Edilson Afonso Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. Has launched two Poetry Books, “Lonely Sailor” and “Joie de Vivre”; has about 360 different publications in selected international Literary Journals. He began writing at the age of 67, after he retired from a bank, and is a Pushcart Prize nominee. He is always updating his work on his personal blog at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

Just Like Theatrical Seasons

There is a world waiting for its time to happen.
It waits, attentive to the counterpoint marker,
its turn to enter the scene.
Eyes open, anonymous among the spectators,
an envoy, an emissary and plenipotentiary
of the author of the play, so that each speech,
each act, mainly unwanted and unexpected,
do not become lost.
The author, at home and even more anonymous,
did not want to witness the event, surely regretful
and disconsolate of the rawness at times
he could not avoid in the unfolding of the plot.
And so different worlds overlap,
at its due and exact time.
And the author, in his forced retreat,
his decaffeinated coffee and non-alcoholic beer,
a cloistered five o’clock tea,
a sad and lonely heart.

Dangerous Regression

Sometimes I venture to make a risky journey.
I go to the past, long ago, distant and perilous.
The road I take has been built entirely by me,
in very hard a way no one at all dreams of.
Rough a path and full of so many deviations,
that even I, well used to, I go so timorous.
Now, I see that there were no other choices,
for only this way would lead me where I am.
Where and what I must be ever since I was.
On this visit, I see friends, lovers, enemies,
grandfathers and cousins, see also myself.
Then, undoubtedly alive, they talk to me,
ask for news, and soon we are laughing,
like old comrades absent for so long.
On leaving, one or other wants to follow me,
but I do not feel safe and come home alone.
I suspect that past is jealous of its deeds
and always hides how has woven them.
I think it must be visited as few times
as one is capable of.

Published in Taj Mahal Review, Dec 21 2021

Chronology of the Pleasures

About one month or two ago, on walking
as we are accustomed to almost every day,
my wife and I, at dusk,
when passing by a well-known bridge,
we noticed, not without some sorrow,
that there was a family living under it.
At a corner they had cleaned on the riverbank,
they were living their day-to-day life.
We were filed with sadness, certainly
they were homeless, or at least, temporarily,
having as a roof that lower part of the bridge.
Yesterday, again walking, we perceived
that there was something different,
a few more people, in addition to the family
we were used to seeing.
A couple of bonfires lit better the area,
they seemed to feel very comfortable,
laughing and happy, we even heard
something like a clink of glasses.
My wife was surprised, did not understand,
but suddenly, I did, and told her:
there is no doubt, they are having guests today
and are having fun.
Then, we became aware that, really, since a while,
we have not enjoyed much the same that pleasure.

(Published in Sky Island Journal, May 16 2022)

Stumbles, Pitfalls, and Spells

‘Yo no creo en brujas, pero que las hay, las hay’
(Galicia’s cruel saying)

There was a thief whose bad luck set him
on the way to your house;
a rapist that someone drove his mad eyes
and his insane desire, for that dear friend of yours,
or, who knows, the weight of evil,
even to your beloved daughter.
A runaway truck that went around, missed you,
but wrecked a car with your friend’s sister,
also destroying her life and her family’s.
An irate driver who picked you up in traffic,
for, without any motive or reason, to overflow
all his hatred towards this world we live in.
That drug dealer who once saw at your son
a certain hopelessness of youth and guided him,
without pity or hesitation, and with all wickedness,
on the sordid path of addiction.
That one you thought your friend but directed you,
with false truths and promises of great gains,
for a business he never have had money or courage to.
That stranger (maybe even a friend),
who, hidden from you and from due respect,
set eyes of malice and sin in your wife.
That sullen and unpredictable man, let loose on the streets,
instead of locked up in a bughouse, who can, on the outbreak
of the moment, just take your life.
So are some ways generated by witches you never knew,
nor had ever wished to know,
who, for free and pleasure of wrongdoing, also for envy,
collide daily with your brothers and sisters,
and are always looking for you too.

(Published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Jan 2025)

Fallen into Oblivion

No more guys and girls happily driving
open-air convertible cars on weekends,
free of seat belts tethering their bodies,
sweet winds swaying, fighting, and playing
their loose hairs.
No more
children walking on the streets to school,
carrying notebooks in their arms,
not in backpacks, not on buses.
No more
young boys playing marbles in holes
they had dug on vacant lots near home,
their mates flying kites heavens above.
No more
bicycling around only for pleasure,
without protective helmets and gloves.
No more
family sitting on the front porch after dinner,
sharing the latest neighborhood news.
No more
walking in the fields by night,
under tender and puissant moonlight.
No more
people greeting each other and sending good vibes,
even if they were unknown.
No more
fresh milk bottles delivered home by the morning,
but milk boxes at immense supermarkets,
with sleepless cameras furtively watching over us.
No more
letters, no business letters, no love letters,
only emails to be lost in cyberspace.
No more
couples who face the difficulties of everyday life,
profess mutual and sincere forgiveness,
respect the common oath once made,
so, engendering true and honest love.
No more
parents, sons, and daughters going out together at night,
carrying in common dreams, dramas, and desires,
like a pack of wolves who have not learned to segregate.
No more
growing, assembling, and sharing rooms and lives,
indifferent to some strange customs of those
who never knew to love and like themselves,
our children becoming children of all of us.