Brief Bio

A Brazilian poet, Mr. Ferreira, 75, writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Largely published in international journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2016. His first Poetry Collection – Lonely Sailor – is coming soon, scheduled to be launched in London, November 29th 2018, with one hundred poems. He blogs at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

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Dreams, Dramas, Desires

Again alive, from

ambushes assembled by enemies in unsuspected corners,

by inoffensive and ordinary days;

unexpected malicious comments and dirty looks

of people always counted as faithful friends;

unknown and treacherous diseases,

out of reason or occasion to appear;

sleepless nights, frightened by horrible nightmares,

or sunny days, suddenly turned to cold and sullen ones;

recurrent sweet dreams appearing without warning,

in pensive and lonely nights,

remembrance of the woman you still love.

Again alive and unlearned from harsh past lessons,

so is the destiny of amorous, stubborn and delinquent a heart.

 

Published in Tree House Arts, Feb 20, 2019

http://www.treehousearts.me

 

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©

Friends, Land and Flowers

I am guilty of not having many loves

and few people have being my friends.

I am a man of old-fashioned customs,

the one who hopes to be duly introduced

and then exchange a full conversation.

Forgotten refinement of the times of yore,

etiquette learned in the old social rites.

My friends are few, faithful and heartfelt,

not subject to the usual taps on the back,

easy laughs and feigned cuddling.

They are always austere, even stern,

but never fail when you need them.

Never accustomed to false praise

and empty words,

but prompt, effective and friendly deeds.

Like the land where I was born and raised,

dry plateaus and arid hills, narrow creeks

and honest meagre sheaves by the harvest.

Stubborn trees that, unlike the others,

wait for the driest season to bloom,

naked even of leaves, find strength

to bring forth delicate yellow flowers,

resembling pure and true gold.

 

Published in Young Ravens, issue 9, December 2018.

http://www.youngravensliteraryreview.org/

Passage to Paradise

The emotion that lies at the heart,

not shown in gestures and words,

cannot be measured or felt,

but for myself.

Disillusionment, sadness and despair,

even rejoicing and pleasure,

have created tears, salty and hot ones,

which have leavened the soil where I live,

bringing forth flowers, fruits, children.

Have nourished and ennobled my spirit,

paying the toll I owe to the lord of the fief.

I am sure they are leading me to Canaan,

the promised land where evil finds no shelter

and milk and honey flow abundantly.

Where the woman I desire is waiting for me,

at the door of my house, longing and needy,

wife and lover.

 

Published in PPP Ezine, April 2019

http://www.poetrypoeticspleasureezine.wordpress.com

A Beating of Wings

We pretend to have our life,

even our world’s life, always under control,

from past generations to present days.

Sometimes we feel close to that certainty,

and it is good that this should happen,

giving us some encouragement on walking.

We work with the mind and the heart,

science and desire, on outlining the future,

which we desire and anticipate promising and happy.

Turning around the street corners, we find ourselves

with new, unforeseen and frightening facts,

perhaps echoes of ancient Greek dramas and tragedies,

worshiped by people of an era that has been lost,

civilizations poor of hope on the human rebirth.

Wars, revolutions, tyrannies and persecutions,

born on the drumming of soulless men,

have delayed our arrival in the promised land,

where milk and honey spur and light reigns,

preventing all evil  once sown.

A land we have not yet arrived to,

but it is already heard

the beating of the wings of the dove’s return,

like that of Noah, bringing in its beak

the green branch of the olive tree.

Life, Seasons and Desires

Let me tell you a secret.

Secrets are made to, at the right and appropriate time,

be revealed and exposed.

They twist and squirm, get tired of the imposed imprisonment

and ask, if not demand, their freedom.

I am a conservative man, averse to change.

I would live my entire life in the same house, same friends,

same loves;

would have my children and their children would be equally ours,

growing, assembling and sharing rooms and lives,

indifferent to strange customs of those

who do not love and do not even like each other.

We would be like a pack of wolves that are always together

and know no other world but theirs.

I like the sun that does not change

and it is the same every day,

heating and never forgetting of us.

I cannot understand the moon, its four phases and four faces,

that makes us fall in love with its brightness and then,

plays hide-and-seek, feminine and elusive wants and appearances.

I would like to have an extended spring without summer,

a fall without winter, succulent fruits the whole year,

packed with gentle rains and tender winds.

My hair could be white, but full and thick,

not meager and thin; my desire active and predatory,

voracious and powerful, facing my last season

with that child’s own haughtiness, still shaped

as a certain book says, in the image and likeness

of noble our Creator.

 

Published in Free Lit Magazine, November 2018 issue.

http://www.freelitmagazine.com

Published in Tree House Arts, Feb 20, 2019

http://www.treehousearts.me

 

This poem and all others at this blog, authored by Edilson Afonso Ferreira ©