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יום רביעי, 10 באוקטובר 2018

I am such a Brazilian woman-1

Front Cover

I am such a Brazilian woman
Crying, laughing
Hoping, fearing
Hating, loving
Me, you
And all in a such a big way

 I Am Such a Brazilian Woman

 by Iara Czeresnia and Ze'ev Barkan
To my father and mother, Zezinho, my children and life
English translation of the original Hebrew script by Ze'ev Barkan
Poetry translation edited by Avril Meallem
Hebrew Edition Iton 77 Publishing House, Tel Aviv, Israel, August 2017
Iara Czeresnia & Ze-ev Barkan
zeevveez@gmail.com   Tel. -972-2-6785636

Chapter 1 First Kiss

Shalom Ze'ev,
I am Iara Czeresnia, the Brazilian friend of Shachar. I learned to speak Hebrew when I was 13 and now, when I am 50, I learned to write and read in this wonderful language. Not that I did not know anything and it was a kind of miracle ... it was somehow kept inside of me. I lived in Israel between 1965 and 1969, so I learned to read and write a little. So, this is also the language of my childhood. It was fun to read what you wrote on the Internet about the senses. Bye - Iara.
It makes me very happy that you read and loved what I wrote. I am also always delighted to be in touch with lovers of the Hebrew language.
Here is the first poem I ever wrote:

The words dance in my mind
Zoom in zoom out
Like clouds
Cover the sunlight
Darken my thoughts
Where do they lead?
To pain, loneliness, yearning

Words are born
When there is nothingness instead of being
There is no chair,
But there is a word for the picture in the mind
Of a chair which is not there

Then there's a chair in the mind
And the loved ones who are not here
Their names bring them, or the longing for them?

Their names remind us that they are not here
When will they be?
Will they be?

Every new road is an invitation
For the time to bring me new roads
Where do the new roads lead?
I'm immersed in horror

Amazing! This poem has depth. It is true that it speaks in simple words, but it has originality, it sounds beautiful. One can feel that the person behind the poem is a creative person. If you have or will have more poems please send them to me.
Here is what I wrote in Portuguese, a memory from Klil, I was there with Shachar a few months ago, and then translated it for him so that he could understand:
Slowly, the sun brightens the blue of the Mediterranean that spreads far away, the mirror of the silence and the strange peace that dwell in my loneliness. A modest balcony, a swinging hammock, the fragrance of the morning mixes with the tobacco smell of a lit cigarette and the smell of fresh hot Turkish coffee. The birds sing with the sounds of the wind, giving birth to the day. The memories of a goddess dancing in the evening, a cloth in her hand, on the same balcony, turn the floor into a ballroom. Always the distant sea, takes salty tears out of my eyes, bits of the same sea. Gracias A La Vida!
I've polished what you wrote and now it's a poem which you can send to Shachar if you want:
The sun brightens
 The blue color of the Mediterranean
 That spreads in the distance -
A mirror of the silence and strange peace
That dwell in my loneliness

Always the sea
Extracts salty tears from my eyes

Now that we discovered that you are a poet you must start writing. What a wonderful thing!
Tender / Touch / Like First Kiss / / Fireworks / Flowers / Birds in the Heart /
First Touch / Second Touch / New Touch / Old Touch / Flowers / Birds / Kisses / Fireworks
The beginning is good, all these short sentences. The rest is too repetitive. A poem should surprise. Every word should be surprising. You need to develop the theme of the kiss.
What are the hands and feet doing / When the tongue does not know yet / And the lips are inside the teeth? / Hands / Looking for breasts / Finding mouth and ears / The feet are melting / And the tongue is still learning / It is possible to breathe for a moment
You really take me seriously, it's hard to believe it's worth it. I'm still in great excitement, and everything seems to me like a game.
In this poem, I tried to describe a first kiss. I saw a funny picture: a boy and a girl looking in the eyes, not knowing where to put their hands. Approaching with an open mouth, afraid of the teeth. Do not know whether to close or open the mouth. And what about the glasses? The hands do not know whether to hug or pry, afraid of the breasts, go up to the shoulders, reach the ears. And the tongue still does not know whether to get in or out. And now the lips come in between the teeth. The feet melt.
Here's your new poem:

A boy and a girl looking in the eyes -
Heads approaching
Open mouth
Afraid of the teeth

Do not know what to do with
The hands
The legs
The glasses

The hands, that are afraid of the breasts
Go up to the shoulders
Reach the ears

The tongue is undecided: to get out or to go in?
The lips come in between the teeth
The feet melt

Now it is possible to breath

It makes me happy to have so few corrections!! I begin to understand that you have to say everything, as in analysis, if we want people to understand what we mean. We have to show, without fear, if not, they will not understand ... I was ashamed of the game, of the nonsense. It is not easy to write.
<It is not easy to write> There are a few simple things that help: check words in the dictionary. Do not waste energy over too many images.  The main thing is not to say what you've heard; - write new things. In prose, - every sentence has to be new. In poetry, - every word. We know when a poem is good, and we remember it. It's like a kick in the face, something you do not forget.

Inside my eyes I saw the lights of your eyes lighting up my soul / Adam and Eve when they saw their naked bodies realized their death.
What were they ashamed of? Shame is a kind of fear, and fear is always connected to fear of death. In my opinion creation-itself tells about the stages of development: at first, it's all one, because in the womb the baby and the mother are really one. Then there's light, we're born, but we do not know yet that it's not one, that it's two. We distinguish between air and water (breathing), Sea and land (Maybe breasts full of milk versus hunger), and only then there's a place for thinking (that plants and animals will grow), and the mother begins naming everything, teaching what is cold, what hurts, what hunger is, and what is I and what is you.
You appeared in my dream in the form of the poet Vinícius de Moraes / my mother appeared in the form of a rose / and I smiled joyfully. I do not know what you look like ... and my mother was called Rosa. Vinícius de Moraes has songs that are known all over the world. One of them is - Garota de Ipanema - the girl from Ipanema, which had been translated into Hebrew.
You appeared in my dream
 in the form of Vinícius de Moraes
My mother appeared in the form of a rose
I smiled happily
Three sunflowers / In a flowerpot / Were falling off / Thousands of sunflowers /In a near- the- border-field / Caused my soul /To blossom
I did not understand what had happened.
Sunflowers do not fall off.
"My soul" is a worn-out word that should not be used.
I want to say that the sunflower field, about which I read in the book written by Shachar, woke me up. His sunflowers were more vivid than the flowers I had in my flowerpot.
Here's a new option:
Sunflowers lust for the light since dawn / sinking into them / direct rays of sun / sucking their heat / arousing old / forgotten passions in me / like a shadow in the water
Sunflowers lust for the light since dawn
For the straight rays of the sun
And their warmth

They arouse
Forgotten old passions
Like a shadow in the water
The pain / When it is written on a piece of paper / Becomes a written word – That's all
Pain passes through words like an epidemic. Sartre wrote a novel called "The Nausea," and many young Europeans imitated the protagonist of the novel, displaying poses of nausea in dress, in speech. Pain inspires identification. You do not read about suffering in the paper and say: "This is something I already know". It touches you.
I'm talking about inner pain, when you write about it, and suddenly it looks different. I have this feeling when I write. I just saw a film by Almodóvar, and I'm sure that if he had not made films he would have gone mad. The words organize the senses, and then people don't lose their minds. Maybe I'm talking about a certain pain, pain of confusion, fear, pain about what is not known ...
There is writing that heals. As an expert on psychiatry, you probably know that. When people write they process their traumatic experience, break it apart, dissolve it. It starts with doing something, and by not standing aside with that lump in your throat, helplessly.
There is a Brazilian writer I love very much, Clarice Lispector, who said she wrote in order not to die. Maybe I was trying to talk from the point of view of the writer, not the reader. If it is written with all your heart, the reader will also feel it ... But I also think that you can never describe in words exactly what you feel. When you write about a smell, you do not actually smell. Everyone imagines something else. I'm confused ...
Why are you writing?
You've heard my thoughts. This conversation brought me a thousand questions. Why am I writing? Why in Hebrew? Why to you? I do not have an answer. But now that I started it is as if I'd been waiting for it all my life. Every little thing I write and need to think about illuminates something else. When a poem comes out, when it seems ready, when I feel something is understood, it feels great. I feel like continuing. And I am very afraid that it will disappear and I will lose everything, that it's all an illusion, if not a hallucination. That everything would suddenly explode in the air like a balloon ... that it is all virtual, unreal.
I write because I don't succeed not to write / Since I started / Everything around me looks different / The eyes are more accurate / As if I have the correct glasses / The colors are clearer / And I see myself / In what I write / Reveal someone I did not know / Another me / And maybe in writing I invent/ A virtual world / A Iara that does not exist / And the endless question / Who am I / Returns
When I write
The eyes sharpen
As if I have the right glasses

I am such a Brazilian woman-2

Chapter 2 - I am such a Brazilian woman

Inside me I keep sea salt drops / Sometimes they run away through my eyes / Today some left with water that escaped the sky
Sea salt drops, imprisoned within me
Escape, sometimes, through my eyes
Today, they washed away
With water that escaped the sky

I slept and dreamed / about a river / a stream of tears / I woke up / with wet eyes / I lost sleep /
I dreamed of a river of tears
Awoke with damp eyes
I am drowning in a pool of sounds / in a melody without words / your eyes are reflected in my tears / they are sunspots on my face

This is the shortest poem you have written so far:
Your eyes are reflected in my tears
What is the background?
I got excited by a melody I heard. I tried to find words for it, and "Your eyes are reflected in my tears!" appeared. I also remembered a picture of tears made from glass that you shared on the Internet, that's why the sunspots...
Morning sun shines / Song of green parrots from the trees / In Brazil / Attacks me / Like blue parrots in a cage / Who came to my house / Instead of my brother / who had been born and died/ in Israel
Why "instead"?
That's what my mother did ... She wanted to make us happy after the loss. We were small. She arrived without the baby, brought us parrots ...
I think it's too private so only you can understand it. Why are the parrots now free and then they were in the cage? Why "attacks"? Even then it attacked?

I went out onto the balcony. I looked for some peace of mind, and their screams shook me, along with the memory of the blue parrots, that had once been in a cage. Then they filled the house with their voices, and came instead of the cry of a baby who did not come. This morning I had in me weeping, locked inside my body, and the parrots who screamed liberated, by the tears, the day I thought I had forgotten.
Parrots are screaming in the trees
Tearing at my ears
Releasing out of me
A stream of locked tears
In the depths of the pool / I did not find you / I did not find India / I was not a fish / It was just me and the water/
In the depths of the pool
Just me and the water
A melody was heard in the pool / came and went / closer and farther away / I searched and searched / found bubbles / between my fingers / between my legs / they sang a song / and accompanied my body
When I swam / the bubbles between my fingers played me / a melody that accompanied my body
It sounds like part of a poem that you may try to complete.
When I swam / the bubbles between my fingers played / a melody that accompanied my body / I was half a fish/
Iara is the name of the water's mother of the Indians in Brazil. She is half fish and half a woman, and she sings songs in the rivers.
When I swam
The bubbles between my fingers played for me
A song that accompanied my body -
I was half fish, half woman
Like so it is very nice! I'm currently with my father in the hospital ... looking for funny things, or trying to laugh at sad things ...
Hand in the water / pulling / legs kicking / inhale / hand in the water / feet / inhale / water / hands / legs / inhale / no head / just water
My hands are penetrating into the water / Pushing water / My feet are kicking rushing / My lungs breathing in and out / floating body / empty head
The way I wrote, do you think it's not good at all?
Sounds good to me. You're advancing. The way I rearrange your words is always just a suggestion for you to think if you can do it even better
I wanted to have a rhythm in the poem, like in the swimming ... When I swim I concentrate on the rhythm, in the water, I feel as if the water is pushing me, not the hands ... I also love the silence, that I can hear the breath bubbles. I like the feeling that the body is losing its heaviness and floats. When swimming the water gets alive, they seem to pull, push, caress the entire body.
Your explanation is excellent. Multiple verbs create a sense of rhythm.
The water / hold / pull / push / caress my entire body / teach another weight / remind that the air is missing

When I swim
I'm carried by silent water
Pulling, pushing, caressing, teaching

How misunderstood is air
How relative is weight

A strong wind / Gave back to the beach / What once it took to the sea / Sofas and armchairs / All in black and white / In the dream
I did not understand.
I dreamed I was sitting on the beach. Suddenly there was a strong wind. Sofas and armchairs flew from the water to the beach.

A violent wind
Returned sofas and armchairs
From the sea to the beach
In black and white
A wet dream
Let me know my soul with your hands / Make it sound with your touches/ Turn me into a musical instrument
Explore my body with your fingers
Make it sound like soul
Turn it into melody

faça me saber por suas mãos minhalma
que dela soprem claros sons
me toca
me torna

What exactly do you mean when you say spirit and soul? I do not know how to translate it.
Spirit is like the Spirit of God that was hovering over the surface of the water before there was light. Look at the translation into Portuguese in the first chapter of Genesis. Soul in Hebrew is like breathing.
I have read, for the first time in my life, the Song of Songs. It seems to me that you cannot talk about love after reading something so wonderful. I did not try to understand everything. I read without stopping, to catch the atmosphere. I did not want to read it in translation, and only now did I dare read it in Hebrew. Can we live only in the world of words?
Is that what you want? Without senses? I search the opposite direction - trying to live without words ... without success.
The senses are confusing, they make you crazy ... you have to connect them to words to quiet them down. I'm happy when I find words, they calm my senses, a bit, when they are turbulent.
I knew through his hands / that were traveling/ (loving / loved /) between folds /in hidden places/ that knew my body / my holes / my desires
How can one talk about the female body, which is rounder? When you put your hands on it, you feel the round shapes. Waist, breasts, butt - are like river twists ... or guitar ...
Wake up the caves of my body / by your fingers / by the palm of your hand / seek its limits / its secrets /
"Wake up the caves of my body" is beautiful. It's already a poem. If I were you I'd leave it like that, but I tend to be too short.

Wake up the caves of my body
My skin
My holes
Let me drown between your fingerprints
Know my depths
My eyes are an open tap / they have already wet my holiday clothes / And the rain that is now coming down may be from my eyes / And now he is already in the plane / Soon he will be in the sky. / And I write so that the sadness will remain only in words / and I came back alone to my house / and my husband and my children are waiting / maybe happy that I'm / finally coming back home.

My eyes are an open tap
My tears, mixing with the rain
wet my holiday clothes
You've boarded the jet
Soon to be in the sky

Alone, I return to my husband and children

I dreamed of a white dress / lace dress / for a wedding / I wore it / it was transparent / I did not have shoes / I married barefoot
I dreamed that I was getting married
In a lace dress - transparent white
I could not find shoes
I married barefoot

I watched this morning from the balcony the rain that had fallen and was so beautiful. So, I thought about tears, which are not always caused by suffering, but there are also tears of joy. I went down to the street. On the way to work, under an umbrella, I saw the flowers falling from the tree, and then I thought of them as tears, as drops of rain.
Thousands of yellow flowers fall / tears of trees / between the tears of the sky

Why are they crying?
I do not know, maybe from joy. And that's how they decorate the streets and the cars, and the umbrellas that pass.
From the tree, yellow flowers
 Are falling out for me
In tears of joy without reason
With the rain
On my umbrella
I walked on a clean sidewalk / one flower / (which in Portuguese is feminine and in Hebrew is masculine) / pink / the tree (which in Portuguese is feminine and in Hebrew is masculine) / threw / to decorate my day
The tree threw me one pink flower
To decorate my day

I started thinking about masculine and feminine. It would be better for a flower to be a girl. Maybe the tree could be a guy ... (in Portuguese the tree is feminine...) That makes me laugh!! I try to translate. It seems that the simpler the poem, the more complicated the translation. Only then one realizes that the poem is not simple!! In the translation I got something like:
In the middle of the road was a flower / the tree threw / It decorated the pavement and the day
A hole held my leg / I kissed and smelled / unintentionally / a sidewalk
Did you fall on the sidewalk?
Yes, it happened to me this morning ... on the way to work. I was late, so I hurried and fell off. I was not injured. I cursed. Now my whole-body hurts.

I was so hurried
On the way to work
That the sidewalk stepped on me

It kissed my face
My hands and knees
Until I cursed
Beautiful! Funny but painful ...
The sheep are tired of being counted / Talking dogs / A forest of lights spreading on the balcony / I am still looking for / a time zone / that has escaped to another country
Why forest? How can a time zone escape? Good luck with your sleep.
<Forest> - I live in a high place. When you look from up, at night, there are so many lights, it's like a jungle of bright concrete. <Time Zone> - It's like I'm in another time zone, the wrong one ... as if I had run out of the right time.

The sheep were tired of being counted!
Dogs barking
A jungle of bright concrete
Throwing light on my balcony

All night I yearn for sleep lost
When we were children / we met / hugged / got excited / kissed / cried / laughed / in the dining room of the kibbutz / and today / in a dream
A beautiful story - where is the poem?
I have questions:
1. Do you distinguish between a poem and a song?
2. I understand when you say it's a story and not a poem, but sometimes the border is not so clear to me.

In a poem, every word is important, and it should describe something that only you have seen, in a way that is special to you. In the niche of Sao Paulo and Jerusalem you have no competitors.
In my poem, it seems special to me that we were children today. It happened only in my dream. When I got up I did not know whether I was a child or an adult. Whether time passed or whether there is no time at all. At least the girl I was dwells still in my dreams.
When I woke up I was not
Male or female
Fat or thin
Happy or sad

It was clear to me
That there is no time
But I was in no hurry
To draw conclusions;
I did not miss anything

In a tree shade / in Saturday / I sat / scent of leaves / cool breeze / shivers / birds change roles in singing / orchestra / children / dogs / bicycles / and the time is no time / it passed / I did not feel it

On Saturday
I sat down
In the shadow of a tree
In the smell of its leaves
A cold wind sent shivers down my spine
Birds chirped at me chamber music
My eyes were filled with
Children, dogs, bicycles.
I hardly noticed
How the time passed
A beautiful mouth of a woman / kisses a speaker on a stage / Her voice kisses me / I see that she is still a child
What did you want to say?

She was a child / shy / sad / her mouth did not know what kiss is / Now she is a woman who sings on stage / kisses the speaker / and the mouths of guys / her voice kisses me / I still recognize her as that little girl
Who are you talking about? Who is this little girl? What did you see? When?
She was a child I treated / Shy / We painted / talked / she learned how to sing / Today she is a singer / who paints sings and dances / in front of hundreds of people / on the stage / and I still  see in her eyes / the eyes of that girl
I saw how time passed through the body the mouth the feet and the songs.
Before each worm a butterfly
How time flies
antes das borboletas
o tempo voa
I thought about it .... about a worm and a butterfly ... It's nice that you heard!

It is interesting that in Hebrew the word for butterfly [Parpar] consists of two symmetrical syllables, whereas in Portuguese there are twice BO in Borboletas
You hear them flying, in their name, but in Hebrew they fly like males and in Portuguese they fly like females. I gave the singer this butterfly poem that we wrote thanks to her. I wrote her only the translation. I explained to her about our partnership. She was very excited about the poem, loved it, and asked to thank you.
There is no light and no color for the sky / Like in Jerusalem / I remember that / and always want to return to that
Nowhere in the world
Is there such a bright
 And deep sky
 As in Jerusalem

I remember this
And that is what I always
 Want to go back to
A watermelon on Yom Kippur in the morning, and bread on Passover, has a taste of freedom!

I do not like exclamation mark; I try to keep this task for the reader. Just after I finished lunch, I read in a Yedioth Ahronoth, our daily newspaper, a horoscope forecasting that I would have an easy fast. Is it not amazing how the astrologer knew I was not fasting on Yom Kippur?
Watermelon on Yom Kippur
Bread on Passover
Driving on Shabbat
The taste of freedom
Two months ago, I saw an Israeli film "I Was Once" and I got very excited. The story takes place during the period I lived in Israel. I did not know Haifa then. Israel looks different. Nor did I ever think that Holocaust survivors were afraid to tell how they were saved. And I was about the age of the hero of the film ... songs on the radio, school uniforms, everything came back to me in my memory. I remember the first time I could read a translation in the cinema, it was in Israel, my father took us to see Tarzan! And suddenly I managed to finish the lines before they changed. Now the renewed connection with Hebrew awakened in me a world that was almost forgotten. I did not think I'd ever have such surprises. That's why I say I was reborn.
I may have heard about the Holocaust in the Diaspora, in Brazil, where everyone is Christian, with crosses. I learned from my parents that the Gentiles are sort of "dangerous enemies" and that we have to be prepared to live with them, and to defend ourselves. That is why I lived as if in a ghetto until the age of 17. This is also related to the pride of being a Jew. When I entered the university, the largest hospital in South America, I met people like me, flesh and blood, suffering in beds with pain. My gentile friends were smart, gentle, full of humanity. I did not feel a difference between Jews and non-Jews. On the contrary, I noticed that pride is simply protection, a need to feel stronger, smarter, to be sure they will not exterminate us again.
I was raised only among Jews. Club, school, youth movement. So that I would be strong, that I should know what to answer, so that I could defend myself against the gentile enemies. At the age of 17, I was in a school preparing for university entrance examinations, and suddenly the world opened up to me! So many goyim! And some of them were even good looking, smart, interesting ... To my surprise I could not find the enemies. For a while I became an "anti-Semite"... I did not approach the Jews of my class in medical school, I worked on Yom Kippur, I ran away when they lit candles. I knew a Palestinian, a good friend, who explained to me all the pain of his family. We all had the same pain.
Meanwhile the dictatorship ended, and I learned that the most important thing is to be free, and that was it. And there was a war in Lebanon. I had cousins, soldiers. One, loved, wounded, not difficult, but I was so angry! I've been fighting disease here, I made an effort that the people will not die, and one bullet is enough to kill soldiers, children almost like me, healthy, beautiful.
Once, a friend told me that it is impossible to write under the influence of your emotions. You have to stay away from them and then write. It was hard for me to understand that, but I'm starting to learn ... I'm very excited during Jewish holidays. I have all sorts of nostalgia, memories from all my life, people who have already died, or loved ones who live far away. It is interesting that every time I tried to think in order to try to organize the emotions within me - the words really got confused, I could not. I've gotten used to thinking in Hebrew words lately, but my vocabulary is small, or I find it hard to find them. But then the Portuguese words were trying to get into my thoughts instead of the Hebrew, and then I could not think at all. I feel that I have two different places for each language within me, with all the worlds that each contains. You have to close one to turn on the other. You need a passport for passage! 

I am such a Brazilian woman-1

Front Cover Hey, I am such a Brazilian woman Crying, laughing Hoping, fearing Hating, loving Me, you And all in a such...