PESSOA, Fernando
Sit under the sun, abdicate, and be your own king.
…..
The Flame of the Spent Hour
Hour by hour the ancient face of repeated
Beings changes, and hour by hour,
Thinking, we get older.
Everything passes, unknown, and the knower
Who remains knows he knows not.
But nothing, Aware or unaware, returns.
Equals, therefore, of what isn’t our equal,
Let us preserve, in the heat we remember,
The flame of the spent hour.
In the winter pale
In the winter pale morning light
Along the pier
Reason gives no hope, no hope of any pity
For my tears.
What has to be
Will be, whatever I believe to be right.
In the rustle of the quay, the bustling stream,
The street as it actuates
There is no more quiet, nothing even empty,
To accompany my wait.
What doesn't have to be
Somewhere will be, if I believe; everything else is a dream.
Depus a mascara e vi me ao espelho
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Era a criança de há quantos anos. Não tinha mudado nada...
É-se sempre a criança, O passado que foi A criança.
Assim é melhor, Assim sou a máscara.
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there was the child, of so many years ago. Nothing had changed.
One is always the child, the past that was the child.
That’s better.
Thus, I am the mask.
Het was het kind van zoveel jaar geleden. Het was helemaal niet veranderd.
Je bent altijd het kind, het verleden dat het kind was.
Zo is het beter, zo ben ik het masker.
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In This World Where We Forget / (Neste mundo em que esquecemos)
In this world where we forget
we are shadows of who we are,
and the true expressions we form
in that other where, souls, we live,
are here grimaces and signs.
All is night and confusion
that exists among us here:
projections, smoke scattered
from the fire whose glow is hidden
when we look at what life gives.
But one or another, gazing
closely for a moment,
can see in the shifting shadows
the intent in the other world
of the expression that makes them live.
And then they find the meaning
of what here is merely a grimace,
and their intuitive gaze
returns to their body, lost,
imagined, understood.
Shadow of the yearning body,
it pretends it feels the tie
that binds it to the marvellous
truth that hurled it, anxious,
to the floor of space and time.
(Transl. A.S. KLINE)
Like A Mist / Tenho em mim como una bruma
I have in me like a mist
that is and contains nothing
nostalgia for nothing at all,
the desire for something fine.
I am enveloped by it
as if by a fog
and I see the last star glowing
above the stub in my ashtray
I smoked life away. How uncertain
all I saw or read!
And the whole world, a vast open book,
smiles at me in an unknown language.
(Transl. : A.S. KLINE)
Nobody loves another, unless he loves
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O que de si há nele, ou é suposto. Nada te pese que não te amem. Sentem-te Quem és, e és estrangeiro. Cura de ser quem és, amam-te ou nunca. Firme contigo, sofrerás avaro De penas.
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That which is of himself in the other, or he supposes it so. Don't let it weigh on you that no one loves you. They sense Who you are and you are a stranger. Cure yourself of being who you are, they'll never love you. Be firm about yourself, you'll suffer avarices
of pain.
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O church bell of my village
O church bell of my village,
Each of your plaintive tolls
Filling the calm evening
Rings inside my soul.
And your ringing is so slow,
So as if life made you sad,
That already your first clang
Seems like a repeated sound.
However closely you touch me
When I pass by, always drifting,
You are to me like a dream--
In my soul your ringing is distant.
With every clang you make,
Resounding across the sky,
I feel the past farther away,
I feel nostalgia close by.
translation Richard ZENITH
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Nunca serei nada. Não posso querer ser nada.
À parte isso, tenho em mim todos os sonhos do mundo
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I’ll always be nothing. I can’t want to be something.
But I have in me all the dreams of the world.
Ik zie de geklede levende wezens die elkaar kruisen, Ik zie de honden die er ook zijn, En dit alles kwelt me als een veroordeling tot ballingschap
En dit alles is vreemd zoals alles.)
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Sou um guardador de rebanhos. O rebanho é os meus pensamentos E os meus pensamentos são todos sensações. Penso com os olhos e com os ouvidos E com as mãos e os pés
E com o nariz e a boca.
E comer um fruto é saber-lhe o sentido.
Me sinto triste de gozá-lo tanto, E me deito ao comprido na erva, E fecho os olhos quentes, Sinto todo o meu corpo deitado na realidade, Sei a verdade e sou feliz.
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De kudde, dat zijn mijn gedachten en mijn gedachten zijn allemaal gevoelens. Ik denk met ogen en oren en met handen en voeten en met neus en mond.
en een stuk fruit eten is het begrijpen.
droefgeestig voel omdat ik er zo van geniet en lang neerlig in het gras en de warme ogen sluit, heel mijn lichaam voel liggen in de werkelijkheid, de waarheid ken en gelukkig ben.
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Ó artigos inúteis que toda a gente quer comprar! Olá grandes armazéns com várias secções! Olá anúncios eléctricos que vêm e estão e desaparecem! Olá tudo com que hoje se constrói, com que hoje se é diferente de ontem! Eh, cimento armado, beton de cimento, novos processos! Progressos dos armamentos gloriosamente mortíferos!
Couraças, canhões, metralhadoras, submarinos, aeroplanos!
…..
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In my restless, ardent mind I possess you like a beautiful woman, I completely possess you like a beautiful woman who isn’t loved
But who fascinates the man who happens to meet her.
O slagschepen, O bruggen, O drijvende dokken – In mijn onstuimige, vurige geest Bezit ik jullie zoals een mooie vrouw, Bezit ik jullie volledig zoals een mooie vrouw waarvan je niet houdt. Die je toevallig ontmoet en die je zeer boeiend vindt.
…..
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Ser outro constantemente, Por a alma não ter raízes
De viver de ver somente!
Ir em frente, ir a seguir A ausência de ter um fim,
E da ânsia de o conseguir!
Mas faço-o sem ter de meu Mais que o sonho da passagem. O resto é só terra e céu |
To be forever someone else, With a soul that has no roots,
Living only off what it sees!
To go forward, to follow after The absence of any goal
And any desire to achieve it!
But there is nothing in it of me Besides my dream of the journey.
The rest is just land and sky.
Voortdurend een ander zijn, Omdat de ziel geen wortels heeft
En leeft alleen om te kijken!
Steeds vooropgaan, lopen achter Het gemis van een bestemming,
En de angst om die te bereiken!
Maar ik doe’t zonder iets te verkrijgen. Meer om de droom van de doortocht.
De rest is alleen land en lucht.
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Lisbon Revisited (1923)
No, I don’t want anything.
I already said I don’t want anything.
Don’t come to me with conclusions!
Death is the only conclusion.
Don’t offer me aesthetics!
Don’t talk to me of morals!
Take metaphysics away from here!
Don’t try to sell me complete systems, don’t bore me with the breakthroughs
Of science (of science, my God, of science!)—
Of science, of the arts, of modern civilization!
What harm did I ever do to the gods?
If you’ve got the truth, you can keep it!
I’m a technician, but my technique is limited to the technical sphere,
Apart from which I’m crazy, and with every right to be so.
With every right to be so, do you hear?
Leave me alone, for God’s sake!
You want me to be married, futile, predictable and taxable?
You want me to be the opposite of this, the opposite of anything?
If I were someone else, I’d go along with you all.
But since I’m what I am, lay off!
Go to hell without me,
Or let me go there by myself!
Why do we have to go together?
Don’t grab me by the arm!
I don’t like my arm being grabbed. I want to be alone,
I already told you that I can only be alone!
I’m sick of you wanting me to be sociable!
O blue sky—the same one I knew as a child—
Perfect and empty eternal truth!
O gentle, silent, ancestral Tagus,
Tiny truth in which the sky is mirrored!
O sorrow revisited, Lisbon of bygone days today!
You give me nothing, you take nothing from me, you’re nothing I feel is me.
Leave me in peace! I won’t stay long, for I never stay long . . .
And as long as Silence and the Abyss hold off, I want to be alone!
(Translated by Richard Zenith)
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Transeunte inútil de ti e de mim, Estrangeiro aqui como em toda a parte, Casual na vida como na alma, Fantasma a errar em salas de recordações, Ao ruído dos ratos e das tábuas que rangem
No castelo maldito de ter que viver...
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A useless onlooker of you and of myself, A foreigner here like everywhere else, Incidental in life as in my soul, A ghost wandering through halls of remembrances To the sound of rats and creaking floorboards
In the accursed castle of having to live...
We gaan elkaar vergeefs voorbij. Hier ben ik een vreemdeling zoals overal elders, Verzeild in het leven zoals in de ziel, Een schim dwalend door zalen vol herinneringen, Met geritsel van ratten en krakende parketten In de vervloekte burcht van het moeten-leven …
…..
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São lágrimas de Portugal! Por te cruzarmos, quantas mães choraram,
Quantos filhos em vão rezaram!
Para que fosses nosso, ó mar!
Se a alma não é pequena. Quem quere passar além do Bojador Tem que passar além da dor. Deus ao mar o perigo e o abismo deu, Mas nele é que espelhou o céu. |
Is Portugal’s tears! All the mothers Who had to weep for us to cross you! All the sons who prayed in vain! All the brides-to-be who never
Married for you to be ours, O sea!
If the soul of the doer isn’t small. Whoever would go beyond the Cape Must go beyond sorrow. God placed danger and the abyss in the sea, But he also made it heaven’s mirror.
Bevat tranen van Portugal! Hoeveel moeders weenden toen we je doorkruisten, Hoeveel zonen baden vergeefs! Hoeveel aanstaande bruiden bleven achter Om je de onze te maken, o zee!
Als de geest niet bekrompen is. Wie verder wil varen dan Kaap Bojador Moet de grens van de pijn overschrijden. God gaf de zee gevaren en diepten, Maar in de zee liet hij de hemel weerspiegelen.
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Ode
Of the gardens of Adonis, Lydia, I love
Most of all those fugitive roses
That on the day they are born,
That very day, must also die.
Eternal, for them, the light of day:
They're born when the sun is already high
And die before Apollo’s course
Across the visible sky is run.
We too, of our lives, must make one day:
We never know, my Lydia, nor want
To know of nights before or after
The little while that we may last.
To be great, be whole: nothing that's you
Should you exaggerate or exclude.
In each thing, be all. Give all you are
In the least you ever do.
The whole moon, because it rides so high,
Is reflected in each pool.
Translated by Edouard RODITI
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Sossegadamente fitemos o seu curso e aprendamos Que a vida passa, e não estamos de mãos enlaçadas.
(Enlacemos as mãos.)
Passa e não fica, nada deixa e nunca regressa, Vai para um mar muito longe, para ao pé do Fado,
Mais longe que os deuses.
Quer gozemos, quer não gozemos, passamos como o rio. Mais vale saber passar silenciosamente
E sem desassossegos grandes.
Nem invejas que dão movimento demais aos olhos, Nem cuidados, porque se os tivesse o rio sempre correria,
E sempre iria ter ao mar.
Se quiséssemos, trocar beijos e abraços e carícias, Mas que mais vale estarmos sentados ao pé um do outro
Ouvindo correr o rio e vendo-o.
No colo, e que o seu perfume suavize o momento — Este momento em que sossegadamente não cremos em nada,
Pagãos inocentes da decadência.
Sem que a minha lembrança te arda ou te fira ou te mova, Porque nunca enlaçamos as mãos, nem nos beijamos
Nem fomos mais do que crianças.
Eu nada terei que sofrer ao lembrar-me de ti. Ser-me-ás suave à memória lembrando-te assim — à beira-rio,
Pagã triste e com flores no regaço.
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Calmly let us watch it flow, and learn That life passes, and we are not holding hands.
(Let us hold hands)
Passes and does not stay, leaves nothing, never returns Goes to a sea far away, near to Fate itself,
Further than the gods.
For our pleasure, for our pain, we pass on like the river. 'Tis better to know how to pass on silently,
With no great disquiet.
Nor envies making the eye rove too restlessly, Nor cares, for if it knew care, the river would flow no less,
Would still join the sea in the end.
If we chose, freely kiss and caress and embrace, But that we do better to be seated side by side
Hearing the river flow, and seeing it.
In your lap, and let their scent lend sweetness to the moment - This moment when calmly we believe in nothing,
Innocent pagans of the decadence.
Though remembered, I may not inflame nor hurt nor disturb you, For we never hold hands, nor kiss,
Nor were we ever more than children.
I shall have not cause to suffer when I remember you. You will be sweet to my memory if I remember you thus, on the river bank,
A sorrowful pagan maid, with flowers in her lap.
Laten wij kalm kijken naar haar stromen en leren Dat het leven voorbijgaat, en wij houden elkaars hand niet vast.
(Laten we mekaars handen vasthouden)
Voorbijgaat en niet blijft, niets nalaat en nooit weerkeert, Naar een zee gaat ver weg, dichtbij ‘t Noodlot zelf,
Veel verder dan de goden.
Of wij vrolijk willen zijn of pijn lijden, wij gaan voorbij als de rivier. Beter is te weten hoe stil over te gaan,
Zonder grote onrust.
Zonder afgunst die het oog te rusteloos doet dolen, Zonder zorgen, want de rivier zou niet minder stromen, als ze zorgen kende,
En nog altijd uitmonden in de zee aan het ende.
Elkaar openlijk zouden kunnen kussen, strelen en omhelzen, Maar dat het beter is te blijven zitten naast elkaar,
De rivier te horen stromen en te zien.
In je schoot, en laat hun geur het ogenblik verzoeten - Dit ogenblik waarop wij kalm in niets geloven,
Argeloze heidenen der decadentie.
Als je je me dan herinnert, mag ik je niet tergen, kwetsen of storen, Want nooit hielden wij elkaars hand vast, nooit kusten wij elkaar
Nooit waren wij meer dan kinderen.
Dan zal ik geen reden tot lijden hebben als ik me je herinner. Zoet zal je in mijn herinnering toeven als ik zo aan je denk, aan de oever van de rivier,
Een bedroefd heidens meisje, met bloemen in haar schoot.…..
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Teu exagera ou exclui. Sê todo em cada coisa. Põe quanto és No mínimo que fazes. Assim em cada lago a lua toda Brilha, porque alta vive.
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Of yourself exaggerate or exclude. Be all in all things. Put what you are Into the least you do. So, in every lake the whole moon
Shines and, soaring, lives.
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Nothing of nothing remains. We're nothing.
In the sun and air we put off briefly
The unbreathable darkness of damp earth
Who's weight we'll have to bear-
Postponed corpses that procreate.
Laws passed, statues seen, odes finished -
All have their grave. If we, heaps of flesh
Made sanguine by an inner sun,
Must set, then why not they?
We're tales telling tales, nothing....
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To dream is nothing, and to not know is vain.
Sleep in the shadow, uncertain heart.
Ik draag mijn zijn, illusie, waar ik ga. Begrip begrijp ik niet, kan nergens lezen Of ik zal zijn, niets zijnd, wat ik zal wezen.
Der wijde hemel, wekt me elk ijdel uur Een zuidenwind die siddert in het lover. Gelijk hebben, winnen, in liefde geloven
Dromen is niets, niet weten is onnut.
Slaap in de schaduw, o onzeker hart.
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Finge tão completamente Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.
Na dor lida sentem bem, Não as duas que ele teve,
Mas só a que eles não têm.
Gira, a entreter a razão, Esse comboio de corda
Que se chama coração
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And feigns so thoroughly, at last He manages to feign as pain
The pain he really feels,
Feel clearly, in the pain they read, Neither of the pains he felt,
Only a pain they cannot sense.
There runs, to keep our reason busy, The circling clockwork train of ours
That men agree to call a heart.
Hij veinst, zo door en door Dat hij zelfs voorwendt pijn te zijn. Zijn werkelijk gevoelde pijn.
Voelen in de gelezen pijn Niet de twee die hij geleden heeft, Maar één slechts die de hunne niet kan zijn.
Tot vermaak van onze rede, Die opwindtrein, in dichtermond
Ook wel ‘het hart’ geheten.
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NL vertalingen Nada sou, Autopsicografia & Isto: August WILLEMSEN
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Ólho pró lado da barra, ólho pró Indefinido, Ólho e contenta-me vêr, Pequeno, negro e claro, um paquete entrando. Vem muito longe, nítido, clássico à sua maneira. Deixa no ar distante atrás de si a orla vã do seu fumo. Vem entrando, e a manhã entra com êle, e no rio,
Aqui, acolá, acorda a vida marítima,
Surgem barcos pequenos de trás dos navios que estão no porto. Ha uma vaga brisa. Mas a minh'alma está com o que vejo menos, Com o paquete que entra, Porque êle está com a Distância, com a Manhã, Com o sentido marítimo desta Hora, Com a doçura dolorosa que sobe em mim como uma náusea,
Como um começar a enjoar, mas no espírito.
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I look towards the bar, I look towards the Indefinite, I look and find pleasure in seeing, Little, black and clear, a steamer coming in. It is very far yet, distinct and classic after its own fashion. It leaves on the distant air behind it the vain curls of its smoke. It is coming in, and morn comes in with it, and on the river Here, there, naval life awakes,
Small boats jut out from behind the ships in the port. There is a vague breeze. But my soul is with the things that I see least, With the in-coming steamer, Because it is with Distance, with Morn, With the naval meaning of this Hour, With the painful softness that rises in me like a qualm, Like a beginning of sea-sickness, but in my soul.
And when the ship leaves the quay And we note suddenly that a space is widening Between the quay and the ship, There comes to me, I know not why, a recent anguish, A mist of feelings of sadness That shines in the sun of my mossy anguishes Like the first window the morning strikes on, And clings round me like some one else’s remembrance
Which is somehow mysteriously mine.
And then the near beaches and the quays seen from near. The mystery of each departure and of each arrival, The painful instability and incomprehensibility Of this impossible universe At each naval hour ever more deeply felt right in my skin. The absurd sob that our souls spill Over the ever-different tracts of seas with islands afar, Over the distant lines of the coasts we merely pass by, Over the clear growing-clear of ports, with their houses and their people,
When the ship nears the land.
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Insinua-se no meu sangue toda essa sedução fina E eu cismo indeterminadamente as viagens. Ah, as linhas das costas distantes, achatadas pelo horizonte!
Ah, os cabos, as ilhas, as praias areentas!
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All of its sweet sseduction filters into my blood, And I daydream indefinitely of voyages. The distant coastmines, flattened by the horizon! The capes, islands, and sandy beaches!
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In mijn bloed sluipt die geniepige bekoring En ik droom gedachtenloos van reizen. O, de lijnen van verre kusten, afgeplat over de horizon!
O, de kapen, eilanden, zandige stranden!
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Cada momento mudei. Continuamente me estranho. Nunca me vi nem achei. De tanto ser, só tenho alma. Quem tem alma não tem calma. Quem vê é só o que vê.
Quem sente não é quem é.
Torno-me eles e não eu. Cada meu sonho ou desejo, É do que nasce, e não meu. Sou minha própria paisagem, Assisto à minha passagem, Diverso, móbil e só.
Não sei sentir-me onde estou.
Como páginas, meu ser. O que segue não prevendo, O que passou a esquecer. Noto à margem do que li O que julguei que senti. Releio e digo, «Fui eu?»
Deus sabe, porque o escreveu.
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But at least, from my bitterness over what I'll never be,
There remains the hasty writing of these verses,
A broken gateway to the Impossible.
But at least I confer on myself a contempt without tears,
Noble at least in the sweeping gesture by which I fling
The dirty laundry that's me -- with no list -- into the stream of things,
And I stay at home, shirtless.
As long as I feel the full breeze in my hair
And see the sun shining bright on the leaves,
I will not ask for more.
What better thing could destiny give me
Than the sensual passing of life in moments
Of ignorance like this?
Where there are roses we plant doubt.
Most of the meaning we glean is our own,
And forever not knowing, we ponder.
Foreign to us, capacious nature
Unrolls fields, opens flowers, ripens
Fruits, and death arrives.
I'll only be right, if anyone is right,
When death at last confounds my mind
And I no longer see,
For we cannot find and should not find
The remote and profound explanation
For why it is we live.
Wise is the one who does not seek.
The seeker will find in all things
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Se eu já estiver morto, As flores florirão da mesma maneira E as árvores não serão menos verdes que na Primavera passada.
A realidade não precisa de mim.
Ao pensar que a minha morte não tem importância nenhuma.
E a Primavera era depois de amanhã, Morreria contente, porque ela era depois de amanhã. Se esse é o seu tempo, quando havia ela de vir senão no seu tempo? Gosto que tudo seja real e que tudo esteja certo; E gosto porque assim seria, mesmo que eu não gostasse. Por isso, se morrer agora, morro contente,
Porque tudo é real e tudo está certo.
Se quiserem, podem dançar e cantar à roda dele. Não tenho preferências para quando já não puder ter preferências.
O que for, quando for, é que será o que é.
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Reality has no need of me.
At the thought that my death has no significance whatever.
And that spring would be there the day after, I would die content, since it was spring the following day. If it was time for it, for when else would it come than when it was time? I relish the fact that all is real and all as it must be; And relish the fact it would also be so even if I did not relish it.
For all is real and all is as it must be.
If so desired, let there be dancing and singing around it. I have no preferences for when I no longer can have any preferences.
Whatever will be, when it shall be, will be what it
is.
En als ik dan al dood ben Zullen de bloemen net zo bloeien En de bomen zullen niet minder groen zijn dan het vorig voorjaar.
De werkelijkheid heeft mij niet nodig.
Bij de gedachte dat mijn dood volstrekt onbelangrijk is
En het was overmorgen lente, Zou ik tevreden sterven, omdat het overmorgen lente was. Als dat haar tijd is, wanneer dan zou ze moeten komen tenzij op haar tijd? Ik houd ervan dat alles werkelijk is en alles zoals het moet zijn; Daar houd ik van, omdat het zo zou wezen ook als ik er niet van hield. Daarom, als ik nu sterf, sterf ik tevreden,
Want alles is werkelijk en alles is zoals het moet zijn.
Indien men wil, mag men rondom dansen en zingen. Ik heb geen voorkeur voor wanneer ik toch geen voorkeur meer kan hebben
Dat wat zal zijn, wanneer het zijn zal, zal het zijn dat wat het is.
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To feel everything in every way,
To live everything from all sides,
To be the same thing in all ways possible at the same time,
To realize in oneself all humanity at all moments
In one scattered, extravagant, complete and aloof moment
Since we do nothing in this confused world
That lasts or that, lasting, is of any worth,
And even what’s useful for us we lose
So soon, with our own lives,
Let us prefer the pleasure of the moment
To an absurd concern with the future...
Translation
: Richard ZENITH
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There are pains that don’t ache, not even in the soul, And yet they’re more painful than those that do. There are anxieties from dreams that are more real Than the ones life brings; there are sensations Felt only by imagining them That are more ours than our very own life. There are countless things that exist Without existing, that lastingly exist And lastingly are ours, they’re us... Over the muddy green of the wide river The white circumflexes of the seagulls... Over my soul the useless flutter
Of what never was nor could be, and it’s everything.
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Abdication
O night eternal, call me your son
And take me into your arms. I’m a king
Who relinquished, willingly,
My throne of dreams and tedium.
My sword, which dragged my weak arms down,
I surrendered to strong and steady hands,
And in the anteroom I abandoned
My shattered scepter and crown.
My spurs that jingled to no avail
And my useless coat of mail
I left on the cold stone steps.
I took off royalty, body and soul,
And returned to the night so calm, so old,
Like the landscape when the sun sets.
Translation : Richard ZENITH