Brazilian Modernist Poetry by Charles Marlon Porfirio De Sousa

Portuguese Error, Oswald de Andrade (by Matheus Casteluber)

2021-05-17 15:37:35 UTC

When the portuguese arrived
Under a harsh rain
He dresses the indian
What a shame!
If It was sunrise
The indian would undressed
The portuguese

Song of return to the motherland (by Estella)

2021-05-18 01:58:53 UTC

My land has palm trees

Where the sea chirps

The birds here

They don't sing like the ones over there

My land has more roses

And almost more loves

My land has more gold

My land has more land

Gold earth love and roses

I want everything from there

Do not allow God to die

Without you going back there

Do not allow God to die

Without going back to São Paulo

Without seeing 15th Street

And the progress of São Paulo.

world feeling (by Victória Rosso)

2021-05-28 01:27:20 UTC

I only have two hands
and the feeling of the world,
but I am full of slaves,
my memories run
and the body compromises
at the confluence of love.
When I get up, the sky
will be dead and plundered,
I will be dead myself,
dead my wish, dead
the swamp without chords.
The comrades did not say
that there was a war
and it was necessary
bring fire and food.
I feel dispersed,
before borders,
I humbly ask you
that you forgive me.
When the bodies pass,
i will be alone
unraveling the memory
bell, widow and microcopist
that inhabited the tent
and were not found
at dawn
this dawn
more night than night.

After Sun (by Maria Fernanda)

2021-06-02 13:08:21 UTC

Night became such a mystery,

So noiseless, so slowly,

That twilight is like moonlight

Lighting a cemetery. . .

All still. . . Serenities. . .

How sad, in my dreams!

And how much crying and how much goodbye

In this sea of unhappiness!

Oh! Landscapes of mine from the past. . .

Old, old. . . They don't even live anymore. . .

— The clouds pass unevenly,

With herd drowsiness. . .

Beings and things go away. . .

And, in the sad halo of moonlight,

Walk the moon, so slowly,

What looks like Our Lady

For the dreaming silences. . .

Cecília Meireles

Portrait (by Valter)

2021-06-09 19:04:29 UTC

I didn't have this face from today,

so calm, so sad, so thin,

not even these empty eyes,

not the bitter lip.

I didn't have these hands without strength,

so still and cold and dead;

I didn't have this heart

that doesn't even show.

I didn't notice this change,

so simple, so right, so easy:

- In which mirror was it lost

my face?

Cecília Meireles

SOLIDARITY (by Mariana Demetrio)

2021-06-15 20:47:48 UTC

I'm linked by the heritage of spirit and blood

To the martyr, the murderer, the anarchist.

i'm connected

To couples on land and in the air,

At the corner vendor,

To the priest, the beggar, the woman of life,

To the mechanic, the poet, the soldier,

To the saint and the devil,

Built in my image and likeness.

Murilo Mendes.

Absense ( by Julia)

2021-06-16 18:38:44 UTC

For much time I thought that the absence is scarcity
And was lamentful, ignorant, lack
There is no scarcity in absence
Absence is a state of mine
And I feel it, white, so caught, nestled in my arms
that river and dance and joyous invented exclamations
because the absence, this absence is assimilated,
nobody steals more from/of me.

Carlos Drummond

Emergency (Yasmin Soares)

2021-06-17 14:01:58 UTC

Anyone who writes a poem opens a window.
Breathe, you who are in a cell
muffled,
that air that enters through it.
That's why poems have rhythm —
so you can breathe deeply.
Whoever writes a poem saves a drowning man.

Mario Quintana

Reason (by Letícia Yuka)

leticiasugiyama — 2021-06-18 10:35:08 UTC

I sing because the moment exists

and my life is complete.

I am neither happy nor sad:

I am poet.

Brother of runway things,

I don’t feel pleasure or torment.

Through nights and days

in the wind

Crumbles or builds up,

if i stay or fall apart,

- I don't know, I don't know. I don’t know

if I stay or pass.

I know what I sing. And the song is everything.

The rhythmic wing has eternal blood.

And one day I kno

Sonnet of lost hope (by Lucas)

2021-06-18 10:38:11 UTC

I lost the tram and hope.

I come home pale.

The street is useless and no auto

would pass over my body.

I'm going up the slow slope

where the paths merge.

They all lead to the

principle of drama and flora.

I don't know if I'm suffering

or if it's someone who has fun

why not? in the short night

with an insoluble piccolo.

however long ago

we shout: yes! to the eternal.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

The street of the weathervanes (by Gabriella Vitória)

charlesporfirio — 2021-06-18 10:54:19 UTC

The first time they murdered me,

I lost a way of smiling that I had.

Then, every time they killed me,

They took something from me.

Today, of my corpses I am

The most naked, the one that has nothing else.

A stub of yellowish candle burns,

As the only good that stayed with me.

Come on! Crows, jackals, road thieves!

For that hand greedily blows

You will not have to send out the sacred light!

Birds of the night! Horror wings! Fly!

May the light trembling and sad as an ai,

The light of a dead man never goes out!

Mario Quintana

Pronominals (by leonardo pinheiro)

2021-06-18 11:46:47 UTC

give me a cigarette
says the grammar
from the teacher and the student
And from the known mulatto
But the good black and the good white
of the Brazilian nation
they say every day
leave it comrade
Give me a cigarette.

Oswald de Andrade

Midway (by Amanda Verlante)

2021-06-18 17:38:59 UTC

In the middle of the way there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the way
had a stone in the middle of the way
there was a stone. 

I will never forget this eventin 
the life of my so tired retinas.              I'll never forget that halfway had a stone there                  was a stone in the middle of the way              in the middle of the way there was a stone.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade.

The animal (by João Augusto)

2021-06-19 13:11:32 UTC

I saw an animal yesterday
in the filth of the yard
Picking up food among the debris.

When I found something,
Neither examined nor smelled:
He swallows voraciously.

The animal was not a dog,
It wasn't a cat,
It wasn't a mouse.

The animal, my God, was a man.

Manuel Bandeira

tree by sea (by Laura Lopes)

2021-06-19 15:56:00 UTC

the bird candy

the condolence pass

the heat of poetry

the force of fate

the homeland satiety

the cudelume Ulalume

the zumzum of Zeus

the bombix

the ptyx

Exile Song (by Brenda Fracassi)

2021-06-20 22:10:13 UTC

My land has palm trees
Where the Sabiá sings,
The birds, which chirp here,
It doesn't chirp like there.

Our sky has more stars,
Our floodplains have more flowers,
Our forests have more life,
Our loves more life.

In brooding, alone, at night,
More pleasure I find there;
My land has palm trees,
Where the Sabiá sings.

My land has primes,
Such as I do not find here;
In brooding - alone, at night -
More pleasure I find there;
My land has palm trees,
Where the Sabiá sings.

Don't let God let me die,
Without my going back there;
Without enjoying the primes
That I don't find around here;
Without even seeing the palm trees,
Where the Sabiá sings.

Gonçalves Dias

The Pianist Pastor (by Jonathan Luz)

2021-06-21 12:23:49 UTC

The pianos were set free in the desert plain
Where the shadows of the first drink.
I am the pianist pastor,
I see my pianos in the distance with joy
Cut out the monumental figures
Against the moon.

Accompanied by migrating roses
I feed the pianos: they scream
And convey the ancient cry of man

That claiming a contemplation,
Dreams and provokes harmony,
It works even by force,
And by the wind in the leaves,
For the planets, for the walking of women,
For love and its contrasts,
Communicates with the gods.

Order (Raphael Soares)

raphaelsoares2 — 2021-06-21 12:30:18 UTC

I want a photo
like this — do you see? - how are you doing:
where I laughed forever
like an eternal party dress.

As I have a dark forehead,
shed light on my forehead.
Leave this wrinkle, which you lend me
a certain air of wisdom.

Do not fund forest
nor arbitrary fantasy...
No... In this space that remains,
put an empty chair.

(Cecília Meireles)

Poem of 7 faces (Rafael Lindemeyer)

rafaellindemeyer — 2021-06-21 17:51:10 UTC

When I was born, a crooked angel

those that live in the dark

said: Go Carlos! Go be weird in life.

The houses spy the men

that run after women.

The afternoon may be blue,

had it not many desires.

The tram passes full of legs:

Black legs, yellow legs.

Dear god why are there so many legs,

asks my heart.

But my eyes

don’t ask a thing.

The man behind the mustache

is serious, simple and strong.

Almost doesn't talk.

Has few, rare friends

the man behind the glasses and mustache.

My God, why have you left me

if you knew I was not God

if you knew I was weak not strong

World, vast world

if I were called Raimundo

It’d be a rhyme, not a solution

World, vast world

Vaster is my heart.

I shouldn’t tell you

but his moon

but this cognac

leaves us moved like the devil.

(Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Holding Hands( Andrew Augusto Matos Silva)

2021-06-21 18:03:58 UTC

I will not be the poet of a decrepit world.

Nor will I sing of the future world.

I'm stuck to life and I look at my companions

They are taciturn but have high hopes.

Among them, consider the huge reality.

The gift is so big, let's not stray.

Let's not go too far, let's go hand in hand.

I will not be the singer of a woman, of a story.

I won't say sighs at dusk, the view from the window.

I will not distribute narcotics or suicide letters.

I will not flee to islands nor be kidnapped by seraphim.

Time is my matter, present time, present men,

the present life.

Barricade (Thais Duarte)

thaissilva32 — 2021-06-21 18:54:59 UTC

All the birds in Praça da República
flew
all students
died of fright
In blue and white uniforms
The operators had a wire syncope
Only the trees don't desert
when the night light

The Street (Breno Damazio)

bdamazio6 — 2021-06-21 19:43:44 UTC

The Street - Cassiano Ricardo

Well I know that, many times

The only remedy

Is postpone everything, postpone the thirst, the hunger, the trip,

the debt, the entertainment,

the job application, or self happiness.

The hope is also a form of continual postponement

I know that is necessary to honor the hope

in a waiting room.

But I also know that waiting means fighting and not just hope sitting.

No abdication to life.

The hope is never a bourgeois, sitted and peaceful form of waiting.

It’s never the figure of a woman from the old frame.

Sitted, giving corn to pigeons.

Dialectic (by Arthur Salles)

charlesporfirio — 2021-06-22 14:01:10 UTC

Of course life is good
And joy, the only unspeakable emotion
Of course I think you're beautiful
In you I bless the love of simple things
of course i love you
And I have everything to be happy
But I happen to be sad.

Song of return to the motherland (1925) (by Jesse)

charlesporfirio — 2021-06-23 16:00:42 UTC

My land has palms

where the sea chirps

the birds here

They don't sing like the ones over there

My land has more roses

And almost more loves

My land has more gold

my land has more land

gold earth love and roses

I want everything from there

not allow God to die

without going back there

not allow God to die

Without going back to São Paulo

Without seeing 15th Street

And the progress of São Paulo.