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Writer's picturePoetryzine

Maria do Sameiro Barroso: Roses of utopia

The Poetryzine magazine presents the selected poems by the Portuguese poet Maria Do Sameiro Barroso



Cosmogony


In the beginning, a large empty flower

began to stir.

We were the earth and the sky,

moving in the shade.

In our story, there were birds,

mountains and haze.

Like Spring sprouts, we started

moving across the sun and the rainbows.

In the slime of shells and corals,

I heard your first words,

not knowing how to stop the purple,

the rivers, the sky,

or the yellow flower of the sun violins.

We were born out of a sweet

cosmogony.

We came to each other

out of a rebellious desire,

playing an ancient game,

reviving an enchanting spell

by the quietness of a river,

the shadow of white poplars,

listening to the gorgeous sound

of a well-tuned lyre.



Add me to your poem


Add me to your poem,

join me to your islands,

The sun is still a draft of colors,

my name is a night of brightness.

Add me to your poems,

join me to your islands,

take me from this wasteland.

Sweet dates drive me

from the palm trees of desire.


Green ships drive me

to the golden syrup of exile.



Roses of utopia


I dream of a rose, a red rose of life,

Spring and vitality.

And I lean on my utopia.

But insidious damaged roses

creep into my mind,

still claiming the bright skies

hidden of their yearning,

My brain carried their grief,

their anguish, the despair

of their bodies sacrificed

in shameful shrines.

I would like to bring them

the solace, the balance of wings,

the armours of love,

the gentle tools

of the warriors of peace.

Butterflies keep dying

cruelly.

Yet, my dreams do not perish,

my roses never die.

Butterflies keep flying

in the distance.

Red roses, my dead roses,

are still carrying a torch,

a gleaming light,

among pomegranates,

blueberries and starry skies,

drifting old nightmares away,

keeping my roses of utopia alive.



November


Words create the light, the riddling

flowers, the tangible forms

of materiality.

They are broad and accurate.

Therefore, I define them rigorously.

Words create darkness.

And hence, the night is a drop,

a tear, a lightning bolt,

a crop, an angel:

a bird that forgot to fly,

lost

in the shadows of November.









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