My poem “Night” was published on November 14 in the Literary Journal Rudderless Mariner. Thank you to its dear editors. Read and enjoy at:
https://www.rudderlessmarinerpoetry.com/blogpoetrysubmission/night-by-edilson-afonso-ferreira
Reminder of a new publication of mine
My poem “A Christ very little remembered” has been published in the Indian Literary Journal PPP Ezine Poetry Poetics Pleasure, Volume 5, Issue 11, November 2021. Many thanks to the dear editor Rajnish Mishra. Read and enjoy at
http://www.poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com
Poetry, People, and Seduction
I have been told that a judge must have the right,
if not the obligation,
of only to manifest in the process file.
I intend to bring to us, the poets, a similar role,
that people come to us just by reading our poems,
not for any other sense or reason,
absorbing its lyrics, even its empty spaces,
its exclamation points and questions.
May they forgive us when, many times, the vernacular fails,
and we translate our feelings into poorly exposed traits,
leaving light footprints to be deciphered and followed.
We lift very high our soul, and only in our craft, daily poetizing,
we dare on going from the easy and light to the solemn,
to the deep and imposing truth that holds and subdues all of us:
the beauty, power and seduction of our common human race.
Even though someone might call us narcissists.
This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©
ILL-FATED VISION
I see they are at the end of the journey,
closing the office.
They are my friends, acquaintances, some I recognize
as former business colleagues.
But the features are changed, dressed with disinterest,
disenchantment, tiredness, even some little sadness,
and despair, certain an agony.
They locked the doors, the keys on an outside table,
none wanting to take them.
Visibly embarrassed and afraid, they seem ashamed,
as having lost their entire will,
not worrying on opening the doors next day.
Slowly I came to understand the painful and bitter truth,
that they are giving up on our world, without the courage
to start again the journey of the living, the hopeful,
those who do not flee the fight, the daily combat.
Where the manhood, the power and desire of past generations?
Where women, for suddenly I notice that I only see men.
Did they no longer want them, love them?
Where the beloved continuators of our specie,
mothers of our race? Are they dead, annihilated?
Crying of disgust, in deep grief, I cannot do anything.
I am just a ghost, a soul straying from the past, unpowered
to shake and slap those inside this sad and macabre vision.
I am witnessing, live and in (pale) color, the nightmare
that haunted me while alive: depopulated earth, forgotten
and unremembered of all of us, our dreams
buried on infinite, soulless and dark space.
This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©
Mishaps in Time
The faucets of time are always open
and it runs like wild colts,
in the open fields without limits or fences,
in summer days and fresh green grass.
Time is not tamed, have not been recruited
or trained the toilers for this craft;
it takes all of us and everything around,
and, as if it had been taught the path to follow,
does not delay or hesitate.
Has been doing its task since world’s lead-off,
and never ponders what has been ordered.
Day and night, in joy and sadness,
willingly or forced,
old, young, rich and poor, wise and foolish,
we are carried away like dry leaves in the fall.
Let’s be proud and adapt to this journey,
not allowing to the scars, personal
or collective, the power to postpone
or eliminate the search of our Eldorado,
once promised from olden generations.
Endemics, pandemics, pain and loss,
may we subject all of this,
for they never have had, or even will,
greater significance than so happy and glorious a fate,
long enshrined, inside our most cherished belief and hopes.
Published in WestWard Quarterly, summer printed 2022 issue
This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©
Guilty a Heart
So many beauties spread by the way,
I cannot pass without enjoying one by one.
Indeed, there are some ones so beautiful that,
besides to enjoy, should be also worshiped,
tribute and respect to the Common Creator.
Unhappily, I have amorous and stubborn a heart,
perhaps a delinquent one,
used to falling in love almost every day.
Could it be hard and insensible,
just as almost all of them,
so I would pass fast and safe,
impassible and passionless.
But it usually picks up a song,
from unknown a spell,
fairy music of the wind, or, who knows,
resurrected Ulysses’ mermaids singing,
that, poor me, I cannot resist.
So, I go, amazed and fascinated,
sometimes on despair and strained,
along with loving brothers and sisters,
daily struggling to move hard
and harsh the wheels of time.
(First published in Red Wolf Journal, Aug 8, 2021)
www.redwolfjournal.wordpress.com
Published in West Ward Quarterly, spring printed issue 2022
Chronology of the Pleasures
About one month or two ago, at dusk,
on the walk we take almost every day,
when passing by a well-known bridge in my city,
I noticed, not without some sadness,
that there was a family living under it,
at a corner they had cleaned on the riverbank.
I was filed with sadness, for sure they were homeless,
or, at least, temporarily, having as roof
the lower part of that framework.
Yesterday, while walking with my wife, we perceived
that there was something different, a few more people,
in addition to the family we were used to seeing.
A couple of bonfires lit better the area,
they seemed to feel very comfortable,
laughing and happy, we even heard
something like a clink of glasses.
My wife was surprised and did not understand,
but, suddenly, I did, and told her:
there is no doubt, they are having guests today
and are having fun.
Then, we became aware that, really, it had been a while
since we enjoyed much of this same pleasure.
Published in Sky Island Journal, issue 21, summer 2022
http://www.skyislandjournal.com
Published in Fevers of the Mind, July 14, 2024
http://www.feversofthemind.com
Published in The Galway Review, July 30 2025
http://www.thegalwayreview.com
This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©
Reflections on the last Day
I am sure that, one day, a doctor,
who I do not know who will be,
will bend over me to attest to my death.
It will be one of the many tasks
he will then take care of.
He will be examining a body, but will never be able
to attest to the thousand and one days I happily lived
with the lovers I conquered, the devoted and faithful friends
who gave me their smiles and countless hugs, all of this born
from pure, naive and strong human camaraderie;
will never know neither the sobs of anguish nor the desperate voice
of certain days, nor the tears I had shed along some paths I walked;
will never even dream the brightness of the days
I was able to celebrate, although it took a while,
nor the victory over many of the enemies I had to face.
Also, he will not think of a God and Creator waiting for me,
analyzing and weighing the sentence to be delivered,
and what the new world I will be sent to.
Published in Better than Starbucks, November 2021 issue.
http://www.betterthanstarbucks.org.
This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©
Fatality
We have lived a frank, fraternal and realistic love.
Realistic in the sense that we understand it so much,
that if one day, for this or that, it ends,
although human and fallible as we are,
in our time, few may have had so good fortune
and happiness, just as we had.
And if it happens to last forever,
as we have sworn with affection,
surely, the Olympian Gods will envy us,
those of whom it has been said they are eternal,
see and feel everything and everyone.
They will not hesitate to give us terrible punishment.
We know none of them has been loved as much as we did.
Seen in passing through
She passed, sovereign and powerful,
as only a beautiful woman knows how.
Unaware (perhaps) of the uproar caused
in the hearts and feelings around.
Supreme gift donated to humanity by the Creator,
reason for promises, deeds and exploits by men
of fine lineage and caste, chained to be loyal worshipers
of what has been left for us in beauty and enchantment.
And, believe me, she who is happening to pass now,
neither knows nor dreams to be guilty of this;
- to my despair and passion –
she has snow-white skin,
crowned by the darkest hair.
edilsonmeloferreira 