misterwolf94

I knew this lady at her sixties, Lucia, some ten years ago, in Rio de Janeiro. She had been married with my then landlord, Joaquim, which became a great friend of mine, and they had a late teen daughter... Anna... so inteligent and irascible... They had a great cultural background and Lucia just had made a really exceptional translation of 75 poems of Emily Dickinson (to portuguese), and I bought her book the same day I knew about it. One night, some few weeks later, I staid awake reading the book and wrote a "pastiche" of one of the poems, playing the sorrowful melancholic guy. Next day I sent it to her husband, which replied almost immediately with the notice of her sudden death, occurred two days before. The seventh day mass would be in the next weekend.

My "pasticherie":

Exhilaration is the brezze
That freezes me still.
No new unknown mov(i)es,
the same views remain.
My pain and I ride in a furious train.

My portuguese pasticherie:

A alegria eh a brisa
que nao me carrega
para um outro qualquer paradeiro,
para outra qualquer acolhida.
Furacoes so, tormentas,
e a um mesmo destino:
para a dor ja por mim conhecida.

Dickinson Poem:
Exhilaration is the Brezze
That lifts us from the Ground
And leaves us in another place,
Whose statement is not found-
Returns us not, but after time
We soberly descend
A little newer for the term,
Upon Enchanted Ground-


I had lost this stuff in my shelves, found it this days...