When we talk about Brazilian Literature, more specifically about poetry, some names of poets appear almost instantly, rescued by our memory. We find in our archives renowned names of our poetry, such as Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Vinicius de Moraes, Mario Quintana, Castro Alves, Augusto dos Anjos, among many others that occur to us, it is not true? However, it is curious to observe the predominance of male names, as if making poems was exclusive to men. We know that's not true, so let's refresh your memory by presenting, or just remembering, some names of female poets who also made their contribution to Literature Brazilian.
When we talk about poetry, we hardly remember the women in Literature. Why does this “erasure” happen? We are all aware of the historical issues that have, for a long time, made women remain in the shadow of men in various aspects, including cultural aspects. Not even the great names in the historiography of Brazilian Literature have satisfactorily registered the female participation in the world of letters, although women were, for a long time, producing Literature. On the sidelines of renowned Brazilian poetry, we find names such as Francisca Júlia, Gilka Machado, Auta de Sousa, Narcisa Amália, Carolina Maria de Jesus and more acquaintances such as Cecília Meireles, Hilda Hilst, Adélia Prado, Tatiana Belinky, Ana Cristina Cesar, Cora Coralina and many others that you have probably never heard of. speak. Are women less fruitful and interesting in Literature than men? Well, to that question I offer as an answer some poems produced by our wronged poets. Good reading!
Physiognomy
It's not a lie
and other
the pain that hurts
in me
it's a project
of walk
in circle
a failure
of the object
in focus
the intensity
of light
in the afternoon
in the garden
it's another art
another the pain that hurts
Do not stop now... There's more after the advertising ;)
Ana Cristina Cesar
Small Arias. for mandolin
Before the world ends, Tulio,
lie down and taste
this miracle of taste
What happened in my mouth
while the world screams
Bellicose. and beside me
You become Arab, I become Israeli
And we covered ourselves with kisses
and of flowers
before the world ends
before it ends in us
Our wish.
Hilda Hilst
countermortem
love took the flesh of the hours
and sat between us.
He was the chair himself, the air, the tone of his voice:
Do you really like me?
Between question and answer, I saw the finger,
mine, this one that, inside my mother,
at her expense graduated
and with nowhere to go stays with me,
servile and needy.
Where are you now?
I am so grateful to you, mother,
I miss you so much…
I asked him a simple question, said the groom.
Why this crying now?
Adelia Prado
4th. rose motif
Do not worry about the petal that flies:
it is also to be, to stop being like that.
Roses will see, only puckered ash,
dead, intact throughout your garden.
I leave aroma even on my thorns
in the distance, the wind is talking about me.
And because of losing me, they remind me,
it's by defoliating myself that I have no end.
Cecília Meireles
night
Silence weighs on the earth. In full
Path, step by step, the funeral procession
It crawls towards the black cemetery...
Ahead, a figure shakes the pot of incense.
And the procession walks. the chants of the psaltery
They hear each other. The dead man goes in a suspended net;
A woman wipes her tears with her handkerchief;
The rumor of aerial mysticism cries in the air.
A bird sings; the wind wakes up. the wide shroud
From the night it lights up in the moonlight...
A severe sob; the foliage rustles.
And while this rumor of calm hangs in the air
Nights, above him in silence, floats
The mute and supplicant lausperene of souls.
Frances Julia
* The mosaic of images that illustrates this article was made from book cover images of the aforementioned poets.
By Luana Castro
Graduated in Letters
