Manuel Lopes Fonseca, better known as Manuel da Fonseca was born in Santiago do Cacém on October 15, 1911 and died in Lisbon on March 11, 1993.
Writer, poet, storyteller, novelist and columnist, he was a member of the Portuguese Communist Party (PCP), Manuel da Fonseca was part of the Novo Cancioneiro group and is considered by many to be one of the best writers of Portuguese neo-realism.
In his works, full of social and political intervention, he reports like few others the hard life of the Alentejo and the Alentejanos.
He was president of the Portuguese Society of Writers when it awarded the Grand Prize for Novelistics to José Luandino Vieira for his work Luanda, which led to the closure of this institution.
Full Name: Manuel Lopes Fonseca
Literary Genre: Writer, poet
Profession: Short story writer, novelist and columnist
Born: September 14, 1911, Santiago do Cacém, Portugal
Died: March 11, 1993, Lisbon, Portugal
Manuel Lopes Fonseca, better known as Manuel da Fonseca was born in Santiago do Cacém on October 15, 1911 and died in Lisbon on March 11, 1993.
Writer, poet, storyteller, novelist and columnist, he was a member of the Portuguese Communist Party (PCP), Manuel da Fonseca was part of the Novo Cancioneiro group and is considered by many to be one of the best writers of Portuguese neo-realism.
In his works, full of social and political intervention, he reports like few others the hard life of the Alentejo and the Alentejanos.
He was president of the Portuguese Society of Writers when it awarded the Grand Prize for Novelistics to José Luandino Vieira for his work Luanda, which led to the closure of this institution.
Publications
Poetry
- 1940 - Rose of the Winds, Author's edition
- 1941 - Plain
- 1958 - Scattered Poems
- 1958 - Complete Poems
- poetic work
- the wide
Tales
- 1953 - The Portrait
- 1942 - Aldeia Nova
- 1953 - The Fire and the Ashes, Three Bees Edition
- 1968 - An Angel on the Trapeze
- 1973 - Time of solitude
- 1973 - Tempo de solitude - Special edition by Estúdios Cor (limited edition offered by the publisher at Christmas 1973).
Novels
- 1943 - Cerromaior, Editorial Inquérito
- 1958 - Harvest of wind
***
Discover two poems by the author
Little Girl Poem
The dizzy girl spends half the day
dating people passing by on the street,
that the other half stays
to date yourself in the mirror.
The silly girl has black retro eyes,
embroidery thread hair,
and the mouth is a piece of any red cloth.
The silly girl has silk dresses
and silk shoes,
it's all cold, cool as silk:
the false dark circles of crumpled crepe,
the widowed hands among withered flowers,
window falls,
peel paper petals...
On the sidewalk in front are the lovers
with eyes tired of waiting
with arms tired of waving
with a mouth tired of asking...
The silly girl has a heart without a cord
the mouth without desires
eyes without light...
And boyfriends tired of dating...
They don't know that silly girl
his head is full of crumbs.
***
City streets
In the silent and still night like a great secret,
walking to god-will in these deserted streets,
I leave from the bottom of my dream
and look around me.
Outside there is everything that is not from my dream:
the cold, and the tall closed buildings,
and the dead streets as a landscape of cemeteries.
And the fleeting light of tired lamps,
like eyelids about to close.
And the numbness coming out of all things
and hovering in the air, like an impending swoon...
Only I still have steps to walk
and an I don't know what tenderness
for all who are beyond the walls
asleep and careless
to the death that lurks hidden in the mystery of the night...
What house and floor will you be sleeping on
the one whose name or life I don't know,
but I discovered the color of the hair and the melody of the body
when did we cross paths this morning?
At that time,
or it was because the sun was raining on the din of gestures
of the people who came and went and talked and continued
or because we looked at each other in a way that I can't describe,
even from afar, we said with our eyes, one to the other
- Today is a day of glory!
But so strange it seemed to me
that miracle between two strangers,
I didn't even turn my head back...
Now this nameless dismay
who betrayed a whole day of life
and insists on going into the night
waiting for you don't know what...
I'm fed up with so many equal hours!
But in the end and always the same hope:
"one day will come..."
And I have a messed up life
like a drunken millionaire,
I get up and go out into the street dazzled
and risen, every day, at dawn.
And goes the thing as sure as a religion,
how much I feel that they look at me from every face
as if they were spying on a madman...
Where are ears that understand my lines?
And the night comes to find me deserted and abandoned...
Ah, one day, when death comes,
I will raise my wet eyes to her,
and I will tell you the indifference of the world
and the bitterness of high broken dreams...
- just like a boy complaining to his mother.
***
Article By Matias
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