto do. O mosaico fluido — modernidade e p6s-modernidade na poesia portuguesa mais recente. A palavra transversal — literatura c itleias no seculo XX. Blanchot, Maurice. O livro por vir. Compagnon, Antoine. Os cinco paradoxos da modernidade. Guerreiro, Fernando. Harvey, David. Sao Paulo: Loyola, 1 Judice, Nuno.
As regras da perspectiva. Lisboa: Quetzal, Ohm pokica 1 1 Lisboa: Quetzal, 1 99 1. Um canto na espessura do tempo. Lisboa: Quetzal, 1 O processo poetico. Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional — Casa da Moeda, 1 O rnovimento do niundo. As mascaras do poema. Lisboa: An'on, Poesia reunida Lisboa: 14om Quixote, Porto: FundaQo Eugenio de Andrade. Tem-se ocupado sobretudo de estudos sobre a poesia portuguesa do seculo XX. E-mail: alberto. A cena do museu na obra de VGM oscila entre a visitagao individual, marca da sua origem setecentista, e a saturagao turistica actual. A narrativa historica que sustenta o museu fez-se com os mesmos argumentos do progresso que levou o Renascimenio ao mundo pos-industrial.
O museu esta, pois, especialmente habilitado para despir os objectos da sua contingencia historica, tornando-os aptos para o sequestro estetico. Apesar do protesto, deve notar-se que a visita e aqui ja feita sob a influencia protocolar da promenade a dois. Enquanto lugar de afectividades, o museu do poeta permite-lhe assim a entrada de mao dada com a mulher. Submetidos ao olhar do visitante, apenas certos quadros se propoem inesgotaveis, resistentes ao esgotamento provocado pelo interminavel circulo hermeneutico.
O momento auratico do visitante tern como pre-condito o encontro i individual do sujeito com a obra. A intimidade da Kimstkammer seria algo proximo de tal situato. O titulo e por si so um programa diversamente cifrado.