Ferreira Gullar - O encantamento da poesia

When you are going to write a poem, you don’t know what you are going to write. You learned something strange, with which that moment has surprised you. Now, what you are going to write, you do not know.

Because it is not written. Understand? It is still a blank page.

See, once I was in my living room and my son peeled a tangerine open. I had already eaten tangerines my whole life, but that’s when it happens: the smell of tangerine, which I had already tasted a thousand times in life, suddenly, in that moment, on that afternoon, on that room, the smell of tangerine revealed itself as something special, unique. It opened to me a world I did not knew existed.

Ok, so I left to write the poem. Nevertheless, I didn’t knew what to write. Smelly tangerine, what a nice smell.

I could not write that. Then, do you know what I did? I did that: I’m going to read about tangerines.

Me fui a la enciclopedia y leí sobre mandarinas. Then, I found out the tangerine is the Orange from China. Know that song, “Orange from China, Orange from China…” The tangerine is the orange from China.

Then I discovered the Orange from China was taken to California. It was the first time tangerines were cultivated outside China. Then I discovered things regarding tangerines, etc.

But the poem didn’t appear yet. But I was reading aimlessly, about all I could think of, who knows. Then I found out, reading, that minerals are odorless.

Iron is odorless, aluminum is odorless. But there is a mineral which has an odor, sulfur. Bueno.

Así que me llevé una sorpresa, azufre es mineral, no lo sabía. Bueno. A week later, I’m in my car, with my wife, “Let’s go to Ipanema beach”.

Then, I’m in the car, and halfway there, the following verse came to my mind: "With rare exceptions, minerals are odorless”. Thus began the poem. Not talking about tangerines.

And then, later, the tangerines come in, I mean, but, understand? I never imagined my poem, "The Smell of Tangerines”, were to begin with this verse. “With rare exceptions, minerals are odorless”.

So it’s like that, it’s madness! But that’s the enchantment of poetry. Because everything else is predicted, it’s all the same, it’s all boring, you know?

So, that’s why I say: poetry doesn’t reveal reality, poetry invents reality. Art doesn’t reveal reality, that’ something the critics insist on saying. I don’t agree.

“Literature reveals reality. ” No, it doesn’t! It invents reality.

Have you ever met a Hamlet in life? Outside Shakespeare’s play? You didn’t, did you?

He is only on his play. Dormant, and when you open the book and start to read, he lives again. When Drmmond writes: “Like those primitives, Who carry with them, The lower jaw of their dead, I carry you with me, May afternoon.

” It’s pretty. It adds to our life, after you hear it. It becomes our whole life, plus that verse he created, he invented.

That’s it.