Emoções e Sentimentos

Happy the maimed, the halt, the mad, the blind –
All who, stamped separate by curtailing birth,
Owe no duty's allegiance to mankind
Nor stand a valuing in their scheme of worth!
But I, whom Fate, not Nature, did curtail,
By no exterior voidness being exempt,
Must bear accusing glances where I fail,
Fixed in the general orbit of contempt.
Fate, less than Nature in being kind to lacking,
Giving the ill, shows not as outer cause,
Making our mock-free will the mirror's backing
Which Fate s own acts as if in itself shows;
And men, like children, seeing the image there,
Take place for cause and make our will Fate bear.

Like to a ship that storms urge on its course,
By its own trials our soul is surer made.
The very things that make the voyage worse
Do make it better; its peril is its aid.
And, as the storm drives from the storm, our heart
Within the peril disimperilled grows;
A port is near the more from port we part –
The port where to our driven direction goes.
If we reap knowledge to cross-profit, this
From storms we learn, when the storm's height doth drive –
That the black presence of its violence is
The pushing promise of near far blue skies.
Learn we but how to have the pilot-skill,
And the storm's very might shall mate our will.

And ye, that wed to-day, guess these instincts
Of the concerted group in hints
Yourselves from Nature naturally have,
And your good future brave!
Close lips, nude arms, felt breasts and organ mighty,
Do your joy's night work rightly!
Teach them these things, O day of pomp of heat!
Leave them in thoughts such as must make the feat
Of flesh inevitable and natural as
Pissing when wish doth press!
Let them cling, kiss and fit
Together with natural wit,
And let the night, coming, teach them that use
For youth is in abuse!
Let them repeat the link, and pour and pour
Their pleasure till they can no more!
Ay, let the night watch over their repeated
Coupling in darkness, till thought's self, o'erheated,
Do fret and trouble, and sleep come on hurt frames,
And, mouthing each one's names,
They in each other's arms dream still of love
And something of it prove!
And, if they wake, teach them to recommence,
For an hour was far hence;
Till their contacted flesh, in heat o'erblent
With joy, sleep sick, while, spent
The stars, the sky pale in the East and shiver
Where light the night doth sever,
And with clamour of joy and life's young din
The warm new day come in.


Lisbon, 1913.

ELSEWHERE

Let us away my child,
Away to Elsewhere.
There days are ever mild
And fields are ever fair.

The moon that shines on whom
There wanders happy and free
Hath woven its light and gloom
Of immortality.

Seeing things there is young,
Told tales sweet as untold,
There real dream-songs are sung
By lips we may behold.

Time there's a moment's bliss,
Life a being-slaked thirst,
Love like that in a kiss
When that kiss is the first.

We need no boat, my child,
But our hopes while still fair
No rowers but fancies wild.
O let me seek Elsewhere!

DREAM

It was somewhere secluded
In silence and moon.
All like a lagoon.
No cares there intruded
Save the vague winds swoon.

Landscape intermediate
Between dreams and land.
The wind slept, calm-fanned.
The waters were weedy at
Where we plunged our hand.

We let the hand wander
In the water unseen.
Our eyes were with th' sheen
Of the moonlit meander
Of the forest scene.

There we lost the spirit
Of our still being we.
We were fairy-free,
Having to inherit
Nothing from to be.

The fairies there and the elves
Damasked their moonlit train.
There we shall awhile gain
All the elusive selves
We never can obtain.

I feel pale and I shiver.
What power of the moonlight
Tremulous under the river
Thus pains me with delight?

What spell told by the moon
Unlooses all my soul?
O speak to me! I swoon!
I fade from life's control!

I am a far spirit, e'en
In the felt place of me.
O river too serene
For my tranquillity!

O ache somehow of living!
O sorrow for something!
O moon-pain the sense-giving
That I am vainly king

In some spell-bound realm mute,
In a lunar land lone!
O ache as of a dying flute
When we would have't play on!

DREAM

It was somewhere secluded
In silence and moon.
All like a lagoon.
No cares there intruded
Save the vague winds swoon.

Landscape intermediate
Between dreams and land.
The wind slept, calm-fanned.
The waters were weedy at
Where we plunged our hand.

We let the hand wander
In the water unseen.
Our eyes were with th' sheen
Of the moonlit meander
Of the forest scene.

There we lost the spirit
Of our still being we.
We were fairy-free,
Having to inherit
Nothing from to be.

The fairies there and the elves
Damasked their moonlit train.
There we shall awhile gain
All the elusive selves
We never can obtain.

I feel pale and I shiver.
What power of the moonlight
Tremulous under the river
Thus pains me with delight?

What spell told by the moon
Unlooses all my soul?
O speak to me! I swoon!
I fade from life's control!

I am a far spirit, e'en
In the felt place of me.
O river too serene
For my tranquillity!

O ache somehow of living!
O sorrow for something!
O moon-pain the sense-giving
That I am vainly king

In some spell-bound realm mute,
In a lunar land lone!
O ache as of a dying flute
When we would have't play on!

We never joy enjoy to that full point
Regret doth wish joy had enjoyed been,
Nor have the strength regret to disappoint
Recalling not past joy's thought, but its mien.
Yet joy was joy when it enjoyed was
And after-enjoyed when as joy recalled,
It must have been joy ere its joy did pass
And, recalled, joy still, since its being-past galled.
Alas! All this is useless, for joy's in
Enjoying, not in thinking of enjoying.
Its mere thougth-mirroring gainst itself doth sin.
By mere reflecting solid life destroying.
Yet the more thought we take to thought to prove
It must not think, doth further from joy move.

We never joy enjoy to that full point
Regret doth wish joy had enjoyed been,
Nor have the strength regret to disappoint
Recalling not past joy's thought, but its mien.
Yet joy was joy when it enjoyed was
And after-enjoyed when as joy recalled,
It must have been joy ere its joy did pass
And, recalled, joy still, since its being-past galled.
Alas! All this is useless, for joy's in
Enjoying, not in thinking of enjoying.
Its mere thougth-mirroring gainst itself doth sin.
By mere reflecting solid life destroying.
Yet the more thought we take to thought to prove
It must not think, doth further from joy move.

LOOKING AT THE TAGUS

She led her flocks beyond the hills,
Her voice backs to me in the wind,
And a thirst for her sorrow fills
All that in me is undefined.

Spiritual lakes walled round with crags
Sleep in the hollows of her song.
There her unbathing nudeness lags
And looks on its pooled shadow long.

But what is real in all this is
Only my soul, the eve, the quay
And, shadow of my dream of this,
An ache for a new ache in me.

I am older than Nature and her Time
By all the timeless age of Consciousness,
And my adult oblivion of the clime
Where I was born makes me not countryless.
Ay, and dim through my daylight thoughts escape
Yearnings for that land where my childhood dreamed,
Which I cannot recall in colour or shape
But haunts my hours like something that hath gleamed
And yet is not as light remembered,
Nor to the left or to the right conceived;
And all round me tastes as if life were dead
And the world made but to be disbelieved.
Thus I my hope on unknown truth lay; yet
How but by hope do I the unknown truth get?

But these are thoughts or promises or but
Half the purpose of rut,
And this is lust thought-of or futureless
Or used but lust to ease.
Do ye the circle true of love pretend,
And, what Nature, intend!
Do ye actually ache
The horse of lust by reins of life to bend
And pair in love for love's creating sake!
Bellow! Roar! Stallions be or bulls that fret
On their seed's hole to get!
Surge for that carnal complement that will
Your flesh's young juice thrill
To the wet mortised joints at which you meet
The coming life to greet,
In the tilled womb that will bulge till it do
The plenteous curve of spheric earth renew!

No matter now or past or future. Be
Lovers' age in your glee!
Give all your thoughts to this great muscled day
That like a courser tears
The bit of Time, to make night come and say
The maiden mount now her first rider bears!
Flesh pinched, flesh bit, flesh sucked, flesh girt around,
Flesh crushed and ground,
These things inflame your thoughts and make ye dim
In what ye say or seem!
Rage out in naked glances till ye fright
Your ague of delight,
In glances seeming clothes and thoughts to hate
That fleshes separate;
Stretch out your limbs to the warm day outside,
To feel it while it bide!
For the strong sun, the hot ground, the green grass,
Each far lake's dazzling glass,
And each one's flushed thought of the night to be
Are all one joy-hot unity.

No matter now or past or future. Be
Lovers' age in your glee!
Give all your thoughts to this great muscled day
That like a courser tears
The bit of Time, to make night come and say
The maiden mount now her first rider bears!
Flesh pinched, flesh bit, flesh sucked, flesh girt around,
Flesh crushed and ground,
These things inflame your thoughts and make ye dim
In what ye say or seem!
Rage out in naked glances till ye fright
Your ague of delight,
In glances seeming clothes and thoughts to hate
That fleshes separate;
Stretch out your limbs to the warm day outside,
To feel it while it bide!
For the strong sun, the hot ground, the green grass,
Each far lake's dazzling glass,
And each one's flushed thought of the night to be
Are all one joy-hot unity.

As the lone, frighted user of a night-road
Suddenly turns round, nothing to detect,
Yet on his fear's sense keepeth still the load
Of that brink-nothing he doth but suspect;
And the cold terror moves to him more near
Of something that from nothing casts a spell,
That, when he moves, to fright more is not there,
And's only visible when invisible:
So I upon the world turn round in thought,
And nothing viewing do no courage take,
But my more terror, from no seen cause got,
To that felt corporate emptiness forsake,
And draw my sense of mystery's horror from
Seeing no mystery's mystery alone.

As the lone, frighted user of a night-road
Suddenly turns round, nothing to detect,
Yet on his fear's sense keepeth still the load
Of that brink-nothing he doth but suspect;
And the cold terror moves to him more near
Of something that from nothing casts a spell,
That, when he moves, to fright more is not there,
And's only visible when invisible:
So I upon the world turn round in thought,
And nothing viewing do no courage take,
But my more terror, from no seen cause got,
To that felt corporate emptiness forsake,
And draw my sense of mystery's horror from
Seeing no mystery's mystery alone.

No more, no more of church or feast, for these
Are outward to the day, like the green trees
That flank the road to church and the same road
Back from the church, under a higher sun trod.
These have no more part than a floor or wall
In the great day's true ceremonial.
The guests themselves, no less than they that wed,
Hold these as nought but corridors to bed.
So are all things, that between this and dark
Will be passed, a dim work
Of minutes, hours seen in a sleep, and dreamed
Untimed and wrongly deemed.
The bridal and the walk back and the feast
Are all for each a mist
Where he sees others through a blurred hot notion
Of drunk and veined emotion,
And a red race runs through his seeing and hearing,
A great carouse of dreams seen each on each,
Till their importunate careering
A stopped, half-hurting point of mad joy reach.

No more, no more of church or feast, for these
Are outward to the day, like the green trees
That flank the road to church and the same road
Back from the church, under a higher sun trod.
These have no more part than a floor or wall
In the great day's true ceremonial.
The guests themselves, no less than they that wed,
Hold these as nought but corridors to bed.
So are all things, that between this and dark
Will be passed, a dim work
Of minutes, hours seen in a sleep, and dreamed
Untimed and wrongly deemed.
The bridal and the walk back and the feast
Are all for each a mist
Where he sees others through a blurred hot notion
Of drunk and veined emotion,
And a red race runs through his seeing and hearing,
A great carouse of dreams seen each on each,
Till their importunate careering
A stopped, half-hurting point of mad joy reach.

Now is she issued. List how all speech pines
Then bursts into a wave of speech again!
Now is she issued out to where the guests
Look on her daring not to look at them.
The hot sun outside shines.
A sweaty oiliness of hot life rests
On the day's face this hour.
A mad joy's pent in each warm thing's hushed power.

Open the windows and the doors all wide
Lest aught of night abide,
Or, like a ship's trail in the sea, survive
What made it there to live!
She lies in bed half waiting that her wish
Grow bolder or more rich
To make her rise, or poorer, to oust fear,
And she rise as a common day were here.
That she would be a bride in bed with man
The parts where she is woman do insist
And send up messages that shame doth ban
From being dreamed but in a shapeless mist.
She opes her eyes, the ceiling sees above
Shutting the small alcove,
And thinks, till she must shut her eyes again,
Another ceiling she this night will know,
Another house, another bed, she lain
In a way she half guesses; so
She shuts her eyes to see not the room she
Soon will no longer see.

Sing at her window, ye heard early wings
In whose song joy's self sings!
Buzz in her room along her loss of sleep,
O small flies, tumble and creep
Along the counterpane and on her fingers
In mating pairs. She lingers.
Along her joined-felt legs a prophecy
Creeps like an inward hand.
Look bow she tarries! Tell her: fear not glee!
Come up! Awake! Dress for undressing! Stand!
Look how the sun is altogether all!
Life hums around her senses petalled close.
Come up! Come up! Pleasure must thee befall!
Joy to be plucked, O yet ungathered rose!

Sing at her window, ye heard early wings
In whose song joy's self sings!
Buzz in her room along her loss of sleep,
O small flies, tumble and creep
Along the counterpane and on her fingers
In mating pairs. She lingers.
Along her joined-felt legs a prophecy
Creeps like an inward hand.
Look bow she tarries! Tell her: fear not glee!
Come up! Awake! Dress for undressing! Stand!
Look how the sun is altogether all!
Life hums around her senses petalled close.
Come up! Come up! Pleasure must thee befall!
Joy to be plucked, O yet ungathered rose!

Sim, é o Estado Novo, e o povo
Ouviu, leu e assentiu.
Sim, isto é um Estado Novo
Pois é um estado de coisas
Que nunca antes se viu.

Em tudo paira a alegria
E, de tão íntima que é,
Como Deus na Teologia
Ela existe em toda a parte
E em parte alguma se vê.

Há estradas, e a grande Estrada
Que a tradição ao porvir
Liga, branca e orçamentada,
E vai de onde ninguém parte
Para onde ninguém quer ir.

Há portos, e o porto-maca
Onde vem doente o cais.
Sim, mas nunca ali atraca
O Paquete «Portugal»
Pois tem calado de mais.

Há esquadra... Só um tolo o cala,
Que a inteligência, propícia
A achar, sabe que, se fala,
Desde logo encontra a esquadra:
É uma esquadra de polícia.

Visão grande! Ódio à minúscula!
Nem para prová-la tal
Tem alguém que ficar triste:
União Nacional existe
Mas não união nacional.

E o Império? Vasto caminho
Onde os que o poder despeja
Conduzirão com carinho
A civilização cristã,
Que ninguém sabe o que seja.

Com directrizes à arte
Reata-se a tradição,
E juntam-se Apolo e Marte
No Teatro Nacional
Que é onde era a inquisição.

E a fé dos nossos maiores?
Forma-a impoluta o consórcio
Entre os padres e os doutores.
Casados o Erro e a Fraude
Já não pode haver divórcio.

Que a fé seja sempre viva.
Porque a esperança não é vã!
A fome corporativa
É derrotismo. Alegria!
Hoje o almoço é amanhã.


1935

Let the wide light come through the whole house now
Like a herald with brow
Garlanded round with roses and those leaves
That love for its love weaves!
Between her and the ceiling this day's ending
A man's weight will be bending.
Lo! with the thought her legs she twines, well knowing
A hand will part them then;
Fearing that entering in her, that allowing
That will make softness begin rude at pain.
If ye, glad sunbeams, are inhabited
By sprites or gnomes that dally with the day,
Whisper her, if she shrink that she'll be bled,
That love's large bower is doored in this small way.

Não tenho que sonhar que possam dar-me
Um dia, vero ou falso, as rosas vãs
Entre que em sonhos mortos fui achar-me
No alvorecer de incógnitas manhãs.

Não tenho que sonhar o que renego
Antes do sonho e o recusar a ter,
Sou no que sou como na vida é um cego
A quem causou horror o poder ver.

Isto, ou quase isto... Só do sonho morto
Me fica uma imprecisa hesitação –
como se a nau (...)


22/11/1934