- Portugal -
André Tecedeiro is a Portuguese poet, born in 1979. He has a degree in Painting and a master’s in Visual Arts.
His career started in the area of fine arts, to which he dedicated himself, almost exclusively, for fifteen years, during which he held dozens of exhibitions.
In 2014, he published his first book of poetry, Rebento-Ladrão (Tea for One), followed by Deitar a Trazer (Douda Correria, 2016).
In 2017, he started a process of gender reassignment and went back to studying, graduating in Psychology, with a master’s in Work and Organizational Psychology. At that stage, he published O Número de Strahler (Do Lado Esquerdo, 2018) and A Arte da Fuga (Do Lado Esquerdo, 2019).
In 2020, he published A Axila de Egon Schiele (Porto Editora), which contains the previous books, unpublished poems, poems scattered through magazines and anthologies and a conversation with his wife. This book is part of the National Reading Plan.
In 2021, he wrote the play Joyeux Anniversaire for the Teatro Meia Volta, opening the doors to several projects in the area of playwriting.
In 2022, he participated as an actor in the play Orlando, by Cláudia Lucas Chéu, directed by Albano Jerónimo.
His work was the subject of a session of Clube dos Poetas Vivos (Teatro Nacional D. Maria II, 2019) and of a staged reading of the cycle Da Voz Humana (Livraria Ferin, Lisbon, 2019). He has participated in several TV and radio shows and in podcasts.
He was one of the writers invited to the Bogotá International Book Fair – FiilBo 2022, in Colombia.
André Tecedeiro’s poetry is characterized by depuration and the absence of too many words, in “brief, low-flying poems, in which each word is placed on the page with surgical precision (Carvalho, 2021). It has also been interpreted as a reflection on identity matters, marked by the experience of gender reassignment (Martins, 2021), “a manifest about what it is like to live with and within a body, a body that, sometimes, seems strange and in discord with it’s bowels, where much remains hidden under the skin” (Carvalho, 2021).
I don’t go around giving
poetry for free.
You never know what tomorrow
I’ll arrive, driven by the error,
because the path the error shows us
never rots, nor
do birds peck it.
The path I tread on the error’s heels will stay with me
like little white pebbles in my memory.
They decide we’re a boy or a girl
for little reason:
a crevice, an acorn.
With a poem I build walls
to define an interior space,
never to close it.
In the past, everything seems still.
But, if, suddenly, I turn around,
I feel something has moved.
Maybe nothing in my memory
is what I think.
(The contemporary cat)
This thing my cat hunts and tears
is a Kermit the frog I got from a
My cat never knew bushes
and never hunted more than still lives
If it’s my life, it’s my
Imagine a god that sleeps
while a river of lava
destroys innocent villages.
I am the god, the volcano and the village
Poems about the sea settle for
the surface that reflects the sky.
They never say fish
no man will ever eat
die and liquefy in that sea.
A poem is the shortest way
that is not a shortcut.
I grew up with no return.
Sometimes, I just wish I go back to cleaning my mouth
with my sweater’s sleeves.
The mouth is still there,
so is the sleeve,
but something has separated them forever.
The flesh is very strong.
That’s why they say the flesh is weak.
I do and undo.
Sometimes I do with the right and undo with the left.
Then, I change hands
and skillfully destroy what took more effort to build.
In the end, I hope,
something will remain.
Each minute of the almost
is harder than the previous hour.
Each second of the almost
is harder than the previous minute.
It is the almost that teaches us to see
the infinitely small,
that colossal desperation.
A MAN IN SKIRTS / UM HOMEM DE SAIAS
Men growl as he passes,
they fear the man in skirts will devour them.
But he passes, moves forward, knowing very well
he gathers poles inside a sphere
and kindles possibilities under the skirt.
He has a beard and the sturdiness of a tree.
The skirt befits him as it befits Jupiter.
As he passes, he weaves harmonies and discords,
he declares strength with the softness of a fabric.
The love for the infimum has never let me down.
You measure your life by the children that will stay
and I tell you nothing stays
— not even eternity.
And even the “till death do us apart”
is not guaranteed, because death is something
that keeps happening to us
several times a day.
I don’t even wear a watch.
There are so many ways to count the time:
a cigarette lasts five
a night of sleep eight
one love one
one life one
On the bus
each one’s apparent health
to ascertain their right
to a seat.
Looking at oneself is cumbersome,
no one is willing to do it.
That is why
we roam the world
I chose to undress myself
before others undress me.
I walk naked over the crowd.
Lying over the hot wood
of the deck I see,
from the corner of my eye:
gunwale and pisses
into the open sea
and it’s a [Oh!]
of all the waters,
the intimacy of the ocean,
the return to the whole,
the complete circle.
I feel envious.
I don’t know
if I envy the man,
if I envy the sea.
Leaving the coffee shop, I find on the ground
a little green bottle.
It was a nice little bottle,
to put a flower in.
While I washed it to take
the smell and the label off,
I thought of a an
who used to han around
the Avenidas Novas. 
Sometimes, he ate only gravy and bread
and always had a flower
in front of him,
inside a dirty bottle.
One day, I handed him
a piece of fruit for desert
he invited me to also eat
from that dish
with a catastrophic look.
I remember thinking
there are things you only swallow
very hungry and with a flower in front of you.
But he was a still young homeless guy.
One of these days, he won’t even need the flower.
 New Avenues, a part of Lisbon, built from the late 19th century on.
He asked me:
In what measure did that
I ask him:
How do you measure a root?
Childhood is a prehistoric root.
If writing was invented during early childhood,
there would be words to express the thick darkness.
This way, there are not.
We must prospect and grope,
there are forever incomplete puzzles to be said.
I used an armor
that betrayed me twice:
it was insufficient to soften the blow,
it was efficient hiding the wound.
To lean with my lemon tree how to conciliate
at the same time,
in the same branch,
and ripe lemons.
By the looks of it,
the poison grandpa left on the firewood
didn’t kill the rat.
Grandma says the beast
made a nest out of those blue pellets,
where it had twelve cubs.
She speaks with awe and indignation
and I listen with awe and amazement.
Maybe because I can be so many things,
I can even wear
a rat’s skin.
The root of any grapevine descends at will
to a depth of a two-story building.
However, above ground, it makes you feel sorry:
weak vine shoots, arthrosis
leaning on what surrounds them
like twisted fingers on canes.
But what we don’t see,
what we don’t see is that vertical
penetrating the soil like a thunderbolt
and drinking the deepest waters.
My son showing me
the scar of the bread.
My son asking me
if I can
think about two things at the same time.
I point at the ragged napkin
and the cat looks at my finger,
not understanding my finger is an arrow.
I slide my finger over the scar
It’s in the scar that the skin is wisest.
In middle age, the nights are different.
Cinemas have closed,
cinemas have opened.
It’s strange how I kept acquiring the shape
of an arrow that trespasses time.
I’m now at this age when we are stuck
between a younger generation and
an older one
and we don’t differ that much
from one or the other.
One day, I have ideals for lunch;
another, my back hurts.
But, above all, there’s a good seasoning,
a delicious flavor in everything,
at this age when we live mostly
off the choices we’ve made.
On the worst days, I don’t ask god,
I ask David Attenborough
to make sense of all this
and to narrate the pain as if it was just
part of my species’ odyssey.
On the worst days, it is a balm
to remember I’m an animal.
All the great luck I had
was to have jumped to the back
of my misfortune.
A merciless gale was blowing,
with kindled nostrils and a giant’s breath
when I threw my mouth and hands to the mane
and crawled through the loin,
where kicks and bites couldn’t
I stepped up, half blind.
I know it could have gone wrong.
But the fact is, this time, I jumped,
I didn’t dodge it like before.
I didn’t curl up inside a shell,
I didn’t play dead, to know
if my parents wept for me.
I jumped without thinking about the animal’s weight.
All my great luck was being alive
and having built up a great scream
like fuel for a jump.
But, before that, I rubbed my hands on the ground.
I wouldn’t have made it if they weren’t empty.