I bet you didn't expect this one: Machado de Assis Was he also a poet? The answer is… yes, he was also a poet. But why is it that we hear so little about this facet of the “Wizard of Cosme Velho”?
Well, that probably happens because it wasn't in the poem genre that the writer (considered the greatest of all the times of Brazilian literature and one of the most important of literature in Portuguese) is more highlighted. Perhaps this is further proof that it is not possible to be a genius at everything.
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Although it is unanimity among the public and literary critics, Machado de Assis does not please everyone when it comes to poetry.
His poetic work cannot be compared to prose work, abundant and of undeniable quality. We are not saying that the writer was not a competent poet, that's not it; we are saying that, when comparing his production in prose (novels, short stories and chronicles) and his production in verse, the second does not cause the same impact as the first.
We can even say that Machado was a shy poet, while in prose he let all his genius, observable in his fine irony, perhaps the greatest of his characteristics as a writer.
The fact is that the poetic work of what is considered the greatest representative of Brazilian literature deserves to be visited by you, dear reader.
For this, the Escola Educação website selected ten poems by Machado de Assis so that you can immerse yourself in the verses of the “Witch of Cosme Velho” and be able to perceive the differences between the prose Machado and the Machado poet.
Among these poems are the verses that the writer wrote for his wife Carolina (on the occasion of her death), considered by many to be one of the most beautiful and moving poems in the Portuguese language. Enjoy and have a good read!
Carolina
Darling, at the foot of the last bed
Where do you rest from this long life,
Here I come and go, poor dear,
Bring you the heart of the companion.
That true affection pulses
That, in spite of all human struggles,
Made our existence desirable
And in a corner he put the whole world.
I bring you flowers – plucked remains
From the land that saw us pass together
And now dead leaves us and separated.
That I, if I have hurt eyes
Thoughts of life formulated,
They are thoughts gone and lived.
To a lady who asked me for verses
Think of yourself, you will find
Best poetry,
Liveliness, grace, joy,
Sweetness and peace.
If I already gave flowers one day,
When a boy
The ones I now give have enough
Melancholy.
One of your hours
worth a month
Of already parched souls.
The suns and moons
I believe that God made them
For other lives.
books and flowers
Your eyes are my books.
What book is there better,
Which is better to read
The love page?
Flowers are to me your lips.
Where there is the most beautiful flower,
What better to drink
The balm of love?
on top
The poet had reached the top of the mountain,
And as he was going down the west slope,
He saw a strange thing,
A bad figure.
Then, looking back to the subtle, to the celestial,
To the graceful Ariel, who from below accompanies him,
In a fearful and harsh tone
Ask what will happen.
As a festive and sweet sound is lost in the air,
Or as if it were
A vain thought,
Ariel broke up without giving him any more answers.
To go down the slope
The other took his hand.
Vicious circle
Dancing in the air, the firefly moaned restlessly:
“I wish I was that blonde starlet
That burns in the eternal blue, like an eternal candle!”
But the star, looking jealously at the moon:
“Could I copy your transparent light,
That, from the Greek column to the Gothic window,
She contemplated, sighing, the beloved and beautiful forehead.
But the moon, looking sourly at the sun:
“Misera! If I had that huge one, that one
Immortal clarity, which all light sums up!
But the sun, tilting the glittering chapel:
I am weighed down by this brilliant halo of numerals...
This light and unmeasured umbel bores me...
Why wasn't I born a simple firefly?
ERROR
It's your mistake. I loved you one day
With this fleeting love
that is born in fantasy
And it doesn't reach the heart;
It wasn't love, it was just
A slight impression;
An indifferent want,
In your presence, I live,
Dead, if you were absent,
And if now you see me elusive,
If, as before, you don't see
My poet incense
I will burn at your feet,
It is that, — as the work of a day,
That fantasy passed me by.
For me to love you, you should
Another being and not as you were.
Your frivolous chimeras,
Your vain love of yourself,
this icy pendulum
What do you call heart?
They were very weak bonds
So that the soul in love
If they could arrest me;
Trials were failed,
Bad luck came against you,
And although little, you lost
The glory of dragging me
To your car… Vain chimeras!
For me to love you, you should
Another being and not as you were...
(Chrysalis – 1864)
MEXICO'S Epitaph
He bends his knee: — it's a tomb.
shrouded underneath
Lies the tepid corpse
Of an annihilated people;
The melancholy prayer Pray around the cross.
Before the astonished universe
The strange lesson opened,
A fervent struggle ensued
Of strength and justice;
Against justice, O century,
The sword and howitzer won.
He overcame indomitable strength;
But the unfortunate loser
The hurt, the pain, the hate,
on the degraded face
He spat at him. And the eternal stain
Your laurels will wither.
And when the fateful voice
of holy freedom
Come in prosperous days
Cry out to humanity,
So I relive Mexico
From the grave will appear.
(Chrysalis – 1864)
THE WORM
There is a flower that closes
Celeste dew and perfume.
He planted it in fertile soil
Beneficial hand of a numeral.
A disgusting and ugly worm,
Spawned in deadly slime,
Seek this virginal flower
And go to sleep on her breast.
It bites, bleeds, rips and mines,
It sucks life and breath;
The flower the calyx inclines;
The leaves, the wind takes them.
Afterwards, not even the perfume remains
In the air of solitude...
This flower is the heart,
That worm is jealousy.
(Falenas – 1870)
christmas sonnet
A man, — it was that friendly night,
Christian night, birthplace of the Nazarene, —
When remembering the days of childhood,
And the lively dance, and the lively song,
I wanted to transport to the sweet and pleasant verse
The sensations of your ancient age,
That same old friend night,
Christian night, birthplace of the Nazarene.
He chose the sonnet... the white sheet
Ask him for inspiration; but, limp and lame,
The penalty does not respond to your gesture.
And, struggling in vain against the adverse meter,
Only this little verse came out:
“Would it change Christmas or did I?”
the two horizons
The M. Ferreira Guimaraes (1863)
Two horizons close our life:
A horizon, — the longing
Than there is no return;
Another horizon, — hope
Of the times to come;
In the present, — always dark, —
Live the ambitious soul
In the voluptuous illusion
Of the past and the future.
The sweet earrings of childhood
Under maternal wings,
The flight of the swallows,
The live wave and the roses.
The enjoyment of love, dreamed
In a deep and burning look,
Such is the present time
The horizon of the past.
Or ambition for greatness
That in the spirit was silent,
sincere love wish
That the heart did not enjoy;
Or a calm and pure living
To the convalescing soul,
Such is the present time
The horizon of the future.
In the short run of days
Under the blue sky, — such are
Boundaries in the sea of life:
Longing or aspiration;
To our burning spirit,
In the avidity of the well dreamed,
The present is never past,
The future is never present.
What schisms, man? - Lost
In the sea of memories,
I hear a felt echo
From past illusions.
What are you looking for, man? - Look,
Through the vastness,
Read the sweet reality
From the illusions of the future.
Two horizons close our life.
Luana Alves
Graduated in Letters
Read too: 30 Phrases of Machado de Assis
