When we talk about the Brazilian Symbolism, we immediately associate the literary movement with its main representative: the poet Cruz e Sousa. However, it is necessary to do justice and not allow other names linked to this important school to be forgotten. Among these names is that of Alphonsus de Guimaraens, one of the main poetic expressions of the Symbolist period. Owner of a work marked by the influence of Ultraromanticism (the second generation of Brazilian Romanticism), Guimaraens brought to his poetry themes that explore the meaning of death, impossible love, mysticism, loneliness and maladjustment to the world.
Alphonsus de Guimaraens was born in the mining town of Ouro Preto on July 24, 1870. He moved to São Paulo, where he studied law, and later returned to his home state, exercising the position of judge in the city of Mariana for many years. His poetry, balanced and uniform, is almost entirely focused on the theme of the death of the woman he loves (the death of the cousin he loved, Constança, deeply marked the poet's life), and all the other themes he explored – nature, art and religion – are related to that. Alfredo Bosi, renowned Brazilian literary critic, when comparing the lyrics of Guimaraens to the lyrics of
Cruz e Sousa, noted that there is a "descending tone", according to his own words in his Concise History of Brazilian Literature: in the poetry of Alphonsus de Guimaraens there is a certain restraint, a characteristic that differentiates it from the universality of the symbolist language of Cruz e Sousa; the space is almost always Mariana's and the theme is always related to the existential drama experienced by the poet.To the cousin who died at the age of 17, Alphonsus de Guimaraens paid a simple tribute: he baptized his daughter with the same name, Constança. The girl died as a child, a fact that led the poet to commit suicide on July 15, 1921, on the eve of his 51st birthday. The poet's extreme act, hidden for years by the family, was not revealed until much later. In the simple tomb in which he was buried, a wooden cross was placed and on it the following inscription: “Here lies the poet of the moonlight”.
In order for you to learn more about the style and language of this important name of Symbolism, Brasil Escola has selected five poems from Alphonsus de Guimaraens. By getting in touch with the writer's verses, you will get to know one of the most mystical and spiritualist poetics in Brazilian literature. Good reading!
The cathedral
Amidst mists in the distance comes the dawn,
The hyaline dew gradually evaporates,
The afterglow agonizes.
The Eburne Cathedral of my dream
Appear in the peace of the smiling sky
All white with the sun.
And the bell sings in mournful responses:
"Poor Alphonsus! Poor Alphonsus!"
The glorious star follows the eternal road.
A golden arrow shines in each
Effulgent ray of light.
The eburne cathedral of my dream,
Where my tired eyes put,
Receive Jesus' blessing.
And the bell cries out in mournful responses:
"Poor Alphonsus! Poor Alphonsus!"
Through lilies and lilacs it descends
The elusive afternoon: bitter prayer
The light is put on to pray.
The Eburne Cathedral of my dream
Appear in the peace of the sad sky
All white with moonlight.
And the bell cries in mournful responses:
"Poor Alphonsus! Poor Alphonsus!"
The sky is all darkness: the wind howls.
From lightning to red hair
Come and hug my face.
The Eburne Cathedral of my dream
sink into the chaos of the ghastly sky
Like a dead star.
And the bell cries in mournful responses:
"Poor Alphonsus! Poor Alphonsus!"
Do not stop now... There's more after the advertising ;)
Ismalia
When Ismalia went crazy,
He stood in the tower dreaming...
saw a moon in the sky,
She saw another moon at sea.
In the dream she got lost in,
It was all bathed in moonlight...
I wanted to go up to heaven,
I wanted to go down to the sea...
And, in your madness,
In the tower he began to sing...
It was far from heaven...
It was far from the sea...
And like an angel hung
The wings to fly... .
I wanted the moon in the sky,
I wanted the moon from the sea...
the wings that God gave you
They roared from pair to pair...
Your soul, ascended to heaven,
Her body went down to the sea...
Ismalia is one of the best known poems by Alphonsus de Guimaraens
The Cinnamomos shall weep for her...
The cinnamons will cry for her,
Withering the flowers as the day falls.
The spruces will fall from the orange groves,
Remembering the one who picked them up.
The stars will say — "Ouch! we are nothing,
Because she died silent and cold... "
And putting eyes on her as we do,
The sister who smiled at them will cry.
The moon, who was her loving mother,
Who saw her born and loved, must involve her
Among lilies and rose petals.
My dreams of love will be defunct...
And the archangels will say in blue when they see her,
Thinking of me: — "Why didn't you come together?"
Sing others in clear color
Sing others in clear color
From the forest in bloom and the eternal daylight...
Wrapped in the fawn flashes of the east,
Sing spring: I sing winter.
For many the merciless sky
It's a mantle of soft and tender affection:
Sing life, and none of them feel
That decanting hell itself.
Sing this mansion, where amid tears
Each awaits the sepulchral handful
Of damp dust that will smother the corners...
Each of us is a compass without a north.
Always the present worse than the past.
Others sing life: I sing death...
Sonnet
I found you. It was the month... What does the month matter? August,
September, October, May, April, January or March,
Shine the moonlight what does it matter? or was the sun already set,
In your eyes all my dream was scattered.
How I miss love at the dawn of your face!
What a horizon of faith, in the calm gaze and waiter!
I never remembered if it was the month of August,
September, October, April, May, January, or March.
I found you. Later... then everything disappears
Dissolve your gaze in clouds of gold and dust.
It was the day... What does the day matter, a simple name?
Or Saturday without light, Sunday without comfort,
Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, or Thursday or Friday,
Shine the sun that matters? or was the moonlight already dead?
By Luana Castro
Graduated in Letters