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In reality, more books of poetry are annually written, published and pur- chased in Portugal than in most European countries. Similar to Spaniards and Latin Americans, the Portuguese reward their favorite writers — particu- larly their poets — with considerable acclaim and public reverence. Poetry readings are popular social events. A popular representation of our most celebrated poet, Luis de Camoes, shows him as a fierce street brawler and a passionate seducer of courtly ladies. Highly romanticized, heroic legends such as these are part of our national folklore.

In Portugal, despite relatively high illiteracy rates and even higher func- tional illiteracy rates literature in general has a widespread, popular, democra- tic prestige — if an elitist readership — and poetry holds an even stronger appeal. Yet these books — in what, sociologically, constitutes a very intriguing behavior — often remain unread, yet proudly on display in many a living room bookcase. They are revered by a large segment of the public while often exhibiting a certain disdainkil aloofness towards the applause of this same public.

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Frequently — either out of vanity or out of humbleness — they resent the insistent inquiries of literary supplements, the obligation to par- ticipate in book promotions and, particularly, what they interpret as the intrusiveness of literary journalists and of the public in general. Who is Fderberto Fielder? Fierberto Fielder is widely considered one of the most important poets since Fernando Pessoa, if not the most important. Fie was born in in the Madeira Islands, Portugal.

In he published his first book of poetry, O Amor em Visita. In the rest of the world, with the exceptions of Brazil, Spain and Prance, Herberto Helder is either a completely ignored author or is relegated to the status of an exotic and harmless CLiriosity. In Portugal, Helder is still vastly unknown to the majority of our population, although his name recognition has been steadily growing among the most active members of the reading public. Altro sms da un barcone di legno: Siamo partiti da Sebrata a bordo donne incinte.


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Another way of saying hello in Brazil is by asking directly How are you? I give the series as a whole 3 stars. By Antonio Jose Porte. The European Commission is determined to take action. In this essay 1 primarily intend to provide the American public with an introduction to the poetry of Herberto Helder. The reception It is thus a [critical] move drenched in humility, although it is often performed with righteousness: those other fellows may be interested in displaying their inge- nuity, but 1 am simply a servant of the text and wish only to make it more avail- able to its readers who happen also to be my readers.

For the past fifteen years or so, a number of critics have expressed positions that are, at best, contradictory. On the other hand, scholarly stud- ies on Helder are perceived as scarce, timid, or insufficiently productive. Many critics have already referred to this contradiction. The result of this confessed humiliation is a type of aphasia.

Juliet Perkins adapted her doctoral dissertation and published it under the title The Feminine in the Poetry of Herberto Helder. More recently, Silvina Rodrigues Lopes, who had previously writ- ten articles about Helder, published a book exclusively devoted to the poetry of this author: A Inocencia do Devir. Many of the texts that proclaim themselves analyses of Helder s poetry often turn out to be little more than tearful homages to the author.

In other words, critics have contributed to rigidifying the myths, to thickening the mystifications and to cultivating the prejudices instead of dis- pelling them. Few critics have attempted to do what, in my opinion, needs to be attempted: a kind of reading that would contribute to the dismantling of the esoteric reputation that surrounds his works so that freer, less fearful, less apolo- getic — and ultimately, more consequential — studies may come forth.

Poetry such as this speaks a demoniacal idiom — it is some kind of absolute force. To that which is close we cannot get closer without risk and, yet, without our approaching it the poem would not exist for us. Maybe our approximation should be a ritual in which the offerings are words drunk with meanings and danger.

Maybe we should be silent and choose instead words whose rumor becomes the brief breath of the wind. Later, as we find out that it is true, we still do not know what to say or what to do [with the poems] — for the fear of jumping into the unknown is great [ We may call him difficult, hermetic, obscure, but that obscurity is the obscu- rity of someone who protects his mysteries to better illuminate them from the inside.

As for us, before such an intense and different light, maybe we are simply blind. This is so because at the heart of the institution is the wish to deny that its activities have any consequences. This idea is in agreement with the generally accepted principles of Modernism and still appears to be among the most popular characteristics of the movement as it has been interpreted by many critics.

This belief may have, in part, legitimated some positions of passive resigna- tion toward what is perceived as the inscrutability of the literary text. Yet, just as she did in , she still defends the incomprehensibility of texts: [T]he poem shuts itself to the devastating curiosity, to the way it is cryptic, and its key does not open, rather, it closes — [the poem] closes itself [to scrutiny, to curiosity] as a tomb, sealed, absolutely non-desecratable, a memory stone, an epi- taph.

One cannot read into things while simultaneously lecturing the reader about the unreadability of things. This particular reading by Lopes exemplifies one of the most disappointing aspects of some contemporary styles of criticism. And even if one of them suddenly pressed me against his heart, I should fade in the strength of his stronger existence. The original poem by Helder reads: I play, I swear.

It was a childhoodhouse. I know how it was an insane house.

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I would stick my hands in the water: I would fall asleep, I would re-remember. Mirrors would crack against our youth.

When asked about the autobiographical overtones in his book of short stories. Many years ago, Helder offered a journalist the following rhetorical advice: Falk to a child. Is it unintelligi- ble myself being green and the child being orange? It is. But I comprehend it.

Those who do not please go away. The suspicion that the dead — a theme that in Helder has comforting, positive, connotations — interfere and collaborate in the lives of the living is more than just curiously common in Poesia Toda — it is a defining recurrence in this poetic universe: I try Both worlds share a strong magical dimension.

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I have heard that they breathe, they run across the dew, and then they lay down. They are sweet equivalencies, lights, pure ideas.

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Scenes of con- frontation between the poetic subject and God are far from being occasional. This cosmic rivalry is, nevertheless, not a balanced one. Basic children turn me into a raging rose and they throw it against the mouth of God. The power of the poet derives, in part, from the power of his creatures and of his creations. Poetry is, therefore, the fittest weapon to be used against the greatest possible enemy — the one that cannot be defeated: It is necessary that God free himself from my fabulous gifts [as a poet]. WPoesia Toda These three Helderian themes — three among many more that are possible in Poesia Toda — have one thing is common.

They possess an undeniable dimension of sublimity — which, historically, has been in close association with supernatural representations Voller Burke, qtd.

On poetry A particular mythicization of poetry is at work in Poesia Toda. A myth that is, nowadays, strangely cultivated by critics themselves, as noted earlier by Fish. Helder de- legitimates the critical act, which is, to him, incorrigibly illicit or, at least, inherently suspect. Critical commentary is always an act of violence commit- ted upon the literary work: The poem is centered in itself, monstrously solitary? It is not in a hurry, it can wait to be taken out of its isolation, it possesses enough expansive forces, take it out of there.

Yet, either you take it whole, with its center in its center, and harnessed all around as a living body or you do not take a thing from it, not even a fragment. And what one often does do is smuggle pieces of it: we remove the wrong part of it, we transfer it to the wrong part of ourselves, towards some wrong place: Philosophy, Morals, Politics, Psychoanalysis, Linguistics, Symbology, Literature.

Where is its body and where is its life and its integrity?

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Where is the solitude of its voice? Because it is mandatory to say this: few people [few readers, few critics] possess pure ears. Or clean hands. To read a poem is to be capable of making it, of re-making it. In the following passage he is showing an obvious nostalgia for Romantic, pre-mod- ern times.

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As he denounces the enemies of the poet — which are also, naturally, his own enemies — the excerpt provides us with a Poetics. That which is not searched but found is over, that which is magically and ardu- ously and profoundly found, that is over. This is not the time to praise poets that declare: we are not modern.

What a bunch! Expel them from the Republic. Success, in particular, can be dangerous. One should he available to disappoint those who trusted us.