Mario Quintana (July 30, 1906—May 5, 1994) was a Brazilian writer who once said, in response to attacks on free speech and artistic expression by conservative (read dictatorial) government, that “mistreating a poet is a sign of very bad character.” He is said to have been interviewed once, near the end of his life by a jornalist who asked: “Back in your time, how was life?” His answer? “Your time, my ass. I am alive, and pretty well alive, my time is now.”

He was a poet of “the simple things”, unconcerned with critics, he wrote poetry because he “felt the need to write it.” The following poem is some form of a sonnet, though my tranlation approaches nothing of the sort. It was impossible to maintain some of the rhyming. This is Soneto II from Rua dos Cataventos:

Sleep, little street, everything is dark . . .
And my steps, who is there to hear them?
Sleep your pure and restful sleep,
with your lamps, and your gardens, nothing to fear in them . . .

Sleep . . . There are no thieves, I assure you . . .
Or even guards that would seek to torment . . .
In this high night, as if above a wall,
the stars sing like crickets . . .

The wind is asleep on the sidewalk,
the wind stoops down like a dog . . .
Sleep, little street . . . There is nothing . . .

Just my footsteps . . . But they are so light
as to even seem, in the mid of night,
the footsteps of my future haunting . . .

1. I woke my almost 10 year old daughter up this morning by handing her a cup of coffee and telling her I had signed her up for an afternoon job at her school. From now on I’d be picking her up at 6 pm every day when her work day ended. She sat straight up, eyes wide open and then immediately said, “April Fools…but can I still have the coffee?” Smart one, that cookie.

2. I finished the picture-book-that-may-not-really-be-a-picture-book in Portuguese yesterday and sent it off to sarah_create and her fluent Portuguese-speaking husband for review. It was fun for them, at least, to read something in Portuguese and at least pretend for the moment that they are in warm, balmy Brazil instead of shivery, quivery Iceland. The story is really for a contest that will be put on by the Brazilian branch of IBBY. And all I stand to win is a few books. But still, it was fun and who knows but that I really could publish a book here one day!

3. I want to celebrate Poetry Month by posting something poetry related every day. I’m not sure if it will be an original poem, or a translation, or just thoughts, but I’m in this year. If I miss a day here or there, don’t hold it against me, but I’m going to try! I’ll be back in a minute for my first post of the month!

I’m writing my first picture book in Portuguese. And I’m absolutely loving it. I’m all giddy and have that wonderful lovey-dovey feeling you get when you start something new that you think just might end up working. My one dilemma? Who in the world will I get to critique it? I wonder if Ana Maria Machado has time for a quick read? 🙂

I have to admit that I haven’t had a chance to read Carrie Jones’ two books yet. Being in Brazil makes it difficult sometimes to keep up on the latest and the greatest in YA lit. But to know how adorable Carrie Jones is, all you have to do is read this entry from her Journal (though you might want to skip the link to the video at the end. Carrie gives plenty of warning that it’s not appropriate for kids and that there are those who might find it offensive. But the post itself is adorable!):

http://carriejones.livejournal.com/128872.html

Good luck, Carrie! Hear, hear for Clean Campaigns!

I pulled out an old picture book manuscript day before yesterday. It’s quiet. It’s literary. It might be philosophically obtuse. I’m somewhere deep in a literary hole, staring up at flickers of light, trying desperately to grab hold of one of them for keeps. But there are parts of this manuscript that make me go, “YES! YES!”, and I think that deep somewhere in it, there is something to love.

But now that I’ve been staring at the same stanza for the last two hours, changing it back and forth and back again, I’m spent. Chocolate, anyone?

If you’ve got vibes and got ’em good, send any and all you’re willing to part with toward publishing-dom for me, please. Smart Savvy Agent went wowsers over my re-vision of the-pb-I-feared-to-revise and sent it on it’s merry way, off to Brilliant and Esteemed Editor. Fingers crossed.

And I’m off to dream up new and exciting things…

Remember the picture book that I’m revising? The one where I said I wasn’t sure I could ever be satisfied with the new emotional center of the story?

I think I might be falling in love. 🙂

I sat with my daughter today as she tried to pare down the list of presents she hopes to receive for her birthday, just a little over a month away. For a nine year-old, who is still learning the value of money, and only just beginning to be aware of the needs of others before she thinks of her own wants, this was a very difficult task. When you’re nine and you’re wooed by the colors and sounds of the latest gadgets, or the status and style of the latest clothes, or even (albeit a little secretly because you’re too old for such things) by the beauty and marketing of the latest doll, it’s hard to set your own limits. You want to hope for everything. You want to have it all.

It’s a time when your hope is young but it’s wild and rampant. You don’t restrain it. You’re not afraid to wish.

As I was helping my daughter today, there was a part of me that was sad, homesick for that unrestrained hope, that time before you learn that you don’t get everything you hope for. (Though, thank God because we’re protected from some of the useless things we’ve hoped for. We can’t really know what we want until we know what we need.)

But the funny thing about hope is that the older we get, the more fragile our hoping becomes. We try to protect ourselves, to not hope too much or we’ll be disappointed. We want to save ourselves from the letdown.

And yet, we can’t help it. We may turn our eyes, but we can’t turn our hearts.

The difference for me between childlike hope and our own more fragile hope is that children can wish on a thousand stars in the sky and never run out of wishes or stars. And if they don’t get what they want, their wish is still out there somewhere, floating around in the universe, waiting, quite possibly, to come true. Our hoping is more knowing, more informed, but all the more tender because we know that if it’s to be, we play a part in making it true. And we fear we’re not up to the task.

Fear not, friends. Even our dashed hopes can lead to achieving impossible dreams.

Greener Still

My youth was green, like tender shoots

Sprayed with chartreuse,

Limed with strokes of light,

Blind but reaching

Anyway.

Innocence waned

Then turned its face,

Its knowing eyes cast

Toward cooling clay,

Its hoping, ever greener

still.

Random list of Thankfulness:

1. People who pick up and carefully dispose of their pets’ sidewalk deposit. I mean, seriously, pox on those who don’t. Okay, maybe not. That’s not very thankful. But to those that do, you have my everlasting gratitude.

2. Ibuprofen. Not only have we had two viruses, various body aches and three children with fevers this week, now I hear you can substitute it for a daily aspirin to keep your blood from getting thick and gloppy.

3. Readers who love me but don’t love my story too much to keep them from seeing its faults. Because I’m blind at the moment. Well, not blind, just closing my eyes and hoping for the best.

4. Quiet. No need to explain.

Oh my gosh, I’m going out of my mind. When you’re revising a text for a specific editor, try to stay away from reading about what said editor talked about at the most recent conference they attended. It will only make you second guess yourself more than you already are.

Just warning you…