Poem of the Week: 29.6.23

"Odede" by Ricky Novaes de Oliveira

ODEDE

by Ricky Novaes de Oliveira

a Clarice, staring at what 
softens my bones. an attempt 
believing, crying
until believing,
inducing, entwining. 
stealing from a statue
my reality, the reality 
of my reality, your reality,
the reality of your reality,
a reality above our realities,
a reality below our noses. 
bother to look.
a false eye trinket
staring at another beginning
neither a start 
nor an end. a right way 
and a wrong way to see. 
there has always been 
and it was ever so. 
and so I scream 
for nothing, adrift.
slapdash and kisskiss.
inescapable facts 
that make no sense
will make so sense

---

---

I should’ve taken my own photo but I left my camera behind. So I steal.

Greetings from Rio de Janeiro, Brasil! 🇧🇷 I write to you from my grandma’s living room, on a soft couch, in the dwindling winter (southern hemisphere) warmth (I sweat and the locals wear sweaters).

“Odede” is an odd ode to Clarice Lispector, whose spectre has presided over my work since I picked up a book of hers years ago and now as I continue to read through her works in a place she knew well. I went on a run along the beach today, from Copacabana to Leme, and visited this statue of her, pictured above. There is a plaque beside the statue with a quote of hers written on it; my Portuguese sucks, but the 70ish% that I could read suggested a sober belief in the power of love and writing.

The statue has its back turned to the beautiful coastline view that many gather for every day; I suppose Clarice, as once a local carioca, was used to that regular beauty, so her effigy stares instead at those who view and pass.

I tried looking in the direction of the statue’s eyes, but the line from the eye carvings to the sky intersects only with a public bathroom, a trendy beach bar, and the mountain behind. I adore Lispector’s writing, so I am putting much of my spirit onto this tourist attraction, but I still felt that there was a secret to that stare. (What she once saw, what she had seen, what she searched for in the sky, what her gaze watches over now.)

As for the poem, it is a feeble offering. I still have a lot to figure out—about Lispector and Brasil and writing and love and running without getting cramps—but one thing is becoming more clear to me as I (struggle to) read through a copy of Lispector’s A hora da estrela that my grandma lent me: I have a right to scream.

Beijos, Ricky