Hailing from the vibrant city of Rio de Janeiro, João Moura Fernandes is a poet, editor, translator, and curator with works published by several Brazilian literary magazines. Currently enrolled as a Visiting Assistant in Research at Yale University, João holds a bachelor's degree in Portuguese from the Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro and a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from the State University of Rio de Janeiro. His creative and academic research explores free verse's rhythmic and formal innovations.
If an eagle drops a fawn on the altar
where we plead for victory,
we raise our spirits.
If a serpent devours nine nestlings,
we know the nine-year-long war
will come to a closure.
If a flock of glorious swans
crosses the Mediterranean,
we brawl forward.
Wide-eyed, we yearn for signs to cease the strife.
Eager for omens, we go on—omens
don’t show up, though,
and starlings no more murmur messages
from the beyond. Another day goes by
with no sight for my sore eyes.
Diurnal birds flew out of this winter town
where I am daily drowning.
In despair, one more time
I break out of my room, I
walk through the gloom,
I follow my blind feet, I
reach her aerie. To read her hints in the dark,
I yield to the language of the night beings,
I avoid the aid of the timid pale light
that pierces her pitch-black nest through the blinds,
and I look up to see beyond my sight—but my eyes
are drawn down to the noisy yellow glint of her
jaguar pupils (panther, in the dark):
two fiery orbs
on the black plate of the night.
Ferociously hounded, ready to pounce,
from under a simple bed sheet, she
glances at the figure that invades her apart
ment slowly, step by step, gaining ground, de
ciphering the unfolding scene. Fearful,
she steps back and consents to share
her ground. Shady, she emerges—dismantles
the mountains, strips the ridges, razes
the topography of the delicate cloth, reveals
the fearless lynx tattooed on her white
firmament, and finally displays her claws.
Soon, I understand that I am prey
to my own prey—and don’t disguise
my satisfaction.
Nocturnal bird, jaguar eyes, striking lynx,
she baits me, and,
enticed,
I am all astonishment:
no bars—we dance between doorways
and windows. Plenty of escape routes,
nothing holds us here—there is no way
out. Clear veil, an invisible web binds
us together—nothing goes un
noticed. All roads lead to Rome.
However, she surprises the ever-taut arc
of promise—and tightens
its grip—by asking, breaking the hymen
of words, che cosa è il Desiderio si non l’attesa
stesa del Desiderio?, promptly answering by
biting my nape. When the sun rises,
we hear the war horns. Yesterday, the eternal
conquest of the immanent; to
day, the struggle. Two birds of prey
leave their archaic oak; vultures
lurk around me. They see, de
ciphered the dance of the beast, be
neath the skin of the words, that she is de
parting. Once the prey’s flesh is carved, they know
the carcass is left behind.
Nocturnal bird, jaguar eyes, striking lynx—sub
merged in myriad signs, I can’t find the con. But before
being dropped by her indifferent claws, I sense something
— and, save for its golden flash, the moment’s gone.
Poetry in this post: © João Moura Fernandes
Published with the permission of João Moura Fernandes