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Manoel de Barros takes us to the bridge of Faldas, a beautiful place in this French town, but he is a Brazilian poet of the 20th century, a modernist, a maker of new words, who only says that he comes from the proto-avant-garde. He is a poet of the most extraordinary kind, remembered as a patron saint of dream places, perhaps a giant spirit, who transforms the ability of existence into a joy that is inappropriate for the tortured who delve into the mystery without the scope of miracles. This is the title of his show as a poet of transformations.
The fairies are like dewdrops in the first rays of the morning sun, creating almost imperceptible soft notes in condensation, falling on branches and leaves to the rhythm of Breton and German translations that inspired their achievements and thus influenced a poetic generation. In the 1930s, this state was almost immersed in a charming and wonderful pansexualism. Manoel de Barros was a cattle breeder, those creators of culture, mythology, all of them could rise at dawn, preserving the fairy embryo of that moment: the blessing of the dew is still, and above all, the “rose” I mean the rose, the dew. And when women on hot summer nights rejoice in this so-called wine, it still wants to convey a toast to the fairies.
Our poet, who joined the Komsomol as a teenager, was saved only by writing a piece called “The Dark Madonna” that made the executioners tremble and the sympathizers cry, and only this interception saved him. From the evening. – Already the fairies! In fact, he lived so long that only rose petals remained. But fairies are everywhere! Even Italo Calvino created a work based on the collection of Italian folklore to explore popular stories, and we see the importance of its name: On Fairy Tales, and it is unthinkable not to urgently delve into this work. Or, never meet her. We live on Earth, no one knows who these creatures are, and most importantly, the new generations do not even read fairy tales.
” forgive
But I needed to be someone else.
I want to renew humanity with butterflies »
Pessoa would have worshipped him in this poem, as if we were dealing here with the great enchantress, the butterfly in the biography of the dew, a complete metamorphosis of time: but let us begin with an opposite paradigm, in which the thing loved is first possessed, and only then must it be conquered. Looking out the window at the first morning dew, through which all the grace of the condensed resurrection comes, but a deep sleep makes us dream of other days without dewy borders, memories of unshed tears, and then we are mired in the mire of finiteness. Without considering the power of the dawn.
«Dew poured into six dishes arranged in a triangle of fire is now exposed to the cosmic liquid to increase its intensity (in Greek, “rosis”). In the background, protective curtains disappear from the windows».
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