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ADELAIDE Independent Bimonthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Bimensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 

 

 


Pierre Soter

 

 

 

 

 

 

BRAVO OU MANSO
de Pierre Sotér

 

 

 

 

 

Full Moon

October third, two thousand seventeen,
the air is fresh and clean, the Moon is full,
I look at it, I’d like to fill its pull
while I see it’s light as I’ve never seen.
Maybe I did, but I can’t remember.
Never mind, now the Moon is very bright,
and to its beauty, its mysterious might,
this one more time I’ll have to surrender.
And even the brightest stars are flirting,
trying to catch the attention of the Moon,
tonight I’m shaken, and I won’t sleep soon,
I’ll praise the Moon till the day is breaking.

October fourth, two thousand seventeen,
a night as nice as this there has never been.

 

 

 


Too good

Too good, too near and often too,
seldom happens and never here,
and when things seem white, and green, and blue,
there’s black somewhere, and also fear.
Too nice, too sweet and good smelling too,
in truth and faith I’ve never seen,
maybe I stumbled and it went through
the warps of time behind a screen.
And too much light into our eyes
in torrid brightness will drown the view,
reveal old secrets and leak all whys,
and leave us naked, in darkness too.

For too much of anything is, too,
more than we need, more than we can chew.


 

 

 

 

Bravo ou manso

Fosse eu um grande pinheiro, bravo ou manso,
lançava longos ramos até poder chegar
a cada fonte em cada monte, a cada lugar
a que não cheguei e ainda não alcanço.
E com as raízes furava terra abaixo
até conseguir ver o centro deste mundo,
se é oco ou não, frio ou quente, quão profundo,
saber quando daqui sair o que mais deixo.
E com as minhas finas folhas forrava a terra,
e com uma pinha anunciava cada flor,
e fazia sombra onde houvesse mais ardor,
e contemplava como a vida se descerra.

Bravo ou manso, pinheiro, ave ou marinheiro,
com ou sem sorte correria o mundo inteiro.

 

 

 

 


Flocos de neve

Desafiam calmamente a gravidade,
não esperam que as suas leis inverta,
e descem, sobem, sem direcção certa,
e poisam suavemente na cidade.
E toda a cobertura é coberta,
cada pedra, cada ramo e todo o chão,
as horas deixam de ser o que são,
abrandam, tornam curva cada recta.
São águas de brancura e fresquidão,
cristais de estelar geometria,
milagres de física e alquimia
que acertam o bater do coração.

E podem mais do que pode a razão,
que espera, até deseja esperar em vão.

 

 

 

 

abcdfg

 
A, b, c, d, and f, and g,

it sounds lucid, logic and straight,

and in front, similar gait

swings words with much facility.

Is that an insinuation?

I don’t know any lipogram,

at most a childish colourgram

of a colloquial carnation.

I just don’t want unfair birthrights,

stubbornly, always showing up,

on this district or in my cup,

an allcracy for words and lights.

 

A, b, c, d, and f, and g,

all you may want but not that e.

 

 

 

About the Author:

Pierre Soter

Pierre Sotér is the pen name of a well-established Portuguese author. After thirty years of successful professional life and intensive soul-searching, he now dedicates his time to poetry and philosophy. The DAWN is the first book in the Book Series “Poems and Thoughts of Pierre Sotér.” Pierre writes in Portuguese, English, and French.

 




 




 Emotions by Pierre Soter

 

 

     
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