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Mara Bettencourt sings poem by paulo da costa
Mara Bettencourt, Boston, has put to music one of my English poems from The Book of Water. Take a peek at an excerpt from this music video recorded during the 2013 AzoresFringe Festival, in a vineyard with a background view of Pico’s volcano. For more information on this visually gorgeous documentary please go to: Mirateca Documentaries
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Malahat Review – Seamless Stories Haunt
The January 2014 issue (#185) of the University of Victoria’s Malahat Review features a review of The Green and Purple Skin of the World. Fiction Review by Norma Lundberg The Green and Purple Skin of the World: Stories by paulo da costa (Freehand, 2013). Paperbound, 208 pp., $21.95 The sixteen stories in this collection proceed so seamlessly a reader might initially suspect them of being slight—a smooth skin of words, a faint echo from the title. But just as our skin is only the surface of our complex bodies, these stories are alive with characters in their own complicated worlds. They slowly enter the reader and haunt…
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to be portuguese
to be portuguese is to be born with the fado around your neck to live with your eyes anchored to the open sea, longing for the outgoing tide or for its incoming wave living canned up between the sea and spain exporting sardines going to mass and forgetting the sermon it’s confessing to friends with a bottle in your hand and not making waves the ones that stir up the sea are enough praying for peace admiring fátima and batalha in the same holy visit to be portuguese is to love your car more than yourself and find it more affordable …
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The Scent of a Lie
We never carried ill intentions towards Camila Penca. We simply prayed for our village’s old peace to be restored and, thank God, He answered our prayers. Camila was born into a well-bred family in our respectable village nestled on the tusk-sharp escarpment of Hell’s Mouth Bay. A village still standing with pride and resilience after centuries of Atlantic rage. Camila spent childhood in her own world. She climbed up and down the escarpment, collecting gull feathers, splashing in the tide pools, plucking at the sea urchins, ‘she loves me, she loves me not,’ then, with the first tides of puberty, ‘he loves me, he loves me not.’ Some say…
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Roses for the Dead
Padre Lucas found rest under an olive tree. He pressed his handkerchief to the halo of white hair around his skull, attempting to suppress the beaded sweat drenching his face. He leaned against the olive trunk, contemplating the green quilt covering the valley floor, tracing the corn patches and grape fields stitched together by a thread of stone hedges. The sinuous River Caima, unusually brilliant under the sun, forced him to squint. He shielded his face. The river, the earth’s open artery, crossed the heart of the valley, delivering life and fertility to the fields. Intricate veins burst from the main artery, channelling precious water to remote places along…
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Vera
Vera rested, curled in the shade of the womb, meditating on the journey ahead, inch by inch building strength and filling with readiness; readiness, invisible as air that inflates lungs and lends might to voice, invisible as wind that sculpts landscapes and lends shape to the world. Vera rested until the sting of the syringe ejected her out of her dormant state. She sprang forward, initiating the contractions that flushed her towards the sliver of light and into the blur of expectant faces. Vera darted into the world wearing a premature coat of long black hairs which prompted her brother to scream in delight on first seeing her, “A…
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Memória: An Anthology of Portuguese Canadian Writers
This first anthology of Portuguese Canadian writers serves as a superb introduction which cogently illustrates the emerging presence of Portuguese literary voices within the Canadian landscape. Embedded in its cultural meaning system, it provides a background upon which the scope of the texts can be located. In fact, the poetic and narrative texts, central to the fabric woven throughout this volume, involve not only the exploration of narrative memory and identity, but also paint a vibrant picture of the Portuguese diasporic world in which these writers live. Congratulations to editor Fernanda Viveiros for the initiative, and for presenting us with this rich and sophisticated selection. I am confident that the…
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The Midwife of Torment
(…) Felismina, the town curandeira, a woman accustomed to probing the depths of the psyche, a midwife of torment, heard about Florindo’s condition. She believed him. “If the boy says he stinks, he stinks. Who are we? Do we wear his skin, smell his nightmares?” Florindo Ramos sought her intercession in the matter. After consulting her wrinkled manuals, brushing the dust off her skirt, Felismina declared, “I dug up one antidote, boy. Only one. But, for it to work you must be willing to look the nightmare in the face.” Florindo shuddered, scrubbed his face with the handkerchief in his hand. “Unless you want to live with things as…
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Pleasant Troubles
A sudden, involuntary flaring of his tongue, a hideous contortion of his face; and apart from this peculiar affliction, Bonifácio Careta remained an ordinary child. The villagers believed everyone entered life with unique, God-given graces—some born to nose-picking, others to continuous spitting, others to limping. They never spent a second thought on Bonifácio. Bonifácio Careta’s life would have proceeded without remarkable attention if misfortune had not brought his peculiar condition to public notice. Bonifácio’s fortunes changed irrevocably on the occasion of the long-awaited Papal tour of the country with the Pontiff’s brief, unscheduled bathroom stop in Bonifácio’s forgotten village. While the Pontiff bestowed upon the gathering crowd his holy blessing,…
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Flies
Foot raised on the shoe-box, Senhor Osório sat at the entrance to the tavern enjoying the overdue shine. The question mark of his cane supported his thoughts as he rested his chin on the wrinkled knuckles clasping the wood. His gaze followed the blur of legs striding past. “Give it a good polish, Armando.” “Yes, Senhor.” Armando stopped, wiped the sweat under his beret and brought his wrinkled hand to his kidney, the gesture intending to readjust it to a tolerable position. The few coins in his vest pocket rattled their protest. Armando hoped there would be plenty of time for leisure in the grave, very soon. He sighed,…
