O Amor Natural

Good morning.

We're making a documentary for Dutch TV.

Do you know who Carlos Drummond de Andrade was ?

No idea, darling.

What did you say ? - I don't know.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade, you know who he was ?

I'm not interested. - No ?

Why should I be ?

Only my life interests me, each to his own.

Sir, do you know who Carlos Drummond de Andrade was ?

Who was he ? - I don‘t remember.

I heard that name before.

I don't remember anymore.

Girl, I don't know.

Thank you.

Hello, madam.

Do you know who Carlos Drummond de Andrade was?

Surely everyone knows who Carlos Drummond was.

I live in Copacabana and once bumped into him in Rua de Jamori.

I was so overawed I didn't dare ask for his autograph.

Later I ran after him, but he'd already gone.

I'll never forget that.

Did you know that he wrote erotic poems?

Yes, but they only found them after his death.

I read about it. Have they been published ? - Yes.

I read one or two in the Jornal do Brasil.

And ? - Wonderful.

He was in a class of his own, there's no one like him.

Would you read us a poem ?

Of course, but I don't have my reading glasses.

These are sunglasses.

I don't have my bag with me, otherwise I'd love to.

He was a great and sympathetic poet from Minais Gerais.

All Brazilians are in love with his poems.

Licurgo is an admirer and can better tell you.

Like all Brazilians who love literature,

I was also interested in the great Carlos Drummend de Andrade.

" The ass, how cute "

The ass, how cute.

Always smiling, never tragic.

Couldn't care less what's round the front.

The ass is self-sufficient.

ls there anything else ? The breasts perhaps.

Well - mutters the ass - those chaps still have a lotto learn.

The ass is two twin moons roundly rocking.

Moves by itself in love‘s cadence,

the miracle of being two in one, complete.

The ass has fun on its own. And loves.

In bed it stirs. Mountains swelling, sinking.

Waves breaking on an endless shore.

The ass smiles on.

Content in the sweetness of being and swinging.

Harmonious spheres over the chaos.

The ass is the ass. unsurpassed.

His disrespect is literary. - He departed from his own style.

Yes, that's true. Drummond is really amazing.

He undresses the woman with great fantasy,

just as we do every day. - That's true.

The woman has control over us, especially in an erotic sense.

Do you still do it ? - I do.

How old are you ? - 67.

And you ? - 82.

Surely you don't do it any more ? - How come ?

I won't ask if you want to experiment with me.

But I am not bad.

Sucking and being sucked by love

in the same instant/multipurpose mouth

the body two in one/a pleasure so deep

it is neither mine nor yours

blissful fusion diffuse transfusion

licking sucking and being sucked in the same spasm

just mouth mouth

sixty nine times moth-and-tongue.

Do you like it ?

It is half sexual.

It's a little sexual.

A little ?

What do you mean ?

He talks about...

...the sexuality of man and woman.

Why ?

Because without sex, there's no love.

And without love, no sex.

The floor is a bed for urgent love,

love that cannot wait for bed.

On hard floor, on carpet, rug,

our bodies weave the moist story's thread.

And to rest from love, we go to bed.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

Who doesn't love something like that ?

We are old, but we're not dead.

Come on !

He's getting closer. Second.

Second, he almost passed him.

He went down well.

I never read these poems.

" O Amor Natural "

But I know that Drummond didn't want to publish these poems.

They only appeared after his death.

I think that Drummond was afraid

that they would be regarded as pornographic.

" Love - being an essential word "

Love - being an essential word -

begin this song, envelop it all.

Love guides my verse, and as it guides,

wed soul, desire, member and vulva.

Who'd dare say it's solely soul ?

Who does not feel in the body the soul expand

to erupt in the purest cry of orgasm,

an instant of infinity ?

The body in another entwined,

melted, dissolved,

twinned back in time to the womb, by Plato deemed complete:

we are one, perfect in two; two in one.

Union in bed or in the cosmos ?

Where ends the room and attains the stars ?

What force in our flanks transports us to that far-flung,

ethereal,

eternal ?

At the delicious touch of the clitoris,

all is transformed, in a flash.

Bunched within its tiny tip,

the fount, the fire, the honeydew.

Penetration tears clouds asunder

and breaks on through to fulgent suns

no human eye could ever stand,

yet, blinded by light, the coitus goes on.

And pushes on and draws out till,

beyond us, beyond life itself,

like quick abstraction made flesh,

the idea of enjoyment enjoys.

And suffering sweetly between words,

less than that, sounds, gasps, ahs,

a single spasm within us comes:

that's when love dies of love, divine.

How often we die in each other,

in the moist cavern of the vagina,

a death that is softer than sleep:

the senses pause, gorged.

Then peace is restored.

The peace of the gods, stretched out in bed,

statues sheathed in sweat,

giving thanks for earthly love's gift to a god.

ls that whisky ?

Yes, it's his custom.

He drinks that every day until about three o'clock.

It's good for my heart.

It's good fer his heart, he needs that.

He moves so little, but still loves whisky a lot.

How old is he ? - 85, isn't he ?

85 and a half.

He just loves that half. - He likes to tell the truth.

It's true, because his birthday is in December.

Hence the half, 85 and a half.

How old are you ? - 61.

I was born in 1935, so I'm 61.

Are you the wife of Gonalino ? - No, his daughter.

A daughter he loves. - A lot.

He loves me, but I have many brothers and sisters.

I want you to read a poem by Carlos Drummond.

You know him ? - Of course.

We know him, don't we, Dad ?

I want my daughter to read to me.

I can't read it. - His sight is so bad.

I see so little. - I'll read it to you.

Give me my glasses, because I'm hopeless without glasses.

" What goes on in bed. "

Listen to me. - I'm listening.

What goes on in bed is a secret shared by those that love.

Right.

A secret shared by these that love is to know

profound desire

conceived on earth

yet so unwordly

that the body, finding a body

and navigating by its touch,

attains a peace, a different place,

another world: peace as in death,

nirvana, the penis sleeps.

Oh, bed, lilting lullaby.

sleep little girl, sleep tight,

the jaguar sleeps.

the candid vagina sleeps,

the last sirene sleeps or the penultimate...

The penis sleeps.

puma, exhausted American beast.

Sleep, fulvous garland of your vulva.

And those that love are silenced,

between the curtain and the sheet

still wet with semen. by these secrets shared in bed.

Exactly.

Beautiful, isn‘t it Dad ? - Very beautiful.

Did you like it ? - I sure did.

Glad to hear it.

Tell me about the poem.

If I talk about my past...

...you ears will hurt.

Never mind, I'll put some cotton wadding in.

I liked a merry life.