Poems #7 - 12 from Amor Cão (Dog Love) by Rosa Alice Branco

Translated from the Portuguese by Alexis Levitin

Translator’s Note:  Amor Cão (Dog Love) was written by Rosa Alice Branco in response to the Austrian writer Konrad Lorenz’s seminal work, Man Meets Dog (So kam der Mensch auf den Hund), a book published in German in 1949, containing Lorenz’s theories involving the early domestication of dogs by humans and their subsequent co-evolution. All epigraphs are quotations from that work.

Dog Love

7.

                                                                        But now that the jackals were not near,
                                                                        the strange silence around the campsite
                                                                        turned sinister

The decimated tribe walks on bewildered
towards a place where danger is scarce
and the hunted eat hunger. The women, uneasy,
lose their milk. The cubs, few and scrawny,
have lost their color like badly treated clothes. There is a visceral
fear that neither unites them nor lets them sleep.
It comes with the setting of the sun to steal their night.
The father turns off the light and his receding steps
do not smother the unleashed tears. The mother implores
but a boy ought to be virile like his father,
he’s sure of it. The child fears
great carnivores that might devour him,
he trembles with sobs that his mother suffers.
Maybe she suspects that the DNA of the child
has the dirty teeth of an animal
sunk in the darkness of his heart.

8.

                                                                              There Bully, Tito, Stasi and other
                                                                              (dogs), without a moment’s hesitation,
                                                                              would have launched themselves in
                                                                              inglorious battle to defend my life. And me?

Even today they descend to the villages sniffing at the night
and splurging fear as on the steppes
of Pasternack. Footprints on the whiteness of the ground: clear signs 
of an end now so near. Incisive wolves and all that snow
sculpted in Varikyno. Decadent writing,
like that house rescued to shelter
the impossible, grows inaudible facing the howling
of lovers hiding from one another
the immense muchness and the never again. The reader does not give up
on the chilling sound of passion and of loss.
Night comes earlier not knowing it is
winter in the pathways of the heart. In truth, the hunger
of the wolves is like that of the tribe walking endlessly on,
a small pack of men howling for flesh.
Primeval hallucinations. In eccentric days a lone wolf
is gutted like prey. Hunger takes over
all other feelings. This gives one pause.
The cycle of who kills and who dies is an exhausted cry
that breaks apart the reader’s hands. There he is, bent in two by anguish,
but the poison is perpetrated to the end of the book.
We are all victims and predators in the breast of the other.

9.

                                                            It was, in fact, an historical event […]
                                                            it was the first time that a useful animal
                                                            was fed by a man

Intentions are a clot of doubts, an ignition
of certainties by the reverse of reason. The mating
is deceptive and gives fruit without flower, fruit on the road
to despair and a crust of hope where flies
and other solitudes set down. If they could soothe their eyes
on the chief of their tribe, they would see the welcome light of an idea                                                                                                           
blossoming forth. Scattered howls follow close behind them.
The chief of the tribe throws bits of entrails to the ground
and his short-term men glare at the lost lives
in that squandered meat, but to speak up is something else.
A procession of famished children, women withered as if
abandoned by their very seeds.
Within the men there is the strength to rage, the sketch
of a revolt, but in the firmness of a single gaze the picture is erased.
If it weren’t for their blindness they would hear the howls and
the chewing up of food. The jackals are the enemy of the tribe,
that’s all they know this night around the fire in which
they hesitate to sleep secure. From now on the jackals
are a wall against predators, to the point of being pacified:
once they know it to their very skin.
Still clumsy, the child approaches the breast of the mother.
His small head sways around the nipple and when he has it in his mouth
he sucks convulsively. Recently come from the womb, 
already he is exploring food and its source. Soon he will
burp, his mouth dribbling milk and so much sleep.
The mother blossoming in her beliefs. Blind to the science of the night.

10.

                                                                  And here, for the first time, the order
                                                                  in which the dog and the man would from now on
                                                                  pursue their prey was established: the dog goes first.

Solidarity is shared despair,
the price of wars unwinnable by any other means.
And yet. Humanity crumbles
at the least hope. Instantaneous. A hint of dawn
and they all follow their voracious path.
The jackals alert the men to the invisible.
The prey is beyond the reach of their senses,
hunger glued to the skin pierces their guts
and the scent of the pack goes mad at the smell of its goal.
The same hunger, the tribe. The jackals rush to lead
the men to the tracks of their target, pregnant and worn out.
The spear to impale the prey that slides along the earth
in spasms of pain crying in the womb to its offspring.
I remember nothing like a mother
losing herself beside her son. There is too much pain
in maternity, no matter where the calf is not.

11.

                                                            For the first time a jackal turned his head
                                                            to a man, by which another step in the evolution
                                                            of the domestic dog was taken

When the collective offers undeniable advantages
we hold hands, a firm squeeze to squander the honor
of the moment. Never to forget the lack of trust
in a pocket of coins. Nor the words with which one sullies
the dawn. Love is an outsider
waiting for a runway to take off.
The pack prowls round with ferocious hunger. The man throws
innards of eviscerated meat upon the ground.
The jackal hesitates.  Between what is given and the why
lies the whole story of betrayal. But hunger brings
to his mouth bits of intestine and the taste of meat
makes him grateful with his tail waving yes
to the new social contract sealed in red
in a feast of meat that unites the tribe and the pack.
And far from any zenith the beginning of blind faith is fed,
a faith that doesn’t bite or even doubt.
Amongst us there has been a great evolution in the art of killing
and our provisional allies take part in the scenario.
The many and assorted deaths: an angry husband
domestic only in his violence.

12.

                                                                        Perhaps the pup was the sole survivor
                                                                        of a litter devoured by a
                                                                        saber-toothed tiger

Would the child know how to choose between the berries and other feelings?
Amongst the stirring of the leaves a sound the same
as her own moan and then a skipping along into a landscape
of barking, the barking of a stuffed animal running toward her,
nestling in her arms, his paws waggling with fear
utterly banished from the equation. She only saw his fur,
she only felt his tongue in her arms, holding him to her breast
with the instinct of a mother blossoming forth in the heart of winter.
Returning to the village, she would unfold a refrain of love
still without lyrics. Her father yanked the creature from her
and kicked it away, but the child began to cry,
pulling at her hair half-crazed.
Her father threw the animal to the ground with a grimace
of scorn and some relief—Later we’ll see!
But never again was he seen without him
and the dog followed him everywhere as if the man
were the leader of the pack, while the neolithic daughter cried in corners
and much of her love for her father was gone. In the Stone Age
there was already repression along with other true
freudianisms. She carried a knife with her,
but never had courage nor sublimation.

Amor Cão

7.

Mas agora que os chacais não estavam
perto, o estranho silêncio em volta do
acampamento era tão sinistro

 
A tribo dizimada caminha em desatino
por um lugar onde os perigos escasseiem
e a caça coma a fome. As mulheres inquietas
perdem o leite. As crias poucas e magrelas
perderam a cor como roupa maltratada. Há um medo
visceral que não os une ou dorme.
Vem com o pôr do sol para lhes roubar a noite.
O pai fecha a luz e os passos que se afastam
não abafam o choro desatado. A mãe implora
mas um rapaz quer-se viril como o pai,
acha ele de certezas. A criança teme
os grandes carnívoros que a devorem,
treme em soluços que sofrem a mãe.
Talvez ela suspeite que o ADN da criança
tem os dentes sujos do animal
cravados no escuro do coração.

8.

Ali, Bully, Tito, Stasi e todos os outros
(cães) ter-se-iam, sem um momento de
hesitação, lançado numa luta inglória
 para defender a minha vida. E eu?

 
Ainda hoje descem às aldeias no farejar da noite
e esbanjam medo como nas grandes planuras
de Pasternack. Pegadas na alvura do solo: indícios claros
do fim tão perto. Lobos incisivos e toda aquela neve
esculpida em Varikyno. A escrita decadente
como essa casa resgatada para albergar
o impossível torna-se inaudível face aos uivos
dos amantes a esconderem um do outro
o imenso quanto e o nunca mais. O leitor não desiste
do som arrepiante da paixão e perda.
A noite chega mais cedo na ignorância de que é
inverno nos trilhos do coração. A verdade é que a fome
dos lobos é igual à da tribo que caminha sem termo,
pequena alcateia de homens uivando por carne.
Alucinações primevas. Em dias excêntricos um lobo solitário
é esventrado como presa. A fome apodera-se
dos outros sentimentos. Isto dá que pensar.
O ciclo de quem mata e quem morre é um grito exausto
que desfaz as mãos do leitor. Ei-lo dobrado pela angústia,
mas o veneno é perpetrado até ao fim do livro.
Somos todos vítimas e predadores no peito dos outros.

9.

Trata-se de um acontecimento histórico (...)
é a primeira vez que um animal útil
é alimentado pelo homem.

 
As intenções são um coágulo de dúvidas, a ignição
de certezas pelo avesso da razão. O acasalamento
é espúrio e dá fruto sem flor, fruto a caminho
do desespero e um resto de esperança onde pousam
moscas e outras solidões. Se apaziguassem os olhos
no chefe da tribo veriam a luz benéfica de uma ideia
em gestação de flor. Uivos esparsos a segui-los de perto.
O chefe da tribo atira para o chão restos da comida
 e os homens a curto prazo chispam pelas vidas perdidas
nessa carne esbanjada, mas questionar é outra coisa.
Procissão de crianças esgalgadas, mulheres murchas como
se as sementes as tivessem abandonado.
Dentro dos homens há força para a raiva, uma revolta
em sketch mas a firmeza de um só olhar apaga o desenho.
Não fosse a cegueira ouviriam os uivos e os ladridos
da mastiga. Os chacais são o inimigo da tribo,
é tudo o que sabem nesta noite em que à volta da lareira
hesitam em dormir seguros. Doravante os chacais são
um muro contra os predadores até ao apaziguamento:
quando o souberem dentro da pele.
Ainda a desajeito, a criança aproxima-se do seio da mãe.
A cabecita oscila em redor do bico e quando o tem na boca 
mama convulsivamente. Saiu há pouco do ventre
e já explora o alimento e a sua fonte. Não tardará a
arrotar com a boca a escorrer leite e tanto sono.
A mãe a florescer na crença. Cega à ciência da noite.

10.

E aqui, pela primeira vez, é estabelecida a ordem
pela qual o homem e o cão irão perseguir
doravante as suas presas: primeiro o cão

 
A solidariedade é o desespero partilhado,
o preço de guerras invencíveis de outro modo.
E ainda assim. A humanidade desfaz-se
à mínima esperança. Instantânea. Um indício de madrugada
e cada um segue o seu caminho voraz.
Os chacais alertam os homens para o invisível.
A presa está fora do alcance dos sentidos,
a fome colada à pele fura as entranhas
e o faro da matilha endoidece ao cheirar o alvo.
Da mesma fome, a tribo. Os chacais apressam-se a conduzir 
os homens ao rastro do alvo grávido e esgotado.
A lança a empalar a égua que roça a terra
em espasmos de dor chorando no ventre a sua cria.
Não me lembro de nada semelhante a uma mãe
a perder-se junto ao filho. Há demasiada dor
na maternidade onde quer que não esteja a cria.

11.

Talvez o cachorro fosse o único sobrevivente
de uma ninhada devorada por um
tigre-dentes-de-sabre.

 
Saberia a criança escolher as bagas e os outros sentimentos?
Por entre a agitação das folhas um som igual
ao seu próprio gemido e ei-la a saltitar para a paisagem
dos latidos, latidos de um boneco a correr para si,
a aninhar-se abanando as patas com o medo
completamente banido da equação. Só lhe via o pêlo,
só sentia a língua nos seus braços e pegou-lhe ao colo
com instinto de mãe a rebentar em pleno inverno.
De retorno à aldeia desenrolava uma ladainha de amor
ainda sem letra. O pai arrancou-lhe o bicho,
afastou-o com os pés, mas a criança gritava
e puxava os cabelos meio amalucada.
O pai atirou o animal ao chão com um esgar
de desprezo e algum alívio. — Depois se verá!
Mas nunca mais passou sem ele
e o cão seguia-o para tudo como se fosse o homem
o líder da matilha. A filha lacustre chorava pelos cantos
e perdeu muito amor ao pai. Na Idade da Pedra
já havia recalcamento e outras freudeanices
verdadeiras. Andava com uma faca,
mas nunca teve coragem ou sublimação.

12.

Pela primeira vez um chacal abanou a cabeça
a um homem, pelo que foi dado mais um
passo na evolução do cão doméstico

 
Quando o coletivo oferece vantagens inegáveis
damos as mãos, um aperto firme a esbanjar a honra
do momento. Nunca esquecer a desconfiança
no bolso das moedas. Nem as palavras com que se suja
a madrugada. O amor é um forasteiro
à espera de pista para descolar.
A matilha ronda de fome voraz. O homem atira
ao chão as vísceras da carne esventrada.
O chacal hesita. Entre o que é dado e o porquê
há toda a história do bandido. Mas a fome leva-lhe
à boca pedaços do intestino e o gosto da carne
torna-o grato com a cauda a abanar o sim
ao novo contracto social lacrado ao rubro,
no festim de carne que une a tribo e a matilha.
E longe do zénite nutre-se o devir da fidelidade cega
que não morde ou sequer suspeita.
Entre nós houve grande evolução na arte de matar
e os aliados provisórios fazem parte do cenário.
Também as mortes muitas e avulsas: um marido
irado é só doméstico na violência.

Translator’s Note on the Poet

Rosa Alice Branco’s first book of poetry, Animals of the Earth, appeared in 1988.  She has produced eleven more collections since then, and translations of her books have appeared in Spain, Italy, France, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Corsica, Tunisia, Brazil, Venezuela, and Quebec. She participates regularly in international poetry celebrations and was the sole representative for Portugal in the Parnassus Poetry Festival in London in 2012. She has been awarded numerous international prizes, including the Premio Espiral Maior de Poesia in 2008 for her book Gado do Senhor (Cattle of the Lord). The English translation of this book, published by Milkweed Editions and judged one of the twelve best books of poetry for the year 2018 in the United States by The Chicago Review of Books, led to a literary reading tour that included visits to various colleges and universities, including Bard, Middlebury, Smith, Penn State, Hollins, Radford, Univ. of Massachusetts at Lowell, SUNY-Binghamton and the New York State Writers Institute in Albany. Her book Amor Cao e outras palavras que nao adestram, published in February 2022, was awarded the prestigious Premio Literário Antonio Cabral in September 2022. Her work has appeared in well over fifty literary magazines in the USA, including Absinthe, Atlanta Review, Bitter Oleander, Massachusetts Review, Osiris, Pleiades, Prairie Schooner, Words Without Borders and, of course, Artful Dodge.

Alexis Levitin’s 48 books in translation include Clarice Lispector’s Soulstorm and Eugenio de Andrade’s Forbidden Words, both from New Directions. More recent collections include Salgado Maranhão’s Blood of the Sun and Rosa Alice Branco’s Cattle of the Lord, both from Milkweed Editions. He is awaiting the appearance this fall of The Last Ruy Lopez: Tales from the Royal Game, a collection of chess-related stories he wrote during the pandemic.

Published January 15 2024