Álamo Oliveira was born in Raminho, Terceira, Açores. He is one of the Azores most prolific and profound writers. He did his studies in the Seminary of Angra do Heroísmo and has been a key cultural figure in the Azores. Besides poetry, Álamo has published fiction, drama, essays, is a visual artist and directs the theater group Alpendre. He is also the director of the literary supplement Vento Norte, published by the daily newspaper Diário Insular. Álamo Oliveira, was the first Azorean visiting writer at U.C. Berkeley promoted by the Portuguese Studies Program. He has had a long affiliation with emigration from the Azores to North America. His novel, I No Longer Like Chocolates (being presently translated to English) deals exclusively with the theme of emigration. He makes his home in Angra do Heroísmo, with weekend retreats to Raminho.
manuel 6 times
I’ve thought of you
manuel
when I thought of you for the first time
you used a bib of smiles
tied with two uncertain knots
almost always torn and dirty
because your mother didn’t make enough to buy soap.
when I thought of you for the second time
you were running suspend like a butterfly
like an angel in a baroque altar
still naked from prejudices
with shorts of small ideas
without doubts or poisons.
you were the truth of the birds
with a freedom unknown to you.
when I thought of you for the third time
you had chewed the land of the corns
sucked with the tip of intelligence
your sweat and the sweat of others
in a chalice patterned from a black rock.
your dreams and wishes were bathed
in a pan-america plane.
you began to feel the island in your neck
like a dog’s collar.
when I thought of you for the fourth time
you were the contrary of the movement.
a large sex devoured you manuel;
and the bygone adolescence
was curtailed to your jeans
and in an empty shirt
that loathing rats chewed
until you penetrated margarida
--a flower without thorns.
your bare feet were the picture of your people.
when I thought of you for penultimate time
you were going with margarida of the pleasures
in a solemn walk of rough moulds
and the priest gave you two or three words
that you paid with only one.
then I understood within your eyes the certainty of the scaffold
and it wasn’t easy to see
that the america of your adolescence
was far
so far…that your stretched dreams
wouldn’t get there.
you had in your fingers
the umbilical chord of your marriage.
the island was your bed (and of others)
and you were conscious of being incapable
of deflowering margarida
in your island of parasites and insects ;
in your groveling island stuffed with the poor
-of skin and of spirit—
like you and like me and like…
like our god turned islander.
when I thought of you for the last time
you had three sons generated in your eyes
and a withered cluster of hopes
hanging in the shed of your fantasy.
manuel
its best not to think
of the candies that you didn’t eat in the your childhood.
manuel 6 vezes
pensei em ti
manuel
quando pensei em ti pela primeira vez
usavas um bibe de sorrisos
atado com dois laços incertos
quase sempre rotos e sujos
porque a tua mãe não ganhava para sabão.
quando pensei em ti pela segunda vez
vi-te correr suspenso a uma borboleta
como um anjo de altar barroco
ainda nu de preconceitos
com calções de ideias curtas
sem dúvidas nem venenos.
eras a verdade dos pássaros
na tua liberdade que desconhecias.
quando pensei em ti pela terceira vez
já tinhas mastigado a terra dos milhos
sugado com a ponta da inteligência
o teu suor e o suor dos outros
num cálice talhado de rocha negra.
banhavas o cérebro e os desejos
num avião da pan-america.
começavas a sentir a ilha no pescoço.
como uma coleira de cão.
quando pensei em ti pela quarta vez
eras o contrário do movimento.
um sexo enorme devorava-te manuel;
e a tua adolescência ultrapassada
estava resumida nas tuas calças de ganga
e numa camisa despovoada
que ratinhos inconformistas ruminavam
até te espetares na margarida
–uma flor que nem sequer tem espinhos.
os teus pés descalços eram o retrato do teu povo.
quando pensei em ti pela penúltima vez
ias com a margarida dos prazeres
num passo solene de moldes rudes
e o padre deu-te duas ou três palavras
que pagaste com uma só.
então percebi-te nos olhos a certeza da forca
e não me foi fácil ver
que a américa da tua adolescência
estava longe
tão longe...que os teus sonhos esticados
já não lhe chegavam.
levavas nos dedos
o cordão umbilical do teu casamento.
a ilha era a tua cama (e a dos outros)
e tu tinhas a consciência de que eras incapaz
de desflorar a margarida
na tua ilha de parasitas e insectos;
na tua ilha sebenta e recheada de pobres
-de pele e de espírito—
como tu e como eu e como...
como o nosso deus feito ilhéu.
quando pensei em ti pela última vez
tinhas três filhos gerados nos teus olhos
e um cacho de esperanças murchas
pendurado no alpendre da tua fantasia.
manuel
o melhor é nem pensar
nos rebuçados que não comeste na infância.