THE WORD
G.H. Cavalcanti
Prologue
How much does each word carry
when spoken
and by how much does it grow
once heard?
How long does the word last
once received
though it erases itself
on leaving the mouth?
How much of the word
picked up and forgotten
engraves itself, faded,
upon the memory?
Miguel
M.1 He who believes
in the word uses it
as something precise
of known dimensions
something that fits
closely
the idea it clothes
in its geometry
twin symbol
of the hidden face,
their appearance
is identical
so much so that
in everyday usage
it stands for the idea
with equal value
M.2 And because it is so precise
when sent forth
it never loses
along the intended path
its own truth,
but rather recreates
the faithful scenery
wherever it is picked up
since, once received,
in others it finds enough room
to enlarge the borders
of the conveyed idea
and seeing how accurate
they are he cannot understand
the need for care
in delivering them
M.3 Truth doesn’t hurt
nor does that which one hears
he only suffers
who doesn’t want to be possessed
therefore, it has to be
implacably administered
solidly, constantly
with no abatement
The sentence pounds
as on a straight nail
verbs dryly hammering
upon verbs
he expects all
the smooth steel
will cleanly penetrate
the walls of reason
M.4 He does not seek
the cheap word,
the one that scratches the surface
or merely hints
but the one that bores deeper
with the bluntest edge
that which slashes and rapes
the soft brain
he hurls out so many of them
at so high a pitch
that the mind reels
under the maddening din
metal plates joined together
in a massive panel
pound like waves
on the shores of the ear
M.5 But if such hard words
so forcibly uttered
open gashes where
they should find shelter,
what remains of them
after they wither
doesn’t retain the form
they had at the beginning
and it’s difficult to see
in the wounded mind
if it was the harshness of the truth
that caused the hurt
or if there was
but a dislocation
as the excessive sentence
forced its way in.
Clarice
C.1 Words are not facts,
Clarice tells me, there is a great danger
Of using them as darts
Solid tools
They should be fluid
incomplete on their own
or in the sentence,
its syntax amputated
They are but a planned itinerary
maps of unrepeatable objects
never the same
in their permanence
nor from the dried-up word
may one ever recover
the breath
of any living thing
C.2 All that is said is false
and it’s no use trying
to assemble in one sole image
what comes from several mouths
We speak of different things
when talking about the same thing.
No single light
illuminates us
We search out words
in order to deliver those
one doesn’t mind losing
even before they are proffered
What we want to give
is given through silence.
Silence alone
is whole
C.3 To know, one needs to be:
ergo, even if I become
all I want
to give you
it’ll never be possible
to convey to you, in its entirety,
my inner truth,
made opaque in the rendering
were I to achieve
so intimate an union
nothing would be left
for me to explain
and words, incapable
of fusing what is in essence discrete
would be still more useless
in this self-absorption
C.4 Words are flashes,
of the fleeting moment
they catch but a fragment
of its facet
to seize a fact
one needs to follow its flight
and photograph its face
all along the orbit
This is why
one has continually to change
to repeat and revise
each idea one hundred times
and of all words
that which reveals less
which seems the vaguest
is in effect the most precise
C.5 One can only possess something
from a cautious distance –
this is the condition
of everyday life
The direct link
that dispenses with words
has the terrible glare
of a sudden vision
One cannot resist the embrace
of the full object,
there’s no possible return
once one is made part of it
and we use words
perhaps as a prop
binding us to the certainty
of the ephemeral image.
Epilogue
1. Attentively I seek, I search for
the liveliest word, full
but not fat, that which carries
within its uncountable folds
under its many garments
the right idea, which preserves
both the apparent form of the moment
and all that endures
the word that, exposing itself,
shows the fertile womb, opened mirror
pregnant with repeated images
though never the same, poised
for the immeasurable jump that once again
will fertilize and enlarge them
2. As a spark, sharp
and dry, it shines
solid, not opaque
rich, not fluid
But if lost, freed
from the original husk
no less clear, complete
no less firm
Alive, the tamed word
multiplies itself
and creates a new life
of its own
3. As true
as form
is the cutting edge
of the word,
what strikes
and remains forever
isn’t the truth,
but the word.
Translation: Jorio Dauster