Seven quartets for Zé: memorial for a paragon poet

MUSIC

Seven quartets for Zé: memorial for a paragon poet

Marlui Miranda

"One can read the poetry of José Paulo Paes – short and sharp at

each move in its constant tendency towards the epigram – as if it formed a

single songbook of the entire life of a man who responded with

poems to the appeals of the world and of his inner existence."

(Davi Arrigucci Jr.)

This text addresses the reason for writing instrumental pieces for string quartets and the diverse poetry of José Paulo Paes. I must confess that I am virtually a self taught person on the subject of writing music, having come to this paroxysm of foraying into the area of quartets. Thus, any attempt towards virtuosity is promptly dismissed and what can be left to me is the self-taught, reverential gesture, fueled by a unerring sting of the poet, just in time, which cost me many sleepless nights mulling over notes, paths, measures and mismeasures.

To me, the musical transreading of a poem by José Paulo Paes has been for some years a pleasurable and challenging daily exercise, due to the absolute sharp and synthetic way in which he solves all situations proposed by the poem itself. I visited him and his wife Dora quite often in their delightful home at Vila Cruzeiro, in Santo Amaro. And it was around Dora's cozy table that I had my good-humored and fruitful conversations with Zé Paulo. One of those times, standing next to his stereo, listening to the "String Quartet in F Major" by Ravel, one of his favorite composers, he suddenly said: "You should write for string quartets, which is the most perfect instrumental form." That was definitely one of Zé Paulo's approaching methods, that of the "patient craft", and mulling over the task he had asked of me, I thought of the poem

poeta menormenormenormenormenormenormenormenor enorme...

I was not able to write the quartet songs for some time, but that idea kept on echoing in the compartment of the things necessary to my continuity, and ten years later, time went by with no quartets, and he was gone. The situation changed from minor to major and then to huge.

I was living with that feeling that I needed to revisit and honor Zé through music. And in that revisiting find a place, a starting point, a literary-musical 'Warehouse', a meeting point with him, a trace of the Belas Artes Café:

No mármore das mesas

do Café Belas Artes

os problemas se resolviam

como em passe de mágica

Não que as leis do real

se abolissem de todo

mas ali dentro

Curitiba era quase Paris

(On the marble of the tables

of the Fine Arts Café

problems were solved as if by magic

Not that the laws of the real world

were abolished in full But in there

Curitiba was almost Paris)

I can still hear the echoes of his laughter and brilliant tirades, his "Minimal Odes", his incantatory narratives of trips to Greece, his "complicity" with Dora, in the surroundings of the house where what one found in the garden was art, if not poetry; of the soft reverberation of voices in the room. To write, I lined up with the Greek stone pendulum in dining room, with the sun clock in the garden naturally showing the time among the delicate white roses hanging in cascades over the wall, the multicolored impatiens and violets; the stepping stones in the short grass path between the house and the "Livraria e Papelaria, Casa Guimaraens Typographia", a small white, olde enameled plate, written in beautiful blue letters, carefully placed at the entrance wicket ... it was the Poet's workplace, the typographic memory of his grandfather in Taquaritinga, his hometown. I saw the cats coming down the wall, the statues of an all white Greek god, Pan!; the sideboard in the dining room, the favorite place for the flowers brought by visitors, often orchids; the heads of stone lions that watched us, protecting the garden; the owls that came up in the afternoon to the edge of the roof; Dora's care for all the details, and the minimum is valued to the most. A discreet wall corner with the blue Portuguese ceramic plates that breathed a poetry-music so lively and diverse, a Portuguese folk song, all echoes of very low and soothing sounds coming from the kitchen, sounds delicately complemented with a nice cup of coffee in the afternoon. The first scribbles of the quartets began to emerge from reading his poems, from ideas exchanged with Dora, "... circulating memory and substance ...", with the book Poesia completas¹ as the main reference. Thus, at each measure written, some time to reflect, or to elaborate on a feeling, an image, a verse, a trip, the key, the banging door, the flowing river, a "Canção do exílio", "Canção sensata", a "Carta de Guia", from the drawers of José Paulo Paes, who "... did not submit to the consecrated".² And so it was: Lento, Andante, Moderato, Allegro ma non troppo, Allegro con brio, Presto and finally Prestissimo! And Dora reminded me in time that he preferred odd numbers. So the quartets were gradually being built, step by step, "... wearing the lyrical shoes ..." of José Paulo Paes.³

1 Madrigal. 2 O aluno (The student). 3 Canção de exílio. (Song of exile) 4 Canção sensata (Sensible song). 5 A fuga (The Escape). 6 À televisão (To television). 7 Carta de Guia (Guide Letter)

MADRIGAL

Meu amor é simples, Dora,

Como a água e o pão.

Como o céu refletido

Nas pupilas do um cão.

(My love is simple, Dora,

Like water and bread.

Like the sky reflected

In a dog's pupils.)

To write this quartet I committed the small sin of "saying too little in too many words" (paraphrasing a letter from Dalton Trevisan to Zé Paulo, in which he mentions "Anton Pavlovich's secret: he was able of saying much in just a few words"). Literally, this composition is the "saying too little in too many words." But since the poem reveals his "incommensurable love for his Dora, "I thought it would be possible for me to go further, something that, unlike poets, musicians like to do. I also thought that the form of the poem is as precise as that of an escape, but lasting only long enough. I came from the escape through the back door, so as to speak through the eyes of the dog, which led me to a hasty and cheerful run across the yard, just like Duína does.

O ALUNO (THE STUDENT)

São meus todos os versos já cantados;

A flor, a rua, as músicas da infância,

O líquido momento e os azulados

Horizontes perdidos na distância.

(All verses already sung are mine;

The flower, the street, the childhood songs,

The liquid moment and the bluish

Horizons lost in the distance.)

Intacto me revejo nos mil lados

De um só poema. Nas lâminas da estância,

Circulam as memórias e a substância

De palavras, de gestos isolados.

(Intact, I see myself again in the thousand sides

Of a single poem. On the blades of the stanza,

The movement of memories and substance

Of words, of isolated gestures.)

São meus também, os líricos sapatos

De Rimbaud, e no fundo dos meus atos

Canta a doçura triste de Bandeira.

Drummond me empresta sempre o seu bigode,

Com Neruda, meu pobre verso explode

E as borboletas dançam na algibeira.

(Mine are also the lyrical shoes

Of Rimbaud, and at the bottom of my actions

Sings the sad sweetness of Bandeira.

Drummond always lends me his mustache,

With Neruda, my poor verse explodes

And butterflies dance in the pouch.)

^{Clique para ampliar}

This song is meant to recall the classroom. A morning hymn to be sung every morning before the classes began. And this would be required by law of every student, so as to teach him to blow up a verse; to ask for permission every morning to put on Rimbaud's shoes; to borrow Drummond's moustache and call in Neruda to dance along with the students and the butterflies picked up in the morning ...

CANÇÃO DO EXÍLIO (SONG OF EXILE)

Um dia segui viagem

sem olhar sobre o meu ombro.

Não vi terras de passagem

Não vi glórias nem escombros.

Guardei no fundo da mala

um raminho de alecrim.

Apaguei a luz da sala

que ainda brilhava por mim.

Fechei a porta da rua

a chave joguei no mar.

Andei tanto nesta rua

que já não sei mais voltar.

One day I left on a trip

Without looking over my shoulder.

(I saw neither passage lands

Nor glories or wreckage.

At the bottom of the bag,

a sprig of rosemary.

I turned off the living room light

Which was still shining for me.

I locked the front door

threw the key into the sea.

I walked so long along this street

That I have lost my way back.)

This poem touched me deeply by referring directly to the situation of Lucian, my partner. It is so representative of his story since he fled Romania and took refuge in an exile camp in exile in Germany. Without looking back, he left everything and years later came to Brazil with his family, Cristina and Vitória, all musicians. He brought his "sprig of rosemary", his violin, and his documents. To this day, Lucian, now a Brazilian, no longer wants, or rather, would not find the way back to his homeland, not even in a dream. The thought was cloistered in the past. Lucian was exiled in space-time, "threw the key into the sea" and can no longer go back. This poem inspired me a Romanian "hour", a musical thing of its nature and of the nature of many exiles who are, in humanity, millions of people waiting for a place of peace.

So I was able to read this poem immediately and materialize it in music, because I live with a person whose soul has been wounded. Once again, Zé Paulo hits the target and speaks of something huge and heavy that is exile, in very few words.

CANÇÃO SENSATA (SENSIBLE SONG)

Dora, que importa

O juiz que escreve Exemplos na areia

Se livres seguimos

O rastro dos faunos,

A voz das sereias?

(Dora, why should it matter

The judge who writes

Examples on sand

If free we follow

The trail of the fauns

The voice of the mermaids?)

Dora, que importa

A herança do avô

Sob a pedra nua,

Se do ar colhemos

Moedas de sol,

Guirlandas de lua?

Dora, que importa

Esse frágil muro

Que defende os cautos, Se além do pequeno

Há horizontes loucos,

De que somos arautos?´

De maior beleza

É, pois nada prever

E à fina incerteza

De amor ou viagem

Abrir nossa porta.

Dora, isso importa.

(Dora, why does it matter

The legacy of the grandfather

Under the bare rock,

If from the air reap

Sun coins,

Moon wreaths?

Dora, why does it matter

This fragile wall

That defends the cautious,

If beyond the small one

There are crazy horizons

Of which we are the harbingers? '

The greatest beauty

Is, thus, nothing predict

And to the fine uncertainty

Of love or travel

Open our door.

Dora, that is what does matter.)

A FUGA (THE ESCAPE)

Tendo a espada renegada

De Napoleão, sem medir

O desmedido da afronta,

Picado nosso fundilhos,

Havemos por bem partir

Houvemos e nos partimos,

Erário, corte e monarca,

Deixando o povo no cais.

Não há lugar para o povo

Nas galeotas reais.

(Having Napoleon's

Abusive sword,

Without measuring

The immeasurable offense,

Kick the seat of our pants,

We shall see it fit to leave.

And we saw it fit and left,

Treasury, court and monarch,

Leaving the people on the pier.

There is no place for the people

Aboard the royal galliots.

Fizemos longa viagem

Sobre mar tempestuoso

Topando muitos escolhos.

As damas da comitiva

Sofreram muitos piolhos.

We long trip we took

Over a stormy sea.

Coming across many a rock

The ladies in the entourage

Struggle with many a lice.

Arribamos finalmente

A porto certo e destino,

As gentes se jubilando

Desta Colônia, em que temos

Firme assento e inteiro mando.

We finally arrived

At the right port and destination,

The proud people of this Colony

Where we have a firm seat

And full command.

Houve folgança nas ruas,

Minueto no palácio,

Salvas, missas, bandeirolas,

Com rara munificência

Distribuíram-se esmolas.

There was revelry in the streets,

Minuet in the palace,

Fireworks, masses, pennants,

With rare generosity

Alms were distributed.

Sendo nossa volta ao reino

Coisa do arbítrio divino,

Houvemos então por bem

Fundar aqui paço digno

De tão subido inquilino.

Since our return to the kingdom

Was at divine discretion,

We then so it fit

To found here a palace

Worthy of so noble a tenant.

Abrimos os portos à

Mercancia universal,

Que a ceifa de impostos cobre

E paga o luxo devido

Ao nosso fausto de nobres.

We opened the ports

To the universal trade,

Which the reaping of taxes covers

And pays for the luxury due

To our noble pageantry.

(Posto que muitos barões

E inumeráveis viscondes

Devorem todo o orçamento

Haveis de convir que são

Fonte de extremo ornamento!)

(Since many barons

And countless viscounts

Devour the entire budget

You shall agree that they are

A source of extreme ornament!)

Por esses ralos cruzados

Que vos custamos, ganhais

Benefícios de tal monta,

Deles prestar boa conta.

For these meager cents

That we cost you, you earn

Benefits of such magnitude,

For which you must account.

Ganhais bancos, onde a renda,

Bíblicamente avisada,

Se cresce e se multiplica.

E liceus de sapiência

Onde a mente frutifica.

You have banks, where the income,

Biblically advised,

Grows and multiplies.

And lyceums of wisdom

Where the mind thrives.

E mais: doutores, legistas

E mestres de muito ofício.

E o áureo clarim da imprensa,

Cujo som, de forte e grave

Não há mordaça que trave.

And more: doctors, coroners

And masters of many crafts.

And the golden trumpet of the press,

Whose sound, strong and deep

No gag shall silent.

A estrela da liberdade

Ao cabo tendes na mão.

Lembrai-vos, pois, desse rei

Gordo, pávido, risonho,

Que fugiu de Napoleão.

The star of freedom

At the end you have on hand.

Remember, for, this king

Fat, timid, frolicsome,

Who escaped Napoleon's sword.)

This poem is somewhat facetious, without being completely so, because Zé Paulo never loses his composure, even in the most hilarious moment of historical humor, as is the case of this poem when it addresses the flight of the Portuguese royal family to Brazil.

À TELEVISÃO (TO TELEVISION)

Teu boletim meteorológico

Me diz aqui e agora

Se chove ou se faz sol.

(Your weather report

Tells me here and now

Whether it will be rainy or sunny.

A comida suculenta

Que pões à minha frente

Como-a toda com os olhos.

Aposentei os dentes.

The succulent food

That you put before me

I eat all with my eyes.

For my teeth I have retired.

Nos dramalhões que encenas

Há tamanho poder

De vida que eu próprio

Nem me canso de viver.

In the melodramas you stage

There is such power

Of life that I myself

Am never tired to live.

Guerra, sexo, esporte

– me dás tudo, tudo.

Vou pregar minha porta:

Já não preciso do mundo.

War, sex, sport

- You give me all, all.

I will nail shut door:

I need the world no more.)

I feel as if were 'peeping' when I look at Zé Paulo's poems and start writing bars after bars of musical narrative. "To 'peep' was to go out looking for a house (in Curitiba) where there was still some light on and peep inside through the keyhole, the crack on the door or the half-shut window."

Sometimes I feel like a voyeur who "returns from her night hunt telling creepy stories, which naturally come more from a fertile imagination than from sharp eyes." But I could "peep" through Zé Paulo's imaginary door nailed shut with a hundred nails, and translate the imaginary sound produced by the poem, hear the imaginary sound of the television echoing the weather report; the soundtracks of melodramas (with no over-derangement); the news and the imaginary food: that was how was able to narrate, through music, with all the imaginary hype which the "peeper" is allowed, that there, that one-inch space of poem, contains the necessary whole.

CARTA DE GUIA (GUIDE LETTER)

I

Nossa vida

Construímos

A cada passo,

A cada minuto,

A cada esquina,De mãos unidas.

(Our life

We build

At each step,

At every minute,

At every corner,

Hand in hand.)

II

Sempre teu rosto e o crepúsculo,

Em teus olhos a viagem das nuvens

É um estranho presságio

Que evito decifrar.

(Always your face and dusk,

In your eyes the trip of the clouds

It is a strange omen

Which I avoid to decipher.)

III

Caminhemos

Sem perguntas

Como os suicidas

Que jamais indagam

A profundidade do abismo.

(Let us walk

Without questions

Like the suicides

Who never ask

How deep the abyss is.)

IV

Sob a chuva de verão,

Contra as colunas da lei,

Sobre o corpo do soldado,

Com o estandarte rasgado

De qualquer revolução.

(Under the summer rain,

Against the columns of the law,

Over the soldier's body,

With the torn flag

From whatever revolution.)

V

Vivemos, Dora, na certeza

De sermos amanhã

O que ontem não fomos.

(We live, Dora, in the certainty

That tomorrow we will be

What we yesterday we were not.)

This poem speaks for itself.

Some explanations of the music written are provided below.

Madrigal

Marlui Miranda, on a poem by José Paulo Paes,

pag.58, Poesia Completa, Copyright Companhia das Letras,

Copyright 2010 IHU Editora

Notes

Received on 18 May 2010 and accepted on 25 May 2010.

Marlui Miranda is a songwriter, singer and researcher on Brazilian indigenous culture. Discography: Ihu Kewere: Rezar (1997), Ihu - Todos Os Sons (1995), Rio Acima (1986), Revivência (1983) and Olho D'Água (1979). @ - [e-mail]

Houvemos por bem partir.

1

Paes, J. P.

Poesia completa. Foreword by Rodrigo Naves. São Paulo: Cia. das Letras, 2008.

2

Gonçalves, M. T.

A flexão em José Paulo Paes: (Re) vitalizando o conceito. Rio de Janeiro: Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro, 2000

3

José Paulo Paes (Taquaritinga – SP, 1926 – São Paulo – SP, 1998). He published his first poetry book,

O aluno, in 1947. The following year he got his degree in Industrial Chemistry in Curitiba (PR). During that period, he collaborated with

Joaquim magazine and participated in the II Brazilian Congress of Writers in Belo Horizonte (MG), as a member of the Paraná delegation. In subsequent decades he collaborated with a number of periodicals, including

Folha de S. Paulo and

Jornal de Notícias newspapers and Revista Brasiliense. In 1967 he organized, with Massaud Moisés, the

Pequeno dicionário de literatura brasileira.

He was a prestigious translator, having translated into Portuguese works of writers like Laurence Sterne, Lewis Carroll and Nikos Kazantzakis. In 1987 he became director of the poetry translation workshop at the Institute of Language Studies (IEL), State University of Campinas (Unicamp). He published several essay books, as well as children's books; he received awards such as the Jabuti de Literatura Infantil (Children's Literature), awarded in 1991 for his book

Poemas para brincar. His poetry includes the books

Meia Palavra (1973), R

esíduo (1980),

A meu esmo (1995), and

Socráticas (2001), among others. About José Paulo Paes' poetry, which is of a contemporary trend, said the critic Alfredo Bosi: "The short meter, the fast rhythm, the cut syntax and the minor key text protect the text against any epic inflection. [...] Simple voice of the rebels, epitaph of the untamed, he discovers the underground side of satire and the bitter vein of his pathos".

Publication Dates

• Publication in this collection
  23 Aug 2010
• Date of issue
  2010