Mr. Ferreira, 78 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in selected international literary journals in print and online, he began writing at age 67, after his retirement from a bank. Has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize, and his first Poetry Collection, Lonely Sailor - One Hundred Poems - was launched in London, in 2018. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.
A Christ very little remembered
On “Christ Cleansing the Temple, Wood by El Greco, c. 1570”
We surely must follow Christ, learn from him, unquestionable master of love and tolerance. Son of God, yet a brother, he bequeathed us divine words and deeds that survive forever. The way he loved us, great and pure, no one had or has ever equally leveled. His sacrifice on behalf of humanity, that of then and of coming times, unworthy and infidel ones, perhaps, just by this, took him to redeem us from bitter destiny. But, aside from his Divinity, his grandeur, do not forget the passage of Matthew 21-12, when he entered the temple of his father. Then, not by a conversation or dialogue, ‘He cast out all them that sold and bought’, ‘overthrew the tables of the moneychangers’. I love this Christ, so human and so brother, who did not conceal his anger, as one of us. By now, in our time, to honor our Lord, we have failed to call up one Saint Fury, just like that day.
Sometimes I venture to make an odd journey. I go to the past, long ago, distant and perilous. The road I take has been built entirely by me, in very hard a way no one at least dreams of. Rough a path and full of so many deviations, that even me, well used to, I go so timorous. Now, I see that there were no other choices, for only this way would lead me where I am. Where and what I must be ever since I was. In this visit, I see friends, lovers, enemies, grandfathers and cousins, see also myself. Then, undoubted alive, they talk to me, ask for news, and, like old comrades, absent for so long, soon we are laughing. On leaving, one or other intend to follow me, but I don’t feel safe and go home alone. I suspect that past is jealous of its deeds and always hides how has woven them. I think it must be visited as few times as one is capable of.
Lines I will leave
It was a sunny day, only I felt the gloom that accompanied it. No one noticed my agony and my despair, neither heard my sobs nor saw my tears. I know they inhabit their castles of indifference and selfishness, daily toasting to their goddesses, some I never wish would be mine. Tears that healed my body’s wounds, smoothed my soul and comforted my spirit, pouring out all my sadness. A prelude for the days to come, whose story I am obliged to leave written, which will be judged by our creator, besides all of those who crossed my path. May it be lines to justify the season I passed through this world, a testimony which worth the redemption of my entire being, showing, at least, a little bit of the sacredness from which we must never abdicate in this life.
My dead, those I loved in life, I do not bury them. They remain forever unburied, at least as long as I can stay alive. When I die, they will be buried beside me. I am sure they know this, knowing also I am still counting on their help and support. We talk about everything and everyone, we laugh, weep, love and hate; they rest with me at night and give me strength, at the dawn of a new day. Every victory of mine, they applaud and rejoice, as faithful crowd, that accompanies their team. Morbid desires, unnatural cravings, some will say. But no, it is just great and honest one love, a pure one, that understands and consoles me on certain days. Days full with doubts, shadows and ill feelings, those that fate has marked for me, which, by sure, I will not be able to avoid.
Will Anyone ever understand?
Plowing the fields and producing wheat, oats and beans; rising sheep, cows and pigs; raising and spreading children and instilling in them those dreams we were not able to turn into reality. Throwing rails, roads, bridges and ports, cities, skyscrapers, churches and cathedrals, always leaving fences and borders; creating worlds only ours, incapable and fearful to cohabit the one that has been given to us in full. Boasting and toasting in life’s daily feast, trying to write our history, which has begun in that sixth day of the divine journey of creation. Someday, somewhere, this history will be told, and few will be able to understand, for has been lived on days filled with passion, hard struggle and suffering. History developed from our human nature, not paired with the undoubted greatness of our Creator, whom, although absent, we learned to venerate, and, some of us, still to love.