And in some of the volumes, such as the one by Rubens Rodrigues Torres Filho, high and low diction, free verse and sonnets, philosophical musings and scatological humor, appeared side by side. Some sense of the diversity may perhaps be given by two brief examples. And this state of affairs was downright alarming to those who saw poetry in terms of such categories as progress, modernity, and evolution of forms, as well as to those who still believed that the chief task of Brazilian poets was to criticize capitalism and its attendant ills.
- Mardi Gras Murders.
- Poesies patriòtiques catalanes (Catalan Edition);
- Lucy the Dinosaur: Day at the Beach.
- The Real Deal: A History of Real Madrid.
Iumna Maria Simon and Vinicius Dantas have been the most aggressive critics of nearly all the poetry produced in Brazil in recent decades. More recently, a piece by Simon ends on a hopeful note:.
Right now there are signs that the cultural complex of neoliberalism has been shaken in its hegemony, that the exclusiveness of a form of thinking has lost its authority to impose on us an inevitable model of society, although relevant alternatives to capitalism are not to be seen, even after such a systemic crisis, whose magnitude has not yet been fully disclosed, as the one we have been going through since In Brazil, it is true that reactions to this situation that are truly artistic, in the sphere of poetry, have been few so far.
But they do exist, and they will be based on dissatisfaction with the retraditionalizing paradigm, which, as we have seen, is no more than parasitism upon the canon. But not all critics have been hostile. Of course, every culture is a work in progress, not a static construct; in that sense Brazilian culture still is, and will always be, an ongoing process.
What I mean is that there comes a time in the history of a nation when its artists and intellectuals no longer feel a need to assert at all times that it really is a nation, with a culture of its own. For long-established European nations such as Portugal or Britain, this is a sort of concern that simply does not occur to anyone though Germans experienced similar insecurities throughout much of the 19th century ; but in the New World the problem has been particularly acute — even, during the Romantic period, in the US: think of the affirmations of Americanness in Whitman and Emerson.
Brazilians now should feel secure enough to admit quite openly that there has never been anything pure about our music, or our culture, to begin with — indeed, that our strength comes precisely from the intermingling of a number of different strains: Native Brazilian lore, Portuguese language and literature, African music and sensibility, French intellectual fashions, the manifold contribution of Italian, German, Arab, and Jewish immigrants — so why not American popular culture as well?
And the fact that we have failed to break with international capitalism is, however one might feel about it, also part of this normalcy; for this condition applies to just about every other country in the world.
Since the turn of the century, normalcy has by and large prevailed. These days, younger poets read and translate poetry voraciously, emulating various older contemporaries or canonized predecessors; established poets publish in established publishing companies, competing for literary prizes and even — horror of horrors! In the new normalcy, poets no longer belong to mutually excommunicating literary sects. The aggressive rivalry between Concretists, Neo-Concretists, Praxists, and advocates of political poetry surfaces these days only when poets representing these long-defunct movements, now in their late seventies or eighties, are interviewed by literary supplements.
It may well be that the poets now living who later generations will canonize are not the ones presently seen as the best. All of this is true enough. But 30 years after the Modern Art Week there was a more or less general agreement, if not a real consensus, about the meaning of Brazilian Modernism and the relative importance of individual poets and works.
It is probably useless to attempt to argue with such people; all one can say to them is: like it or not, this is the 21st century. Well, I, for one, happen to like it.
Tudo como devia ser, certo? Escrevia Francisco Alvim:. Para se ter uma ideia dessa diversidade, vejamos dois exemplos breves. Quanto a mim, eu gosto. By Pedja Jurisic.
Context is everything. By Elena Shtromberg. Alfredo Jaar and the Happiness of Chile.
By Caille Millner. By Federico Cattaneo. By Michael LaPointe. Around the World: Launch Edition. By Andrew McGregor. By Antal Neville. Inside the Fashion Cycle. By Margaret Morganroth Gullette. By Danielle Drori. Naguib Mahfouz, Storyteller. Close this module. Donate Today.
Justification In choosing Candido Portinari as theme, Independent Mocidade comes to celebrate one of the biggest names in Brazilian painting in the 50th anniversary of its disappearance. Through his most important works, we will show the trajectory of this artist who above all portrayed in his paintings and murals, the history, the people and the life of the Brazilians, through strong and vigorous traits loaded with drama and expression.
This homage written in the form of a poem is the most dignified way to celebrate this master, who besides painting was also a poet and among other artistic manifestations he was able to illustrate with his drawings the poems of Carlos Drummond de Andrade, his great friend and partner in the version of the book "Don Quixote de La Mancha", by Miguel de Cervantes. Finally, it is the Mocidade Independente that takes pride in bringing to the parade a little of Portinari's immortal work to the knowledge of the great people, the one who has always been their great source of inspiration.
In a magic flight, the samba travels, to lead my people happy, in your dream traveler. Loose in the graceful universe, prose in verse, in fantasy to become reality, takes the drums of happiness, to awaken the artist in the heavenly abode. O master, you raise your empty frame from sleep.
His work lives in the singing of our people. Put your instrument in your hands, Your screen today is the firmament, that art lets itself dye the pitch of night, with a colorful party, the watercolor of the carnival. Go, reinvent another playful sky. Paint for us our star, you who painted so much to Mocidade, Let your hand slide Independently. Today we are thepaints that involve the bristles of your brush, and that, in the mix of colors, for you, Portinari, break the screen into reality and shine in the samba of Padre Miguel.
Today, a living and human frame frame your story on the track, and thy countenance is renewed in the feet, in the step of the samba, that will scratch murals of dreams and stamping portraits, scene of Brasis that you drew. In the light of inspiration, comes sparkle in our mind the candid childhood of your beloved Brodowski, and reflorescer the fields with sweat of the hand, of the virile mestizos to till the broad earth.
Today is a time that does not pass. A whirlwind, a wind that blows, which sweeps and brings memories, and that comes back to you the boyhood. We are your boys, faceless, anonymous in the crowd, that make your world spin in a frenetic whirl, as if they were a top, such as a kaleidoscope to transmute into shapes your imagination. We are the limpid chimera, which sways free in a dotted sky, sometimes with small kites and balloons. We came to open your heart.
In this force of color that is printed, if your natives are diluted, discoverers, discovering heroes, fauna and flora walking through walls like cycles, unraveling the history, the walkof this nation. In this hour we bring joy painted on our faces. Sweat sweating under the lights of this stage is our emotion that overflows, even though it exits from us the temper of the same people suffered, of wandering, in search of the promised land, victory.
Our odyssey and our mission is to sing to you, our banner, the glory, as one who seeks to seek evidence on high. We are biblical scenes, such as you have interpreted, see you Saints, Angels looked at by God, to fly in the blue skies. We came here to fight, against the invisible enemy, the windmills of an invented adventure.
Luckily, we imagine ourselves strong, as the dreamy herald to scribble on paper a written road in a poem by "Drummond. Anyway, we're all the same tonight, like so many that your hand has drawn. We are the samba, the morro, the favela, the dance, the music, the social contrast, dream workers, as well as those of real life. Let's fight, we have the faces of your faces, the self-portrait of your soul. We are all in one, your living memory, the eternal youth, modernist, revolutionary and warrior thatThu at this time, lift up a monument to you, an immense mural, painted with our joy, in the happy battle of this day, "War and Peace" of the carnival.