One of the finest islands with great music–think Cesaria Evora–beautiful deep blue waters, and good food; go national and get the cachupa–hard corn mixed with dry beans topped with two sausages and fried eggs. That’s what you can have for breakfast and/or lunch. An orange on the side. Some vegetables. And oh, the tuna is unbeatable. There are other interesting meals, don’t get me wrong, but I found the cachupa to be the most delicious and filling that you’d need another day before the urge to eat again arises. Very economical, don’t you think?
Now this next piece of info is strictly on the side; a whisper: (If you’re the drinking type, ask for a G&T). You’ll be surprised how huge the glass, bigger and rounder than your head, I promise, you’ll need both hands to raise it to your lips. They don’t measure by tots. They just bring the bottle of gin and pour into your large glass tudududududu and leave you agape. As for Grog–the popular sugar cane liquor–bad news. Steer clear… Anyway, stomach pleasures aside, the poetry is as sweet and mournful and celebratory as their morna.
My default is Corsino Fortes. He’s awesome and also available in most English translations. Could be the most translated. Born in Mindelo in 1933–my favorite Island–Fortes worked as a teacher, a lawyer, and Cape Verde’s ambassador to Portugal, and also lived in Angola where he was a judge.
IDENTITY STONE
I
ALL NIGHTS
The stones levitate in our dreams
The prophet’s balance! when
The earthquake of hope
Reaches
an expanse of 4.033 km²
And the ears light up
in the corridors of fear
in the corridors of life
The thunder of our temples
And islands jump
Out of the ruins
Like oysters
Into the pearls
And rocks jump
Passing
The archipelago of the senses + the
Feline choreography of the plains
Lean & magical! of bones & symbols
And so virgin! of being movement
Like! the light of the uterus
That undresses them
If here! in the air
at the feet of the archipelago
The islands stop
to see the rocks pass
From the desert of stones to the giving up of poverty
Emigrant
Every evening, sunset crooks
its thumb across the island
And from the sunset to the thumb
there grows
a path of dead stone
And this peninsula
Still drinks
All the blood of your wandering body
From a tenant farmer’s cup
But when your voice
becomes a chord on the shore’s guitar
And the earth of the face and the face of the earth
Extend the palm of the hand
From the seaward edge of the island
A palm made of bread
You will merge your final hunger
with your first
From above there will come
The faces and prows of not-voyage
So that herbal and mercury
Extract the crosses from your body
The screaming of mothers carries you
now
To the seventh corner
where the island is shipwrecked
where the island celebrates
Your daughter pain
The pain of a woman in childbirth
So that all parting is power in death
all return a child’s learning to spell
No longer do we wait for the cycle
Pulp from good fruit, fruit from good pulp
The earth
breathes in
your green speech
And there before your feet
should be
a tree on a hill
And your hand
should sing
a new moon in my heart
Go and plant
in dead Amilcar’s mouth
This fistful of watercress
And spread from goal to goal
a fresh phonetics
And with the commas of the street
and syllables from door to door
You will sweep away before the night
The roads that go
as far as the night-schools
For all departure means a growing alphabet
for all return is a nation’s language
They await you
the dogs and the piglets
at Chota’s house
grown thin from the warmth of the welcome
They await you
the cups and semantics of taverns
They await you
the beasts
choking on applause and sugarcane
They await you
faces that explode
on the blood of ants
new pastorals to cultivate
But
when your body
of blood and lignite, on heat
Raises
Over the harvest
Your pain
And your orgasm
Who didn’t know
Who doesn’t know
Emigrant
That all of parting is power in death
And all return is a child learning to spell
The Caesarean of Three Continents
Before
the body was coin and the soul Kapital
Before the light
on the remembered sea
And the erosion of the face by stone and wind
We lived inside the summer of the earth
The seed that had no spring
We were the exclamation
Of the ‘di’ in distance
We gave
Legs to the hills and arms to the mountains
Gave a face and a meaning
To the dunes of the high seas
That breathe out
the thighs
the breasts
the sex of the Sahel
I remember you! In Africa your womb
Enquiring of yourself
about the isthmus + the
prow of our destiny
When poles, peninsulas and tidal waves
Tore and tore in the vortex of life! In the fracture of earth
The Caesarean of the three continents
We became navels of stone
revolving
Between the skin and bone of the seasons
We became island and island
beyond the wind
in the evasive archipelago
Thus it was pronounced
Before & after the 1st day + the
Erosion of the chronicle
In the mouth of the Written Stone
Letter from Bia d’Ideal
The 19th of the month
to windward of the souls that know me
Junzin! Even to the people San Vicente
Your name is Vario or T. Thio Thiofe
And I, Corsa de David, say
You’ve become a black black Greco-Latin man
But really – really
The waves
already climb
the steps of your poem
And inside the guitar of the island
The roofs of Europe
break over our heads
Junzin! A long time now
Since you drank the waters
Of our thirst
It’s true — it’s true
Years upon years
plus five years more, then a day
That the sponge of our hearts has wet the rock
And a conch of milk holds a thread of blood
Oh the pain of a cheerful man!
silent pain
pain in repose
pain cast out
but pain always
The ache of the viola’s note
Ache of the seed in the earth
Ache of the volcanic heart
but today
I will not say
merci
thank you
danke schön
Why?
When Djosa
went out of the door
with his shoeshine box
Tanha died by the flag at the gate
With the apple hunger stuck in her mouth
Oh people of the Rua de Craca
Fed
on fish-broth for 16 tostãos
You all gather to hear
Patrada’s viola
and
Antonzin’s guitar
Open in the blood of Tanha
A silence made of many doors
You gather to see
the ship’s mast
and
the ship’s canvas
Torn
breaking
in Tanha’s eyes
Why! When Djosa
Opened in the city
the sun’s open road
Tanha sowed the wind
with the bitten apple in her mouth
Junzin! Three things
are bound to my soul
Three rivers for nevermore
first written on the hand
then written in the mouth
then in the blood
on the rock the sun breaks
the egg of hunger
the wind grinds the stone
with the flour’s white cry
the people and the people’s hand
write the longhand sentence in the earth
And a long time ago
Notcha
was already saying
Saint-John Perse notwithstanding
That it is not always true
“That the oar will break in the oarsman’s hand”
Greetings from Bibia
Bena
Garda
Vavaia
And all the people of the Rua da Crava
Everybody
The last three poems literal translation was provided by Daniel Hahn, and the final translated versions by Sean O’Brien.
I would also like to read Cape Verdean poetry specifically from the current young generation of poets but it’s so hard to find English versions. If you know of any, please, kindly forward. In the mean time, here’s more poetry from Cape Verde.
No comments yet.