Title: Carlos Drummond de Andrade
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Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00094166/00001
 Material Information
Title: Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Physical Description: Archival
Language: English
Publisher: CARIFESTA
Publication Date: 1972
Copyright Date: 1972
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00094166
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.

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CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE


SONG TO THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE ---------CHARLIE CIAPLIN

It was necessary that a Brazilian poet,
Not one of the greatest, but one of the most exposed
to mockery,
Gyrating a little in your atmosphere--or aspiring
to live in it--
As in the poetic and essential atmosphere of lucid dreams,

It was necessary that this stubborn little singer
Of elementary rhythms, coming from a provincial little town
Where a tie is not always worn but where everybody is
extremely polite
And oppression is hated, though heroism is bathed in irony,

It was necessary that a former twenty-year old lad,
Tied to your pantomime by filaments of affection and
Laughter, dispersed in time,
Should come to recompose them and, as a mature man, to
visit you
To tell you somethings under the color of a poem.

To tell you how Brazilians love you
And that in this, as in everything else, our people
are like
Any other people of the world--including thelittle Jews
With their walking-sticks, tophats, long shoes and
melancholy eyes

Tramps the world has rejected, but who scoff and live
In the films, on the crooked streets with signs--Factory,
Barbershop, Police--
And overcome hunger, cheat brutality, prolong love
Like a secret spoken in the ear of a man of the people
Fallen in the street.

Well I know that the speech, a bourgeois lullaby, does
not puff you up,
And you are in the habit of sleeping whilst the vehement
ones
Dedicate the statue.
And among so many words that scour the streets like cars,
Only the most humble, of abuse or kiss, affect you.

Neither the greetings of the devout nor that of the
partisans
Do I offer you.
They do not exist, but the greeting of the common man does,
In a common city.
Nor do I care so much about the matter of my song,
Now celebrating you.
Like a bunch of absurd flowers sent by mail,
To the inventor of gardeners.
Through me speak those who were soiled with sorrow and
Ferocious disdain for everything.
Who entered into the movie-house like afflicted rats
Escaping from life.


.../2 They














They are a two hour-long anesthesia: let us hear some music.
Let us visit in the dark some images --- they have
discovered you
And saved themselves.

Through me speak the deprived of justice, the meek-hearted,
The social outcast, the unsuccessful, the multilated,
the defective,
The repressed.
The oppressed, the solitary, the indecisive, the lyric,
The meditative.
The irresponsible, the puerile, the affectionate,the
mad and
The pathetic.
And speak the flowers which you love so much when they
are trampled on.
Speak the candlestubs, which you eat in extreme penury
Speak the table, the buttons,
The instruments of work and the thousand things
Apparently closed.
Every stuff, every garrettrifle, the:more obscure they
are
The louder they speak.







CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE


"BIG WORLD"

No, my heart is not bigger than the world,
It is much smaller.
It cannot hold even my griefs.
That is why I like so much to unbosom myself.
To undress myself,
To cry out,
To drop around newspaper offices, exposing myself
so cruelly at book-stores.

I need everybody.
Yes, my heart is very small.
Only now I see it cannot hold mankind.
The people who are here on the outside, on the street.
The street is too long. Longer, much longer than I
expected it to be.
But the street cannot hold all men either.
The street is smaller than the world.
The world is big.

You know how big the world is.
You know the tankships which carry petrol and books,
meat and cotton.
You have seen the different colors of men,
The different griefs of men,
You know how hard it is to suffer that much, to heap
up all of that
Inside the single heart of a man without blowing it up.

Just close your eyes and forget it.
Listen to the water against the glass pane,
It is so calm, It does not announce anything.
However, it trickles through your hands,
So very still! It goes by flooding everything...
Will the submerged cities be born again?
Will the submerged men return? Will they?
My heart does not know of it.

My heart is stupid, ridiculous and fragile.
Only now I find out
How sad it is to disown certain things.
(In my individual solitude,
I have unlearned the language with which men communicate.)
Of yore I listened to angels,
Sonatas, poems, pathetic confessions.
I never listened to the voice of people.
In truth I am very poor.

Of yore, I journeyed
Along imaginary countries, peaceful places to dwell in.
Untroubled Islands, though they were exhaustive and
prone to suicide.
My friends have gone to the islands.
The islands destroy man.
Yet, some of them have surkited and
Brought the news
That the world, the big world is growing up every day
Between fire and love
Therefore, my heart may also grow up,
Between love and fire,
Between life and fire,















2I


My heart grows up ten meters high and bursts out.
- O, future life! We will create you.




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