The carnivorous poet – Express

We live more or less all the same way. And the same ways. “Burrocraticamente.” (. Thank you, Herbert, the essential neologism) “Desperate age is going to invest in it: death in the gerund.” A Camões gerund in any case.

This final book, terminal, contains a salvation more than a redemption of a different life from others. And a physical discovery: the banal mortality of human beings. Contains proof that still exist, here, there, in every language of the places, the places where Herbert Helder expected to survive, a great poet with great verses inside. Great is umadjetivo sobreusado, overrated, overvalued, as they say now. Time is the verbal uniformity, the absolutely corrupt idea, easements’s life.

“The work of the corrupted world / easements that carries my life.” And in the midst of this uniform time, a different set of words, the same words every day but arranged in a new grammar, correct cleanly, properly clear.

“Easements” is the new book by Herbert Helder and is preceded by solemn warnings: this book is not like the others, because this poet is not like the others. Uncooperative. Devora. And devour is the word that is repeated, an intimate, autobiographical verb. The biography of Herbert, the more impossible biographies, unless authorized, is restricted at times this verb – devour. And it is not a metaphysical devour before physical, stated as a color hunger, shape, smell, a hunger of the five senses of matter: “They brought once a wild boar hunted in the mountains and shot it up DAMESA the kitchen, long zinc-covered table opened it up and down with huge facalhões and cleavers, blood flowed on all sides, they put the hands and forearms red mass, and they reappeared later as shoe bloody gloves, alive;. lay then to the bucket the viscera smoked:. the lungs, liver, intestines Of all that went up a sharp scent, intoxicating, painful evening had fever There was something treacherous and evil in this world of very strong fruits, animals.. quartered, smells, this thick and warm world, a world of organic images. ” This autobiographical record, dememória fragment, tells us that Herbert was always more carnivorous than herbivore. Sex and death are thus treated as busted, raw acts, cruel, places where “meat is eaten, and rises, thanks to the alliance between language and forms! Not talks”. Is this the secret place of the poem birth, the birth of life. This is the most devassado and confessional Herbert, who picked up the Herbert long ago, close to “Steps in Volta,” the youth book. This is the age of the book of the eternal Father, where he gives the gift of memory, recalls and passes the film, stops in front of the mirror and finds in them a burnt face, remote, and at the same time affirms the vitality of poetry as something that never ends, hunger never ends, and that resists time, the way, which “steals a life to general life” to get exceed “the biographical insolvency”.

This poetry so cleverly modern and luminous prose that precedes it, poetando, return them to the verb magic, are touched by the strength of an art that can be observed by looking at the art the art process, the art of difficulty making up, in being fulfilled. The art and its hunger for raw things, untouched by the things that no one else creates and breeds, no one else sees and can give birth, as mothers of the verses about mothers, because the secret of mothers is to imitate the earth and its elements the principle of all principles, the primary act. The words, unlike the flesh and bone, are fleeting matter of time, and you need to catch them distracted, to words, to the trap in the poem. Explain to us.

Herbert never had an identity other than that of his art. Never will pick up in fnacs and snacks literature or send a poem to “the magazine where all collaborate.” Because it will only where others are not. “Mando not collaborate nobody Because nothing is divided:.. Or devours / or not touch anything”

The book devotes a walking route in years, 80 years of violent requirement and asceticism, 80 years old out by looking for the “wonderful poem about innocence.” The poem written. Death is now on, prowling the steps around the prey. A lesser being would be tempted to ask for a postponement to prepare posterity. This lucid poet, without fear or sadness, know that “capítulosmaiores of life, his music and words, I forgot them all.” It remains to be a poem, never the last poem because poetry is a process, not an end. “Nothing has return and everything is very difficult (not only the maximum but also the least).

” My God, you made of Herbert Helder a great obscure poet, as he wanted, and did Thy his rebellious creature, the free man, which never served Te. Or to other men. If after 80, will soon be 83, you write books these, the Higgs boson is smaller miracle. Particle by particle, prefer these. Poems. Words of poems. Furiously articulated. Of human bondage Libertas that slashes the bodies as the knife slashes in the pig slaughter.

(Thanks, Herbert, as you live.)