Poetry

Dirty Poem (New Directions Poetry Pamphlets, Volume 18) by Ferreira Gullar

By Ferreira Gullar

Thought of the best lengthy poem in twentieth century Brazilian poetry, Ferreira's Gullar's soiled Poem was once written as a reaction to the Brazilian dictatorship that placed him in exile and murdered hundreds of thousands. Written in 1975 in Buenos Aires while Ferreira Gullar used to be in political exile from the Brazilian dictatorship, soiled Poem is an epic poem that amid existence occasions strains the author's political and inventive evolution and is by way of so much debts an important lengthy poem of latest Brazilian literature. student and critic Otto Maria Carpeaux wrote: "Dirty Poem merits to be known as 'National Poem' since it embodies all the reviews, victories, defeats, and hopes within the lifetime of the Brazilian citizen." it's a hypnotic paintings that attracts at the poet's reminiscence of youth within the beach urban of Sao Luís do Maranhao in the course of global warfare II and offers brazenly with the "dirty" shamefulness of a socio-economic process that abuses its voters with poverty, sexism, greed, and worry.

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Extra info for Dirty Poem (New Directions Poetry Pamphlets, Volume 18)

Example text

How she longs to see herself discovered by his fleet, mirroring scalpel! In the dark she swoons with love, turns ripe, too ripe, implacably sweet. 55 Exile For some years now I’ve lived in Exile: long enough to pass for native if there were any natives here, which there are not. The sand in Exile falls like rain. It fills my glass, the kind of sand that stands for time, the kind of like that means instead. Each of us says his evening prayers to the star above a different town. We couple, yes, but always it’s with someone else and long ago.

Startled, he moves backward, away from the INVENTION; now, you hear how their songs overlap, hers in harmony with the INVENTION, his alone and at odds: SP. —a-five, a-six, a-seven, eight, we’ll never be lost, we’ll never be late— REP. —my eyes—I don’t—such doubts about —believe—my doubts about—my eyes— Now the REPORTER stumbles to his feet as she sings, and moves toward her, taking her hands in his, to plead, or to pull her away; she resists, and raises her arms— perhaps this is a moment for an intermission?

At last, behind him, the REPORTER enters, scribbling deliberately on a stenographer’s pad. He sings, and writes down his song as he sings it, or perhaps sings it off the page as he writes it, in a rhythmless, documentary plainchant. He does not look up as he walks downstage. REP. —an unconfirmed rumor has it— an unnamed source—a little bird— as someone—wind of which—was heard— alleged invention—said to make— purportedly—the eyeteeth ache— the blood to turn—harmonically— back in its round—arresting sound— alleged inventor—mere hearsay— impossible, say some—to play— nonsense—it plays itself—some say— By now he is standing next to the INVENTOR.

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