To be Brazilian, Is to be immersed in nature, Forever reminded of the beauty, Of the land we call home.
To be Brazilian, Is to adore a rich cuisine, Forever connected to the Earth, Through that which we take from its soil.
To be Brazilian, Is to always find cause for celebration, Forever moving to the rhythm, Of our collective heartbeat.
To be Brazilian, Is to appreciate the delicacy of language, Forever taught to savour our words, And with them convey a piece of our story.
To be Brazilian, Is to be from anywhere else, Forever caught in a extraordinary blend, Of intertwining national identities.
To be Brazilian, Is to be all these things, and none of them, Forever reminded that for the term "Brazilian", The possible meanings have no end.
And much like this poem, Which did not rhyme, To be Brazilian, Is very difficult to define.
Ser indígena - Ser omágua Márcia Wayna Kambeba
Sou filha da selva, minha fala é Tupi. Trago em meu peito, as dores e as alegrias do povo Kambeba e na alma, a força de reafirmar a nossa identidade que há tempo fico esquecida, diluída na história Mas hoje, revivo e resgato a chama ancestral de nossa memória.
Sou Kambeba e existo sim: No toque de todos os tambores, na força de todos os arcos, no sangue derramado que ainda colore essa terra que é nossa. Nossa dança guerreira tem começo, mas não tem fim! Foi a partir de uma gota d’água que o sopro da vida gerou o povo Omágua. E na dança dos tempos pajés e curacas mantêm a palavra dos espíritos da mata, refúgio e morada do povo cabeça-chata.
Que o nosso canto ecoe pelos ares como um grito de clamor a Tupã, em ritos sagrados, em templos erguidos, em todas as manhãs! Poeta, fotógrafa, e ativista indígena do povo Omágua/Kambeba no Alto Solimões (AM)
Translation: I'm a child of the jungle, my language is Tupi. I carry in my chest, the pains and joys of the Kambeba people and in my soul, the strength to reaffirm our identity that has long been forgotten, diluted in history But today, I revive and rescue the ancestral flame of our memory. I am Kambeba and I do exist: In the beat of all the drums, in the strength of all the bows, in the spilt blood that still colours this land that is ours. Our warrior dance has a beginning, but it has no end! It was from a drop of water that the breath of life gave birth to the Omágua people. And in the dance of time shamans and curacas keep the word of the spirits of the forest, refuge and dwelling place of the flat-headed people. May our song echo through the air like a cry to Tupã, in sacred rites, in temples erected every morning!
April Issue - "Reflections" A Window's Reflection by S. Costa Franco
What does she observe, So utterly mesmerized? Could it be the glowing moon? So enchanted are her eyes... I wonder.
Are the peppered spots of light, Glowing in the deep navy sky, That which make such eyes, Shine bright?
Or perhaps the chilly wind, Which often leaves no impression, Is the true cause, For her overwhelming obsession.
Is it the rustling trees, Which dance and sway, That make her innocent eyes, Glance their way?
What is it that she stares, So intently at? This I cannot comprehend, If silent she stays sat.
Pray, child! I beg. For turn and face me, She does not, And rather stays, Quite firmly put.
I beg and call, and even shout, But not words I utter, Arise in me a doubt, That she will remain, And my calls are in vain.
Yet, again I utter, "Pray tell! What has entranced you In such spell?"
At this, she turns And faces me. At this, all time stood still, As the child sat, Upon the windowsill.
A dreamy gaze, Her skin, milky white. "Isn't it beautiful? The city at night.”
March Issue - "Winds of Change"
Winds of New by S. Costa Franco
Among the fields of vibrant flowers, And through the sky of vivid blue, Years are made to feel like hours, Now swept away by winds of new.
Winds that are intangible, Quite simply imperceptible, That serve to sweep the world afresh, And free us from our fortress.
Stagnation, monotony, sheer inertia, Challenges we all must face, Turned trivial by winds of change, If only these we would embrace.
Still, we turn a blind eye yet, Towards all the chances that we get, To look within, and set ourselves free, From the person we think we should strive to be.
For change is an entity of inevitable power, And over us, it always does tower. Try as we might, we cannot escape, Or avoid the future it tries to shape.
So let us allow the winds of new, To sweep through our lives in gusts of change, As a seedling of hope they carry through, To live in our hearts, to grow, to age.
November-December Issue - "Celebration and Festivity"
Happiness Poem by S. Costa Franco:
You all chase me blindly, For you know not, That I must come and go, And cannot be caught.
Although some wish it, I must never be eternal, For it is my absence, That makes my presence memorable.
Only in sickness, Do we appreciate health, And only in sadness, Is the longing for me truly felt.
Those of us who can soar, Up to the greatest heights, Are also those who must face, The darkest nights.
Many say that achieving me, Is what they strive for, But I am not a prize, Nor can I be kept or stored.
People seek me in others, Similar or different to them, As well as in objects, But find me, they rarely can.
I cannot be found anywhere, Only inside your soul, For I come from within, Although I, you cannot control.
Seeking happiness in others, Means creating expectations, Those of which cannot be met, As external happiness has limitations.
Some believe those who are happy, Are forever in a wealthy state, But less valued is each penny, As one’s wealth becomes too great.
Being content gives life purpose, Those who believe this are dreaming, As it is the search for joy, That really gives life meaning.
We must learn to cherish this quest, To see beneath the surface, And through it, we are blessed, With a broadened consciousness.
Now, we have a nation. A nation in unity, Under a flag, Of yellow and green.
The celebration of victory, Of a singular team, Joins us in festivities, No matter how dark times may seem.
So let us rejoice, Hold hands in solidarity, As now we have the choice, To end the year cheerfully.
In these exciting times, Continue to search for me.
But in the future remember, Focus more on the journey, As unlike me, Those memories last forever.
October Issue - "Halloween"
Poem by D. Favrin: A piece from one of our very own students, Diogo Favrin, talking about the features... and dangers... of hiding behind masks, a custom typical of this holiday season.
It cannot be left unsaid a mask is true to a lie, though lies can be permanent All masks eventually die.
By use of protection, they hide personality. This wall, barrier formed Cascades to a dishonest mentality.
They're fragile and weak, as they are as pure as an imagination, though at their peak, they grow into a contamination:
Hundreds into thousands, thousands into millions, all personalities hidden, all originality forbidden.
Pre-existing Featured Poem: True to his morbid nature as a writer, Edgar Allen Poe has produced many pieces that can get us in a spooky mood, contain dark themes, terrifying symbols, and a creeping sense of apprehension. We present to you:Ulalume: A Ballad.
The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crispéd and sere--
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir--
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll--
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole--
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
Our memories were treacherous and sere--
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year--
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber--
(Though once we had journeyed down here)--
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn--
As the star-dials hinted of morn--
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn--
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs--
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies--
To the Lethean peace of the skies--
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes--
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust--
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust--
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust--
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--
See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright--
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."