Wilson Bueno

Surely this is unique. A 63-page polyglot prose poem, composed in Portunhol (a mix of Spanish and Portuguese) and Guaraní, translated here into a startling, sensuous Frenglish/Mohawk/Guaraní blend, narrated in a kind of stream-of-(exotic)consciousness by a self-described floozy transvestite pleading innocence in the death of an old man en flagrante and lusting after a virile youth passing on the street, with ruminations on the effects of tropical flora and fauna, surf and selva on the human condition. Like Arcadio at the Tríplice Fronteira, singing in tongues.

The wind, chororó, chororó, meanwhile mutes clear answers, chororó, chororó. But dans les arbres the living brute of my marafona floozy body, captive, craved. What kind of act—sepulchre or song—is dying? Morangú, morangú: but before death shows up, and it’ll be tomorrow morning, I’ll sing behind my crystal ball, to the golden tinkle of my bracelets, I’ll recount, to the first parishioner, a fable, morangú morangú, a fable of love, I’ll recount it, and may it be sublime.

The appendices, of great worth in trying to come to terms with the work, include an “elucidictionary of the Guaraní langue” run through with incantatory entries—

coral cobra; turn the color of coral
noise of boiling water; squeak of a wheel, or from the chest
noise of what suddenly falls
very many of them; many exist
third person singular of “jaguar”
that which unfolds itself in its own unfolding; the fold of the fold of the fold
river that is reminiscent of the sea
bad blood; downtrodden blood; sick blood

—also essays by South American poets testifying to the influences on and of The Paraguayan Sea, an interview with Wilson Bueno, and a commentary by the translator Erin Moure. Just splendid all around.… (plus d'informations)