Marcio-Andre, from http://www.marcioandre.com

Poetry, concrete music, art and performance by Márcio-André

By Flávia Rocha

Marcio-André proclaims himself “the first radioactive poet in the world” – in 2007 he did a solitary reading in the ruins of the ghost city of Pripyat, in Chernobyl. Born in 1978, in Rio de Janeiro, he works between poetry, concrete music, digital art and performance. He has read and performed in Brazil, Portugal, Argentina, Peru, France, United Kindom and Spain. Published the books “Intradoxos” (2007), “Ensaios Radioativos” (2008) and “Cazas” (2011). His poems have appeared in several anthologies of Brazilian poetry and have been translated into many languages. He is a founder and editor of Confraria do Vento, a press based in Rio de Janeiro, and a curator of the event “A Cidade aTravessa: poesia dos lugares”, that happens multiple times during the year in Lisbon, Rio and Sao Paulo. His website: www.marcioandre.com

here from the belly of the whale
the city is a sparkling shoal
and
the statue of drummond has its back to the ocean –
[statues are for people not for the sea]

cultivate fish from within
to eat it some day

waiting for a woman to appear from the precision of a carcass

some day we are happy in our cetacean garden
and she walks softly at my side
dreaming the saddest Sunday in the world in a suburb on the other side

some day we are middle aged and drink for lack of choice

and the crane on the pier will be smashed like a dead insect
against a thousand fissures down the waters’ throat

the sea is in the picture of men not in the dreams of statues.

(Translated from the Portuguese by Flávia Rocha and Craig Epplin)

aqui do estômago desta baleia
a cidade é um cardume cintilante
e
a estátua de drummond tem as costas ao oceano –
[as estátuas são para os homens não para o mar]

cultivar um peixe por dentro
para um dia comê-lo

esperando uma mulher surgir da precisão da ossada

um dia somos felizes em nosso jardim cetáceo
e ela caminha suavemente ao meu lado
sonhando o domingo mais triste do mundo no subúrbio do lado de lá

um dia estamos na meia idade e bebemos porque não há opção

e o guindaste no cais estará esmagado como um inseto morto
diante das mil falhas na goela das águas

o mar está na foto dos homens não no sonho das estátuas