Mr. Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese, in order to reach more people. Has been published (or upcoming to) in venues like Cyclamens and Swords, Right Hand Pointing, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Lake, The Stare’s Nest, The Provo Canyon, Red Wolf Journal, Subterranean Blue, Whispers, Every Day Poems, Indiana Voice Journal, Synesthesia and some others. Short listed in four American Poetry Contests, lives in a small town with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and has begun writing after retirement as a Bank Manager. He is collecting his works for a forthcoming book.
The writing of our book
Who knows how fate works in our lives?
Fate – eternal tyrant – rules over all of us.
Since we were unborn and not conceived
And our parents unknown one to the other.
Paths to walk by, persons to love and to hate.
Arrivals and departures, praises and failures.
Faith and despair, rejoicing, tears and fears.
Every time, every day or hour, week by week,
From dawn to evening and noon to moon,
Conscious or unconscious of its guidance,
We go pursuing threads around the labyrinth.
Would be a warlock by early times in old caves
Who spelt the words that compose our book?
Or a saint who threw the letters from the stars?
Published in Cyclamens and Swords, August 2011 online issue.
I am ashamed to see security guards at my Bank,
armored vehicles used in money transport
and Police officers on the streets patrolling.
Supermarket loss-prevention professionals
and their cameras sleepless watching upon us.
They say that this is intrinsic to the Capitalism,
modus-vivendi we inherited from forefathers.
I am not used to the economic laws and marketing.
I am simply a poet, perhaps, or certainly, a minor one,
who wants to manifest that our brothers and sisters,
no-poet-people would have, by now, already changed
this way we have been chained to.
First published in Boston Poetry Magazine, August 15 2014.
Poets are made by mode of enchantment,
and mine has been so an exquisite one.
It comes from our common ground,
sometimes from dark underground,
yet from sparkling highs of heaven.
Some days, somewhere, untied to myself,
world loses the poet and gains the autist,
till a good soul recognizes me,
reconnecting the mode,
like an out of order gadget.