freya_victoria (freya_victoria) wrote in fem_books,

Кабо-Верде: Аделина да Сильва "Эхо приливов"

Авторка: Adelina da Silva (Аделина да Сильва)
Название: "Echoes of the Tides" ("Эхо приливов")
Год издания: 2008
Страна: Кабо-Верде
Кабо-Верде - маленькое островное государство у западного побережья Африки. Найти книгу оттуда тоже оказалось непросто. В советских антологиях есть стихи тамошних поэтов, но ни одного женского имени среди них не обнаружилось.
Нашла такой сборник на амазоне, продается только в бумажном варианте.
Вот что поэтесса пишет о себе:
"Я родилась в Била Риба, Сан Филипе, остров Фого, Кабо Верде в 1958 году, шестой ребенок в семье из шести детей. Пошла в начальную школу в Санта Филомене, в католическую школу, где была учительницей моя старшая сестра. Когда мне было шесть, моя семья переехала в Прая, остров Сантьяго, где я и провела следующие одиннадцать лет моей жизни. В Прае я начала учиться в старой школе Luis de Camões (Skola Grandi), теперь это первый университет в Кабо Верде. Затем я продолжила образование в колледже Liceu Domingos Ramos. В 1974 году мои родители вместе со мной эмигрировали в Бостон, США, и я продолжила мое образование. В Бостоне я посещала Cardinal Cushing Center (это учебный центр для людей с аутизмом), Chamberlayne Junior College, Массачуссетский университет (бакалаврат по английскому языку) и Университет Лесли (магистрат по творческому письму). Я пишу уже много лет. Некоторые мои стихотворения, написанные на португальском и на кабо-вердийском креольском языке, публиковались в начале 80-х в "Arquipelago", кабо-вердийском журнале, который публикует в Бостоне кабо-вердийский писатель Теобальдо Вирхинио Де Мело. Некоторые мои стихотворения переведены с португальского на английский двумя американскими писателями Джералдо Мозесом и Доном Бёрнессом. Мой первый поэтический сборник, "Echoes of the Tides", написанный на английском, можно купить на или Я преподаю английский как второй язык и английскую словесность (English Language Art), а также работаю футбольным тренером в Madison Park Technical Vocational High School вот уже тридцать лет."
Несколько стихотворений на английском под катом.

Forgive me.
The enchantment of yore is gone
What I confess is not yesterday's reverence
that others regarded with dissent.
We are strangers in this vitreous veil
we call world.
Forget the time, the voices...
Wounded birds that the spring has forgotten.
The romance is gone;
perhaps stolen by routine our chance too,
and the lushness, today a barren soil, is
a simple tie, a mere bridge to nostalgia.
I feel like a stranger,
amidst these bare rocks
only yesterday walls
of a wretched cabin
that had been my home.
Step after step
along your beaches
a chilld's dim shape
continues walking
which at your breast
saw the light of day.
I'm hearing laughter,
a whisper
come, touch me,
feel me,
we're one.
What I'm hearing is not
the voice of yore
the bond that bound me
is slipping I fell it
the sea's tender touches
the breeze bringing coolness
the warm shade of home!
How strange to feel like a prodigal son!
Yes, when the exlorer came to the first island
There were no naked men or naked women
Watching innocently and fearfully
Fehind the vegetation.
The tall ships with men holding canons
came from the north to the crescent islands
of rain with no ground to teal,
and no reason to remain
yet they conquered and placed their monuments.
The wild birds flew away,
The songbirds cried.
On parchment paper the explorers
would write a letter to El-Rei.
The islands stood naked; the sea
their only lover. The king with his dreams
of gold and spice a market
of men would set up
in Ribeira Grande.
Nigero-Senegales, Sudanese,
Haussas, Minas and Bantus
would be bought and sent
as far as Antilles.
In the islands, Jews, European
adventurers, refugees,
political exiles and African slaves
would settle.
1 + 1 = 3
They + them
Begot me
to inhabit the small
islands of futility
Cape Verde.
For 5 centuries the people would
cry their fate in mornas, song
rooted in Iberian nostalgia
and Islamic plagency,
protest and revolt in
Funana and Batuque
born out of slave chants.
On guitars, pipes, accordions
and flutes the islanders would
denounce famine, natives sold
to the Rocas of Sao Tome,
PIDE and tortured prisoners
in Tarrafal.
Later same sounds would be
heard in shouts of freedom in 1975.
Yes, when the explorers came
with ships, canons and promises to
El-Rei, little did they know -
A new people and nation would be born.
It's not my fault. Perhaps it's fate. I left.
Someone once told me that islanders are
like birds. They learn to fly away
from the nest very young. They return to die.
How many before me lie forgotten?
Nobody has stopped to place roses on
tombstones. For years I've been in search
of a port. Holding your photograph,
Fogo, my island. Every dawn is a challenge,
a freedom and a bondage.
I promise to return to you.
I'll come back to write you poems,
to  play cimboa and violin on your beaches,
to dance it the rhythm of drums. To live.
Like the volcano, I'll chase away the old fate.
Ships will no longer take your children abroad.
But first let me tell you your story.
I liked mornings the best.
Dad went to work and mother sat
at her Singer, sewing.
The fish vendor came calling:
Atun frescu, quen cre? There was
always fresh tuna in the city.
No number, but the milk woman
came every day before seven.
No porch or driveway to speak of,
just a big quintal where Rauls and I played
ball and rode imaginary horses.
Dad always stood at the dining room door
holding English toffees for my brother and me.
We'd stop our games and run inside to watch
for relatives who'd always come at lunchtime.
The clatterings of pans, the warning whistling
of the coffee pot. Ah! The smell of pexe frity
and the voice of Tia Guta calling us for almoco.
Now I live in Malden. My street name is Warren,
my house number is 30. Iva the milk woman died.
The family gathers at the table only
on weekends and holidays. Raul comes to visit
once a year, and I spend the rest of days
remembering our childhood (not so long ago)
when we only knew of games and told
each other happy-ending stories.
Tags: 20 век, 21 век, reading the world, Африка, английский язык, мигрантки, португальский язык, поэзия

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