Eternal Love

Eternal Love

Chapter 11

Eternal Love

Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does.

Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.

- James Baldwin


Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.

 The important thing is not to stop questioning.

-  Albert Einstein


No one saves us but ourselves.

No one can and no one may.

We ourselves must walk the path.
Gautama Buddha,

Sayings of Buddha


Period of time covered: 1968 to 1970.

Locations:  Sardinia and London.


            Verses written by acknowledged writers are seen as a form of art, but the poetic compositions of most of us are just a collection of words throbbing to a beat usually expressing personal emotions which are of limited interest to other people. As the idea for this book started with a collection of poems I decided to write a piece of prose to accompany each of my verses in order to give them historical background, and consequently my poetry became an integral part of the story that I relate. And when the various verses and their related texts were put in chronological order I realised that it read like a biography.

            A poem may describe a person or an area, and the latter I call my visions.  I included in this book a number of poetic visions such as The Chacara, Luciânia, The Hideaway and Island of Peace. Visions are easier to write about because they mostly describe a certain scenery, though they eventually give rise to emotion. I found it particularly difficult to show the poems in which I expressed anger for fear of causing displeasure and criticism. It is not usually advisable to express emotions in public, but if I were to hide them my writings would probably become rather insipid.  

              In my family, we three children were brought up in the belief that to work in the family business was our absolute obligation, and no other course of life was either possible or desirable. Any deviation from this would amount to madness and would be tantamount to treason. It was also understood that my and my sister’s future husbands should dutifully join the fold and take up a position in one of our father’s companies for the rest of their lives. That rule did not apply, however, to my brother’s future wife, who could follow her own vocation.   

            This tradition was based on the need to protect our business interests from outside interference, as well as our inherent responsibility of earning our living and never depending on anyone, not even a husband, as my father clearly stated. At the time I never questioned this, believing it to be sensible and logical. After all, my father had provided me with such a happy life that it was logical that I should wish to pursue these ideals, and I chose to study Business Administration precisely in order to work with my father.

            I was nineteen when I first studied abroad for a whole school year. But four years later when I finished university, instead of going straight back to Brazil to work with my family as I was supposed to, I decided to travel and study languages in Europe. At that point my parents did not begrudge me those extra years, I suppose, as a reward for my success in the academic field. I longed to see the world, but not as a tourist, and also wished to talk to people to find out how they thought. To this end I  made England my European base.

            In the summer of 1966, and again in 1967, I joined Jo’s family in Sardinia where his parents had built a summer house in Porto Rafael. This small resort is located on the north-eastern coast of the island and was founded by Raphael Neville, Count of Berlanga de Duero, in the late 1950s. Raphael was an artist and the son of Edgar Neville, the Hollywood film director, playwright and novelist who was a friend of Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford. Raphael’s maternal family were Spanish aristocrats, also with connections to the arts.

            Raphael Neville was born in 1926 and sent to Paris and London to study, but with his bohemian tendencies he gravitated towards the theatre and became a chorus dancer in the Follies Bergères and danced in Josephine Baker's shows. In 1959 on a trip to Sardinia he stumbled upon a small bay facing the Maddalena archipelago and fell in love with it. He bought a small patch of land between Baia di Nelson (where Lord Nelson had once anchored his fleet) and Punta Sardegna, near the town of Palau. For the rest of his life he maintained that he had first visualised this place in a dream. 

            In 1960, with the help of his friend, the American actress Shirley Douglas, who later married the Canadian actor Donald Sutherland, Neville began construction of a small port which he more or less designed himself, though many of the earlier buildings and the tiny chapel of Saint Rita were designed by Michele Busiri Vici, the renowned architect working for the Aga Khan, 30 minutes along the coast at Porto Cervo. Several celebrities built houses in Porto Raphael, choosing it above Porto Cervo because there was no tourist hotel and it was quiet, secluded and far from prying paparazzi.

            The centre of Porto Raphael included one or two little bars, a night club, a restaurant, boutiques and a little beach beyond the Piazetta. Jo and I used to go dancing in this little night club after dinner somewhere on the island. One of the first people to buy land and build a house in Porto Rafael was Peter Ward, a brother of the Earl of Dudley. Then came a cousin of the Aga Khan, the Guinness heiress Maureen Dufferin.

            In 1961 Raphael Neville was joined by the Italian banker Dino Da Ponte and civil engineer Roddy Wilson in offering a total of 140 hectares of land for private sale and development. All the plots have long since been sold. Dino da Ponte was a friend of the Martinez Dallarosa family and I remember seeing him there often. Years later he married the Belgian Countess de Posson, - the mother of a dear friend of mine Adrian de Posson Stoop, who unfortunately I have not seen for a very long time.

            This resort has been developed and lovingly maintained ever since, and remains much prized for its charm and privacy. Raphael Neville had many friends and they often flocked to his resort where he spent his summers until his death in 1996. His birthday is still celebrated in the Piazetta every year on the 11th of August, an occasion I remember having attended at least three times.

            On my first summer in Sardinia among the famous and the infamous, I recall coming across the American Ann Hopkins, previously Ann Cuttler, whose nom de guerre was ‘Annie Get your gun’. The story goes that in Watch Hill, an affluent coastal town in Rhode Island, after a dinner party Ann returned home with her husband to their separate bedrooms. As there had been recent burglaries in the area she kept a gun by her bed. During night she heard her bedroom door open and she shot at the figure she dimly perceived standing there in the dark. it turned out to be her husband, David Hopkins who was shot dead.

            Among Jo’s friends I remember from my sojourns in Sardinia was Marco Camerana, of the Agnelli family of Turin. I heard that during the invasion of Czechoslovakia by the Russians, in a surge of youthful zeal, Marco and a friend went to Prague to join the local youngsters in an attempt to block the invasion. His friend died and Marco’s family managed to find their son and bring him back to Italy, though in state of shock. I had the opportunity to stay at their home in Turin once for a few days, and I remember it was a splendid mansion.




            On my first visits to England with Joseph Eros I was a guest of his family’s home situated in the vicinity of Winchester. This was a particularly pleasant house with thatched roof were the children had grown up. But towards the end of 1967 the Martinez Dallarosa moved to a much larger property, Dibden Manor in the New Forest, not too far from Southampton. This had been the home of Jo’s paternal grandfather, who had recently died.

            Kelly’s Directory states that G Martinez was living in Dibden Manor in 1903. Most of the tile hung long house is thought to have been built just prior to this. A title deed of that period shows a swimming pool and tennis courts in the grounds, as well as a garden area consisting of lawn and a central bed of conifer and deciduous trees to the east of the house, with the land falling steeply down towards the boundary of the wooded Great Copse to the south.

            The old patriarch, Giuseppe Martinez Dallarosa came to England with his young wife at the very beginning of the 20th century. He was president of Pirelli UK.  They were a wealthy Neapolitan family graced a Spanish name due to the fact that Naples had for a long time been a Spanish kingdom, annexed into Italy in 1816.

            The family lived in England through the First World War, during which their two sons were born, and during the Second World War the young Mario graduated from Cambridge with a degree in engineering. The young man probably enlisted and, due to his knowledge of Italian and his connections in southern Italy, was posted there as an agent of His Majesty’s Government for the duration of the conflict.

            Tension soon escalated and in 1940 there was real fear of a German invasion. When Italy sided with the Axis powers most of the 19,000 Italians in Britain was rounded up in the middle of the night, and at first interned without appeal. But public outcry soon led to the release of many of them, and they subsequently contributed to the war effort.

            The practice of internment of civilian nationals was carried out by all belligerent powers, as it was feared they could be spies or willing to assist the enemy. Eventually special tribunals were set up to judge foreign nationals who were divided into one of three groups:

     A – the high security risk cases, who remained interned;

     B -  the doubtful cases were supervised and subjected to restrictions;

     C – the no security risk cases were returned to, or continued at liberty.

            Many of the people who remained in internment were subsequently shipped to the Isle of Man, where they were housed in large Victorian boarding houses along the seafront, after the compulsory evictions of the original tenants and the circling of these properties by two barbed wire fences.

            Jo’s mother, née Rosalba Gerardi di Gaeta, was descended from the Counts di Gaeta whose original estates were part of the medieval Duchy of Gaeta situated on the coastal city of Gaeta, also within the Kingdom of the two Sicily’s. At the start of the Second World War the di Gaeta family lived in Naples, and it was there that the young Mario Martinez Dallarosa met Rosalba. They were married still during the war and Joseph, named after his paternal grandfather, was born in Rome on the 25th of September 1944.



                                        Gaeta, in Lazio, Central Italy.


            The surname Martinez was found in Visigothic times in the Spanish historical region of Old Castile, and it comes from the personal name Martin derived from the Latin Martinus, whose root is Mars, the Roman god of fertility and war. Originally from Central Europe, the Visigoths moved to south-western France and the Iberian Peninsula, which they occupied from the 5th to the 8th centuries. Their first capital in the region was Toulouse and, from the 6th and 7th centuries, Toledo.

            In time the Visigoth Kingdom became Romanised and Foederati – foreign states of Rome and eventually their ethnic distinction from the indigenous Hispano-Roman largely disappeared. When they converted to Catholicism the Gothic language lost its function as a church language. They developed the highly influential law code known as the Visigothic Code, which would become the basis for Spanish law throughout the Middle Ages.

            In 1734, a member of the Martinez Delarosa family accompainied the Armada when both Naples and Sicily were conquered by the Spanish. This information was gleaned from research by a member of Jo’s family, and was recently passed on to me by Jo’s younger sister, Ginetta Martinez, who lives in Bristol. Thus the surnames Martinez and Delarosa or Dallarosa found their way into Italy.

            These names may originally have denoted proprietorship of an estate or to have lived where wild roses grew, but there are other explanations for them. Surnames including Rosa or Rose could also have derived from a female ancestor's personal name, and the matronymics of Rose have produced many Jewish hereditary family names comprising the syllable Ros/Roz, which are Hebraised as Rozen, meaning prince.      

            Moreover, in Italy the name Dallarosa could originally have been dalla Rosa, a place name referring to the region of Monte Rosa, located between Italy and Switzerland. It is the second highest mountain in the Alps, after Mont Blanc and it has four faces. Three in Italy, and the Swiss north-western face with several glaciers flowing towards the Mattertal, with Zermatt and  the Monte Rosa Hut on the lower end of the visible western wing. Further south, in Parma, is the ancient Palazzo Dalla Rosa Prati, dating back to 1222. It was bought in the 15th century by the Prati, and in the early 17th century the daughter of the Marquis Prati married the Marquis Pier Luigi Dalla Rosa.

            Upon the end of the Second World War, Jo’s father, Mario, took his family to live in England where his parents had lived, and there proceeded to set up a factory, which manufactured wire-drawing machines. The Martinez Dallarosa lived the typical life of prosperous English gentry, residing in the country and sending their children to the best boarding schools.



         Left: Dibden Manor, Hythe, Hampshire.

         Right: Dibden Manor, Hythe, Hampshire.


            When Jo first told me that his family lived in the country, I exclaimed, “Oh, how strange, I have never heard of any one actually living in the country.  Humm … in Brazil only farmers live in the country!” At this Jo laughed and replied, “Well we do in England, you’ll see.”

            When he told me he went to boarding school at the age of nine I was horrified and said, “I would never allow my children to be sent away to live at school at any age.” “But they are very good schools, and I actually enjoyed it” he said. “I don’t care if they are the best in the world. Children belong at home with their parents” I exclaimed passionately. “Mine will not go.” And so we went on making plans for our future life, already setting boundaries and conditions.

            By the time I arrived in London with my charming Joseph Eros, the King’s Road in Chelsea was the most fashionable place on Earth. In the mid 1600s it was a private lane that conveyed King Charles II from central London to Kew Palace. When it was opened to the public in 1830 it rapidly became a popular shopping street. By the 1880s, Peter Jones, originally a drapery store on Draycott Avenue, had become one of the first department stores in the UK. This road, which extends for about two kilometres from Sloane Square to the World’s End and is at the centre of Chelsea, was in the 1960s was the location of the launching of the mini skirt and the epicentre of Swinging London, with a mix of shops, bars and restaurants along which strolling youngsters showed off their exotic attire to the sound of music and the roaring of souped-up sports cars.

            It was where groovy Londoners gathered that Alvaro Maccioni, an Italian restaurateur, opened his restaurant Alvaro, attracting film stars and royalty alike. He was later hailed as the one “who brought a taste of the Mediterranean to sixties London”. In 1959, Mario and another Italian restaurateur named Franco, opened La Trattoria Terrazza in the district of Soho, and this was soon the fashionable haunt of artists, writers, models, film directors, actors and high society.

            In 1962, when they inaugurated the exclusive Positano Room, it featured among the most fashionable dining rooms in town. The London Daily Sketch ran a feature entitled “Who dines where?” It stated that one evening between 6.30 and midnight the following people ate at La Terrazza: Ingrid Bergman, Leslie Caron, Danny Kaye, David Niven, Gregory Peck, Laurence Harvey, Sammy Davis Jnr, Michael Caine, Julie Christie, Terence Stamp, David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton.        

            In April 1966 Time Magazine published an article on Swinging London, stressing the role of Mario and Franco in London’s gastronomic revival. “The city that once had the worst dining out in the Western world now has a variety and a class of restaurants that rival New York or even Paris.”

            When Alvaro left La Terrazza in 1966 to open his own trattoria - Alvaro, many of his regulars followed him from Soho to the King’s Road, and less than a week after the opening Lord Snowdon and Princess Margaret are said to have brought friends for dinner. Always adept at public relations Alvaro apparently placed matches on the tables with the caption: “Sshh! If you know who I am, don’t say where I am.”

            The very first time that I was driven down the King’s Road I did not find it particularly impressive. But in time it grew on me and became the centre of my world. This was when I fell in love with London and with all things English such as tea ‘avec un nuage de lait’, Ribena, Marmite or reading Dennis Wheatley books. But living on the Chelsea Embankment by the Thames, the handsome and sophisticated Joseph Eros and his Anastasia contributed to the glamour of the time, cruising the King’s Road in their black Ford Mustang, dressing in the latest fashion and frequenting all the most fashionable spots.

            It was at Alvaro’s one evening that Jo and I met the American actor George Hamilton, who invited us to a Casino after dinner. I do not approve of gambling but we went along and George insisted that I have a hand at Black Jack and I had a bout of beginner’s luck, but insisted that I did not want part of the earnings.

            Back in Sardinia in 1967, my second Summer there, I soon got tired of partying and having so many people about me. I craved for silence and solitude and was happy when the Summer ended and we went to Naples to visit his grandparents on his mother’s side. I still have two lovely brooches that his grandmother gave me. From there we drove south to Positano. The Amalfi coast is a breath-taking area, with its winding roads and houses apparently teetering dangerously on cliffsides. Accustomed to the wide expanses of the American continent I found this strangely claustrophobic, though very beautiful. After this tour, we turned back north and drove all the way to England. When Jo’s grandfather died, his grandmother moved to England to live with Jo’s family. By then I had learned Italian so that I could converse with her.

            Having got my degree at university, I decided to stay on in London and moved into a flat with Jo’s sister Luciana, while Jo went back to Boston for his final year. Less than two months later Jo unexpectedly showed up in London having abandoned university. At first, his parents and I were mad at him for his lack of seriousness, but there was nothing to be done.

            The three of us shared this flat until June 1968, when Luciana joined her parents in Sardinia, and I insisted in remaining in London for the summer. Luciana and I never really hit it off as we were too different. While she embraced the hippy movement I was a capitalist accountant at heart. I had no interest in flower power and was a keen follower of elegant fashion. What I think irritated her the most about me, apart from my bossing of her brother, was my fondness for keeping the accounts of all our expenses and who owed what to whom. I could not really let all my university training go to waste, and in any case I always did have a fondness for detail!

             In the 60s Jo’s youngest sister Ginetta was in her teens and still lived at home with her parents. She was a very sweet little girl and I had great fun taking her round the shops in the King’s Road when she came to visit. I met Jo’s brother Peter only once, in Sardinia, as he had married very young and had already left home.

            Joseph Eros had many friends around town, some from his old Downside days, such as David Arrigo from Malta, known later for his collection of antique cars and often seen participating in international rallies in his beautiful vehicles. Another was Octavian von Hofmannsthal, whose father died as a result of a failed plot against Hitler during the Second World War. I think Joseph met Octavian in Germany when he was learning German there. Octavian was a handsome and amusing person who had moved to London where I believe he still resides.

            In 1968 Jo and I rented another flat, also on the Chelsea Embankment, just for ourselves. As I was more of an urban person I thought this was our best summer of all. I well remember some of the musical hits of the season, like Winchester Cathedral and Summer in the City. At about this time, Alvaro Maccioni and Enzo Apicella, a restaurant designer, and Mino Parlanti, the owner of the famous San Frediano restaurant, opened the Club dell’Aretusa, also in the King’s Road. This was a large, members-only bar and discotheque on the ground floor, with a charming restaurant on the first floor. And soon enough Joseph and Anastasia became members and could often be seen in the evenings dining and dancing.

            This was my first whole year living in London together with my Joseph Eros and it was wonderful. We thought of nothing but enjoying ourselves. I was enchanted with the city and absolutely loved everything about it, including the climate. Accustomed to Boston as I was, I found the winters in London rather mild; the oft overcast skies as a cosy whitish-grey over-blanket; and the green lawns were perfect and beautiful. I also thought that English sophistication was much preferable to American casualness; I liked London’s restaurants and clubs, which we could enjoy to our hearts’ content now that we were no longer obliged to study all the time.

            Jo shipped his car from America. It was a fashionable Mustang, in which we cruised down the King’s Road in great style.  I am not a country person and prefer to spend most of my time in cities, but an occasional drive through the English countryside is always an exhilarating experience. And at weekends, we sometimes drove to Jo’s parents’ house.


Left: A 1960’s Ford Mustang.               Right: Porto Rafael in Sardinia.


            But we could not go on with our carefree life for ever. Jo’s father told him that it was in an attempt to make him a serious businessman that he had been sent to study business administration in Boston, and that if he had no interest in going into the family business,  it was time for him to start earning a living elsewhere. England was where Jo had always planned to live his life, but I was consumed with guilt and doubt about being there. I loved my life in London so much that I dreaded leaving, but I felt that I was obliged to return to Brazil. And when Jo asked me why, I said had no choice, as it had never crossed my mind before that moment that I could ever have another life.    

            Thus, convinced as I was that the only sensible occupation for me was to work with my family, I had not considered anything else. And now,  I wondered what would do. Get a little insignificant job somewhere? I could not imagine that. No, I would not allow my heart to override what I had learned at home ― that to be in control of my life I could not depend on a husband’s income. And I understood that working with my father was the surest way to become a financially independent woman. Nothing would divert me from this path.

            Faced with my intransigence, Jo said he was willing to move to Brazil and asked me if there was a publicity department there that would be suitable for him. But I knew it was useless. He would not fit into our world and would soon feel out of place and unhappy. There were so many strictures and so little flexibility. Jo’s interests never lay in the sterile art of making money. Instead he was artistic! And this I could not comprehend. Making money was my creed and nothing else was of any value to me. I told him that artistic activities were to be enjoyed only as a secondary occupation, thus the first serious seeds of discord were sewn.  

            The Summer of 1969 was the last one we spent in Sardinia, and that was when Jo met Carlo Corsi, who was from an ancient and noble Tuscan family. Carlo eventually married Giddie Vasconcellos, whose father had been in the Brazilian  diplomatic service and was at the time of his marriage very affluent through his involvement with Lloyds Insurance. But when that bubble burst he descended into drunkenness and eventually disappeared completely. I later heard that he had been seen in New York living a very precarious existence. Also in the late sixties, Jo became friendly with Dimitri Adamopulous, who lived for a while in the flat that Jo’s father had bought for him in Cornwall Gardens.

            However, it was not only our different aspirations that continued to have a serious impact on our relationship. Jo wanted to settle down and have children, and that was certainly not in my immediate plans. Sadly, I was  in truth a person distorted by my fears. I saw in the idea of marriage the inevitable end of love and the beginning of the humiliation of women. They would be forced to submit to a subservient role, and having children would seal their position as procreators, totally dependent on their husbands.

            Thus, determined to take steps towards the future of wealth and glory that I had always dreamed of, I decided that I had to break up with my Joseph Eros in a way that would render it impossible for me to go back on my decision because I feared my resolve might weaken at the last moment, and I might run back into his arms. I had to make him not want me anymore. I had to follow my path, and was determined to do so, regardless of the pain that would break my own heart, as well as his.

            So one day, in a moment of folly I told him I did not want to get married or to have children and that wished to live my own life. This hurt him so much that he gave up on me and dismissed all thoughts of reconciliation. As a result, instead of feeling ready to face the destiny that I had chosen, I fell into deep depression and decided that I could not return to Brazil in such a weakened state of mind. There followed years of suffering, for I could never forget him, or our love, or our life together.


Left: Jo in London, 1965. Photo collection ALP Gouthier.

Centre: Anastasia and Joseph Eros at the beach in Sardinia, July 1966. Photo collection of ALP Gouthier.

Right: Jo again in Sardinia in 1968. Photo collection of ALP Gouthier.     


            My Joseph Eros went his way, and so did I. He got married not long after we parted and his daughter Natasha was born the following year. I secretly kept abreast of his life and was warmed by the thought that he was happy. Every so often I heard something of him, but not a great deal. I know he worked for more than twenty years for a French company that made high quality lace and that he travelled a lot, especially to the Far East, to sell their expensive product. I often think how curious it was that even living apart we developed such similar interests, as I am also fond of textiles and have travelled extensively in Asia.

            I knew that Jo’s sister Luciana lived in London until she moved to New York where she died. And I knew that for a period of time Jo also lived in London. I even obtained his address and telephone number, but the most I did was once to drive past his house in Fulham and on another occasion I phoned him just to hear his voice. But I could not say anything. I could not mess up his life. Or even try to. He had a family and he was happy. That was all that mattered.

            One day I heard that Joseph Eros had moved to the Seychelles and after that he disappeared. I never again got news of him, but this did not stop me thinking about him. I still think it was right to separate, and anyway it was inevitable. We did not have the same aspirations and dreamed different dreams.


Eternal Love


What is love? What is its great source of strength?

A gift from heaven created by shared emotions?

Enchanted feelings guided by elusive logic,

 Prevailing radiance altering patterns of life, 

Magical currents between the eyes of those   

 Once deeply in love will never die.     

Later, metamorphosed by their separation

It still survives and hurts, the memory of

Its strength brings solace and warmth to empty days

Of a life and to moments of reflection.

Its memory thus endure the passage of time,

To become an eternal, glorious and fearful energy,

Needs no fuel to replenish and asks for nothing

 In return except the warmth of memories of having

Once been loved and been deeply in love.


© ALP Gouthier, March 2016


            I do not blame my parents for my attitude to marriage, for they were very good parents. Although it resulted from my observation of their marital experience, it also stemmed from my own fierce personality. My sister was content to settle for the more traditional woman’s role in life. A number years were to pass before I realised the importance of love or felt the need for children. But when this need belatedly emerged it came with a force beyond anything that I had felt before.

            Many years later I found out in the internet that Luciana, Jo’s sister, had died of meningitis in New York, still in her forties. I found his younger sister Ginetta on Facebook, but she only saw my message years later.

             I wonder if do we devise the trail we follow through life. I think I always did as I am a planner by nature. It is true that plans do not always come to fruition, but they are more likely to if you plot a course. And when circumstances lead us from our chosen path we must make a great mental effort to find it again.

            I am not a person given to taking chances or unnecessary risks, though I am very adventurous. But I have always guided myself along my path, never losing sight of the beacon of my ultimate goals, and I have gone to great lengths to prevent anything from throwing me off course. What did I always want? I willed myself to be the ruler of my life.

            Joseph Dallarosa was a wonderful person, but I realised that his dreams were very different from mine. He would not have liked the life I wanted, and I would not have been content with the life he wanted. It was very hard for me to break up with him, and I did it very badly. And consequently he was upset with me. I never saw Jo again, though I always longed for the chance to ask him to forgive me.

            And, as Lamartine by his poem Le Lac who immortalised his chagrin, I too was condemned to think of my Joseph Eros for all eternity.


Le Lac (selected stanzas)


1-Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,
Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour,
Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'océan des âges
Jeter l'ancre un seul jour?

2- Ô lac! l'année à peine a fini sa carrière,
Et près des flots chéris qu'elle devait revoir,
Regarde ! je viens seul m'asseoir sur cette pierre
Où tu la vis s'asseoir !


4-Un soir, t'en souvient-il? nous voguions en silence;
On n'entendait au loin, sur l'onde et sous les cieux,
Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
Tes flots harmonieux.


6- Ô temps! suspends ton vol, et vous, heures propices!
Suspendez votre cours:
Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices
Des plus beaux de nos jours!


7- Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore,
Le temps m'échappe et fuit;
Je dis à cette nuit: Sois plus lente; et l'aurore
Va dissiper la nuit.


13- Ô lac! rochers muets! grottes! forêt obscure!
Vous, que le temps épargne ou qu'il peut rajeunir,
Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
Au moins le souvenir!


- Alphonse Lamartine


The Lake (Selected stanzas)


1-Thus, always taken to new shores

In eternal nights without return,

Could we ever on the oceans of time

Drop anchor only one day?


2- Oh lake!  the year has just ended its course

And to the waves that she should see,

Look! I return alone to sit on this rock 

Where you saw her sit!


4- An evening, d’you remember? we sailed in silence;

We could not hear afar, o’er waves and below skies,

But the sound of oars slapping on rhythm

Your harmonious waves.


6- Oh time! cease your flight, and propitious hours!

Cease your lessons:

Allow us to savour the rapid pleasures

Of the loveliest of our days!


7- But I ask in vain yet a few moments,

Time escapes and disintegrates.

I tell this night: Slow down! and dawn

Will dissipate the night.


13- Oh lake! mute rocks! cliffs! dark woods!

You, that time keeps and rejuvenate,

Keep this night, keep, lovely nature,

At least the memory!


Translation by A.L.P. Gouthier


             I had not realised how much I had changed since I met Jo, or that I would never again be the person I was before he came into my life. I am really not at all sure when the metamorphosis happened, but sometime during those years Anna became Anastasia. And when I looked into the mirror I no longer saw the daughter of southern lands, but instead I found the spirit of northern lights ― years restlessly fluttering and wavering, twisting and turning, forever wandering in search of an elusive state of peace.

            I do not think I will ever become one of the people of the country to which I have moved to. But after many years of contented self-imposed exile I am also no longer like my own compatriots. Shall we say, therefore, that I have become a hybrid. Thus transformed, nothing will ever be the same for me. I broke up with my Joseph Eros because he could not fit into my former world. And the ultimate irony is that I am now always to be a part stranger in that land whence I came. Action and reaction.


The inability to forget is far more devastating

than the inability to remember.

— Mark Twain

Pampulha Chapel / Capela da Pampulha

About the Message

A Tram, 19th Century City Transportation / Um Bonde, Transporte do Seculo 19.

The Message

Rev. Jan 2013

             This poem was written for my contemporary fellow countrymen, who by their unjust persecution of my family and of myself, made of me a better, more capable and complete person then I would probably have become had none of this happened.

            It is only in my Horizon Saga, a quartet that I am writing, that the whole story will pour out, bit by bit, of the happiness and the tribulations of our lives, from the family’s point of view.

 ALP Gouthier

Sobre a Mensagem

19th Century Church / Igreja do Seculo 19

 A Mensagem

Rev. Fev 2013

               Este poema foi escrito para os meus conterrâneos contemporâneos que pela sua injusta perseguição à minha família e à minha pessoa, propiciaram que eu me tornasse uma pessoa melhor, mais capaz e mais completa do que eu provavelmente me teria tornado se nada disso tivesse acontecido.

            É somente na minha “Saga do Horizonte”, um quarteto que estou escrevendo que a historia completa se derrama, pedaço por pedaço, sobre a felicidade e as tribulações de nossas vidas, do ponto de vida da família.

 ALP Gouthier 

Poem: Message to Birth Land/ Written: 2010

Liberty Square / Praça da Liberdade

Period Covered: 1950 - 2013

Message to Birth Land

Ver: 22 March 2013\AG\MW

 21 Stanzas


1-Remember me still now that I have gone?

To distant world invisible from view,    

To my chosen land and my chosen dreams,

Far from your voices, and from all your might.


2-I am now where you can no longer reach me,

 You fade from sight, but do not fade from mind!

False accusations distance have to fly,

Then sound like murmurs, whispers on the wind.


3-Now that you can no longer stone my dreams

Or disclaim my mind with all your distant screams;

I’ve made my image sheer as a mirage,

That floats so still and far away from touch.


4-As strangers there we lived in our surrounds,

But never could you breech our private home;

The perfect life we lived - when with our own,

Happy for us, complete and full of warmth. 


5-Old home I loved, just mine, within your town

That gave me berth and sanctuary to bloom,

A niche protected, from strangers’ cruel world,

Wherein for years I had to be and grow.


6-Parents created, our own wonderland,

Of peace and beauty where alone we lived;

But when I stepped into your world outside,

I found a jungle of Aggression- trees.


7-Those who gave me means to choose new life,

Through days of pain far from me had to live;

They saved me from the torment of your fields;

Allowed my fate in happier grounds afar.


8-My perfect life that there existed then,

Created bonds eternal in my mind;

To which I come but little I do find,

To which I’m bound by memory’s great might.


9-Parents are gone to float elsewhere unseen,

 No more exist but still I search for them,

Their image now I struggle to protect,

By telling the true story of our lives.


10-And thus embraced by the bonds of memory,

I carry on the mark of heritage,

In my own blood, as well as in my mind,

Head raised in pride, and love within my heart.


11-So now I’m gone, and you no longer can,

Child persecutors, bullies and other fiends,

Torment my life, my heart, and all my days,

You’ve lost your power; in time that was my gain.


12-Now my horizons other have become

And your horizons are nothing but my past;

I contemplate such fresh and pleasant sights

Of flowers growing in gardens of life.


13-In me you found no dormant, passive foe.

I had the strength to flourish and to fly;

Grow strong in mind through effort and through work,

Make a new world in which to live and thrive.


14-I break my silence, of so many years,

To speak out loud, let words my thoughts express;

And see me now, your world, no longer may,

I’m just a spectre roaming her birth-land.


15-I won’t be quiet, now I won’t be still,

I’ll tell my tale, compose my story will;

My words shall live, through time, they will survive,

And give our story its eternal life.


16-I’ll not let injury alone exist,

My version of our lives shall so be freed;

I’ll throw my story, to the winds of time,

To challenge myths and so expose your lies.


17-Infamous accusers! Calumny !

Dared re-invent the story of my life,

But your falsehoods can never proven be,

Forbears are gone; what more can you do me?


18-Your hurtful words, that were so deeply felt,

Have lost their strength, fall flat upon the ground;   

Through time and distance has my freedom come,

The past is dead, too late for thought or grief.


19-My silent words, are all that now can speak,

When written down; so I have learned to use;

Them to retort, send verse to hearing eyes,

To those who never thought I’d raise my voice.


20-Beware birth-land of me on distant shores

As final war between us is declared

I’m on my guard against your future threats

And have thus raised my battle Tacapé.


21-We native warriors sprung from common lands

Are born to fight and never to give in

Tradition makes us hate where we see hate

It is our nature and there’s no escape.


© ALP Gouthier, 2010 

Poema: Menssagem à Terra Natal /Escrito: 2010

Minas Gerais Academy of Letters / Academia de Letras de Minas Gerais

Periodo da Historia: 1950 - 2013 

 Mensagem à Terra Natal


 21 Estrofes


1- Lembrem de mim que para distante fui embora

Para mundo longe do alcance dos seus olhos,

Para terra escolhida e outros sonhos meus;

Longe de suas vozes e fora do o seu poder.


2-Quando não mais puderem alcançar-me com a sua voz,

Distancia apaga a sua visão, não a memória;

Palavras críticas têm muito a voar então,

Como murmúrios chegam aos ventos a soprar.


3-Não podem mais apedrejar todos os meus sonhos,

Ou desacreditar o meu qualquer poder mental;

Fiz de minha imagem para vós só uma miragem,

Que voa leve, mas bem longe do seu alcançar.


4-Lar que amei e que tive nessa terra sua,

E que me deu berço onde eu me desenvolver,

Assim protegida de vosso mundo tão cruel,

Onde nasci, lá cresci, e um dia eu vivi.


5-Meus pais criaram-me em um mundo encantado,

De paz e beleza, feito só pra nós vivermos;

Mas quando saí ao vosso grande mundo externo,

Selva eu encontrei a crescer pés de Agressão.


6-Aos que me deram o poder de vida escolher,

Minha distancia causou também grande pesar;

Mas me salvaram de ai viver grande tormenta,

E pude assim, amplos campos longes encontrar.


7-No mundo vosso onde vivi o meu passado,

Laços eternos criaram então dentro de mim,

Aos quais eu volto, mas já pouco encontro eu lá,

Busco sombras do passado, daqueles que amei.


 8-Eles se foram já a outros planos flutuar,

Não mais existem, mas volto ainda procurar;

Sua memória tento agora proteger,

Ao descrever a nossa vida que existiu.


9-E assim presa sou, pelas forças da lembrança,

Carrego forte a marca de uma herança,

No sangue e nas lembranças de uma infância,

Com muito orgulho e com amor no coração.


10-Distante agora já não podem me atingir,

Os perseguidores, de crianças e outros mais,

A atormentar-me a vida e os meus dias,

As forças perdem, e com o tempo, eu as ganho.


11-Meus horizontes, outros se tornaram agora;

Vossos horizontes são apenas meu passado;

As minhas vistas novas são bem do meu agrado,

Tem muitas flores no jardim que eu cresci aqui.


12-Não encontraram em mim uma vitima passiva,

Eu tive força para ir-me e para crescer;

Forte em mente e através minhas palavras,

Ganhei um mundo, onde em paz desenvolver-me.


13-Quebro aqui, de longa data, o silencio,

Essas palavras jogo expressando minha voz;

Mas ver-me mais, o seu mundo não o fará,

Para vós sou um fantasma que vaga por meu lar.


14-Acusadores, de calunias, e tão infames,

Ousaram até a minha vida reescrever,

Mas o falso não se rende a comprovar-se,

Pais já se foram, só podem a mim fazer sofrer.


15-Não mais me quietarei e não me calarei jamais,

Minha historia então agora contarei;

Minha voz escrita assim irá sobreviver,

E minha versão propagara-se para o além.


 16-Não deixarei a sua injuria existir só,

Contando historias liberarei nossas vidas;

Aos ventos do tempo, elas então reviverão,

Desafiando os vossos mitos e mentiras.


17-Vossas ofensas que tanto me doeram,

Perdem a força e já caem em solo, fracas;

O tempo e a distancia me deram a liberdade,

Tarde demais para emendas então criar.


18-As mudas palavras que agora eu expresso;

Os sons escritos que eu aprendi então rimar,

Para as respostas, aos seus olhos, que me lerem,

Àqueles que pensaram eu não falaria mais.


19-Terra natal atente a mim aqui distante,

Guerra final eu já ouvi o declarar também

Estou em guarda contra os seus novos ataques

Mantenho erguido o Tacape da batalha.


20-Guerreiras indígenas dessa terra em comum

Nascem a lutar pois desconhecem o desistir;

Tradição traz ódio onde ódio encontramos;

É a natureza da qual não pude eu fugir.

 © ALP Gouthier, 2010

Liberty Palace / Palacio da Liberdade

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Latest comments

25.08 | 17:07

Está perfeito.Parabéns.Adorei

26.03 | 16:05

Acho que o sofrimento e as perseguições o mudaram, mas ele nunca perdeu seu lado humano.
Fiz o melhor que estava em meu alcance por ele.
Sinto muito sua falta!

26.03 | 15:58

Ele dizia que o maior golpe que recebeu em sua vida foi a intervenção no Banco Financial.
Compartilho com você a visão do grande ser humano que ele foi.

26.03 | 15:54

Muitas vezes eu penso que houveram duas fases principais da vida de meu pai.
concordo com você. Admiro sua atitude de resguardar a boa memória dele.

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