Corpo
Fernando Pessoa
To a hand (Alexander Search)
Give me thy hand. With my wounded eyes
I would see what this hand contains:
Ah, what a world of hopes here lies!
What a world of feelings and doubts and pains!
Oh to think that this hand in itself contains
The mystery of mysteries.
This hand has a meaning thou dost not know,
A meaning deeper than human fears;
This hand perchance in times long ago
Wiped off strange and unnatural tears;
Perhaps its gesture was full of snears
Perchance its clenching was full of woe.
There is that in thy hand my sould doth dream
And the shades that haunt my mind;
The howl of the wind and the flow of the stream,
The flow of the stream and the howl of the wind,
All that is horrible and undefined
Of the things that are in the things that seem.
As I look at thy hand my mind is rife
Of thoughts and memories deeper than rhyme;
Thy hand is a part of my soul's deep life,
And l knew thy hand ere the birth of time,
And in ages past it led me to crime,
……
A world of woes and of fears and sighs
And love that better had been hate,
And crimes and wars and victories,
And the painful fall of many a state -
All these and more that the heart abate
My raving soul in thy hand descries.
No painter mad, not a fetichist
O'er thy hand would be thus held blind.
At mere blank thought of its being kissed
But my lips l thrill with a fear none find
In the waking thoughts of a human mind
Save when reason by its own self is missed.
Thy hand has a meaning thou dost not know,
A meaning deeper than human fears;
It has aught of the sea and of the sun's glow
And the seasons too and the months and years,
And the colour hidden in human tears
And the form and number in human woe.
Thy hand was a lofty and empty home,
A collar of pearls and a castle keep;
Thy hand knows well all the thoughts that roam,
Thy hand is the music eternal and deep
That long ere birth held my soul asleep
In a palace quaint with a curious dome.
How finely made is this hand of thine
With its fingers tapering and white.
Soft and palely warm and fine;
There is something in it of day and night.
Ah, dearest child, could I read aright
The text before me deep and divine.
There's a kind of Fact that persists and hangs
O'er thy hand, as on a scratched scroll:
'Tis as if some thought had buried its fangs
In a unknown part of my soul.
In a land far in me a bell doth toll,
And my heart aches wild as it shrinks or clangs.
There is aught of new and wild and unreal
In thy hand where my look is pained:
‘Tis as if thy hand in itself could see all
Horrible thought, where fear is gained
By a drollness mad and dimly sustained
As of some wide hint out of the Ideal.
There is aught of Personal, of It, of Such
In thy hand and o'er me there steals
A sense of dread like a murderer's clutch;
I know not how, my hand in thine feels
An eternal thing and my mad brain reels
As if eternity we could touch.
I see that hand not a hand, but whence
This horrible Fact that creeps in me!
Ah, I have of thy hand the seeing intense
But aught more than hand in that place I see
That abrupt [elision?] did make to be
Between thought of things and what we call sense.
My thought doth look at thy hand direct
Without eyes or sense or aught of this,
And my reason at such a thing is wrecked
Into such a fear that both pain and bliss
Are plunged in conscious unconsciousness
For that is no hand that my dreams detect.
And I gaze yet more and I shake from me
The dream of time and the dream of space,
And as a drowner who sinks in the sea
I dream of the wonders of all we trace
In everything and I plunge full‑face
In the sense of what more than seems to be.
There is aught of lovely, wild and unbrute
In thy hand, and I love it well;
In fearing more than pain thoughts of hell
By a sudden portal in the Visible
I have a glimpse of the Absolute.
The sight of thy hand of a horrible heaven
The portals mute throws open again
Thy hand is like music, in it I gain
Passing a wild fear and a bitter pain
Weird things more weird than the sense of Seven.
All things stare mystery at my mind,
But thy hand most, to oblivion conn'd
Thrilled with a mute life not all defined,
What is thy hand in itself beyond
The scope of sense where the heart is fond,
The realm of thought where the soul is blind?
Where is the soul that thy hand reveals
In its own there‑self till its thought affrights?
What bells are those that say HAND in peals
That traverse impossible infinites?
What fills with lightnings of hands the nights
Where the sense of dread into thoughts congeals?
Take thy hand away; for I now shall dream
Of strange and grotesque and unnatural lands
Watered by many a painful stream
Whose waves are hands, whose banks of hands
Of gardens with trees whose leaves are hands
And a white stiff hand covering the sun's gleam.
Then, on horror worst, they begin to live
With a vital life, and to grasp and clutch,
And to twitch and squirm till my thoughts unweave,
And like worms and snails that my throat should touch
My soul qualms and retches at horror such
At fear's transcendent superlative.
And what more doth follow I cannot say,
But it seems that madly I traverse, lone,
Tracts of hells where a hand doth stay
In such a manner that if a groan
Of a madman could in its soul be known
It would be to it as to night is day.
And my thoughts drag on in their weary strain;
Wild and grotesque, or quick or slow,
Uncouth and unseemly they reel in my brain,
Startingly mad as they go,
As a sudden laugh in the midst of woe
Or a clown in a funeral train.
1-1906
I would see what this hand contains:
Ah, what a world of hopes here lies!
What a world of feelings and doubts and pains!
Oh to think that this hand in itself contains
The mystery of mysteries.
This hand has a meaning thou dost not know,
A meaning deeper than human fears;
This hand perchance in times long ago
Wiped off strange and unnatural tears;
Perhaps its gesture was full of snears
Perchance its clenching was full of woe.
There is that in thy hand my sould doth dream
And the shades that haunt my mind;
The howl of the wind and the flow of the stream,
The flow of the stream and the howl of the wind,
All that is horrible and undefined
Of the things that are in the things that seem.
As I look at thy hand my mind is rife
Of thoughts and memories deeper than rhyme;
Thy hand is a part of my soul's deep life,
And l knew thy hand ere the birth of time,
And in ages past it led me to crime,
……
A world of woes and of fears and sighs
And love that better had been hate,
And crimes and wars and victories,
And the painful fall of many a state -
All these and more that the heart abate
My raving soul in thy hand descries.
No painter mad, not a fetichist
O'er thy hand would be thus held blind.
At mere blank thought of its being kissed
But my lips l thrill with a fear none find
In the waking thoughts of a human mind
Save when reason by its own self is missed.
Thy hand has a meaning thou dost not know,
A meaning deeper than human fears;
It has aught of the sea and of the sun's glow
And the seasons too and the months and years,
And the colour hidden in human tears
And the form and number in human woe.
Thy hand was a lofty and empty home,
A collar of pearls and a castle keep;
Thy hand knows well all the thoughts that roam,
Thy hand is the music eternal and deep
That long ere birth held my soul asleep
In a palace quaint with a curious dome.
How finely made is this hand of thine
With its fingers tapering and white.
Soft and palely warm and fine;
There is something in it of day and night.
Ah, dearest child, could I read aright
The text before me deep and divine.
There's a kind of Fact that persists and hangs
O'er thy hand, as on a scratched scroll:
'Tis as if some thought had buried its fangs
In a unknown part of my soul.
In a land far in me a bell doth toll,
And my heart aches wild as it shrinks or clangs.
There is aught of new and wild and unreal
In thy hand where my look is pained:
‘Tis as if thy hand in itself could see all
Horrible thought, where fear is gained
By a drollness mad and dimly sustained
As of some wide hint out of the Ideal.
There is aught of Personal, of It, of Such
In thy hand and o'er me there steals
A sense of dread like a murderer's clutch;
I know not how, my hand in thine feels
An eternal thing and my mad brain reels
As if eternity we could touch.
I see that hand not a hand, but whence
This horrible Fact that creeps in me!
Ah, I have of thy hand the seeing intense
But aught more than hand in that place I see
That abrupt [elision?] did make to be
Between thought of things and what we call sense.
My thought doth look at thy hand direct
Without eyes or sense or aught of this,
And my reason at such a thing is wrecked
Into such a fear that both pain and bliss
Are plunged in conscious unconsciousness
For that is no hand that my dreams detect.
And I gaze yet more and I shake from me
The dream of time and the dream of space,
And as a drowner who sinks in the sea
I dream of the wonders of all we trace
In everything and I plunge full‑face
In the sense of what more than seems to be.
There is aught of lovely, wild and unbrute
In thy hand, and I love it well;
In fearing more than pain thoughts of hell
By a sudden portal in the Visible
I have a glimpse of the Absolute.
The sight of thy hand of a horrible heaven
The portals mute throws open again
Thy hand is like music, in it I gain
Passing a wild fear and a bitter pain
Weird things more weird than the sense of Seven.
All things stare mystery at my mind,
But thy hand most, to oblivion conn'd
Thrilled with a mute life not all defined,
What is thy hand in itself beyond
The scope of sense where the heart is fond,
The realm of thought where the soul is blind?
Where is the soul that thy hand reveals
In its own there‑self till its thought affrights?
What bells are those that say HAND in peals
That traverse impossible infinites?
What fills with lightnings of hands the nights
Where the sense of dread into thoughts congeals?
Take thy hand away; for I now shall dream
Of strange and grotesque and unnatural lands
Watered by many a painful stream
Whose waves are hands, whose banks of hands
Of gardens with trees whose leaves are hands
And a white stiff hand covering the sun's gleam.
Then, on horror worst, they begin to live
With a vital life, and to grasp and clutch,
And to twitch and squirm till my thoughts unweave,
And like worms and snails that my throat should touch
My soul qualms and retches at horror such
At fear's transcendent superlative.
And what more doth follow I cannot say,
But it seems that madly I traverse, lone,
Tracts of hells where a hand doth stay
In such a manner that if a groan
Of a madman could in its soul be known
It would be to it as to night is day.
And my thoughts drag on in their weary strain;
Wild and grotesque, or quick or slow,
Uncouth and unseemly they reel in my brain,
Startingly mad as they go,
As a sudden laugh in the midst of woe
Or a clown in a funeral train.
1-1906
4 553
Fernando Pessoa
O último sortilégio
«Já repeti o antigo encantamento
E a grande Deusa aos olhos se negou.
Já repeti, nas pausas do amplo vento,
As orações cuja alma é um ser fecundo.
Nada me o abismo deu ou o céu mostrou.
Só o vento volta onde estou toda e só,
E tudo dorme no confuso mundo.
«Outrora meu condão fadava as sarças
E a minha evocação do solo erguia
Presenças concentradas das que esparsas
Dormem nas formas naturais das coisas.
Outrora a minha voz acontecia.
Fadas e elfos, se eu chamasse, via,
E as folhas da floresta eram lustrosas.
«Minha varinha, com que da vontade
Falava às existências essenciais,
Já não conhece a minha realidade.
Já, se o círculo traço, não há nada.
Murmura o vento alheio extintos ais,
E ao luar que sobe além dos matagais
Não sou mais do que os bosques ou a estrada.
«Já me falece o dom com que me amavam.
Já me não torno a forma e o fim da vida
A quantos que, buscando-os, me buscavam.
Já, praia, o mar dos braços não me inunda.
Nem já me vejo ao sol saudado erguida,
Ou, em êxtase mágico perdida,
Ao luar, à boca da caverna funda.
«Já as sacras potências infernais,
Que, dormentes sem deuses nem destino,
À substância das coisas são iguais,
Não ouvem minha voz ou os nomes seus.
A música partiu-se do meu hino.
Já meu furor astral não é divino
Nem meu corpo pensado é já um Deus.
«E as longínquas deidades do atro poço,
Que tantas vezes, pálida, evoquei
Com a raiva de amar em alvoroço,
Inevocadas hoje ante mim estão.
Como, sem que as amasse, eu as chamei,
Agora, que não amo, as tenho, e sei
Que meu vendido ser consumirão.
«Tu, porém, Sol, cujo ouro me foi presa,
Tu, Lua, cuja prata converti,
Se já não podeis dar-me essa beleza
Que tantas vezes tive por querer,
Ao menos meu ser findo dividi —
Meu ser essencial se perca em si,
Só meu corpo sem mim fique alma e ser!
«Converta-me a minha última magia
Numa estátua de mim em corpo vivo!
Morra quem sou, mas quem me fiz e havia,
Anónima presença que se beija,
Carne do meu abstracto amor cativo,
Seja a morte de mim em que revivo;
E tal qual fui, não sendo nada, eu seja!»
E a grande Deusa aos olhos se negou.
Já repeti, nas pausas do amplo vento,
As orações cuja alma é um ser fecundo.
Nada me o abismo deu ou o céu mostrou.
Só o vento volta onde estou toda e só,
E tudo dorme no confuso mundo.
«Outrora meu condão fadava as sarças
E a minha evocação do solo erguia
Presenças concentradas das que esparsas
Dormem nas formas naturais das coisas.
Outrora a minha voz acontecia.
Fadas e elfos, se eu chamasse, via,
E as folhas da floresta eram lustrosas.
«Minha varinha, com que da vontade
Falava às existências essenciais,
Já não conhece a minha realidade.
Já, se o círculo traço, não há nada.
Murmura o vento alheio extintos ais,
E ao luar que sobe além dos matagais
Não sou mais do que os bosques ou a estrada.
«Já me falece o dom com que me amavam.
Já me não torno a forma e o fim da vida
A quantos que, buscando-os, me buscavam.
Já, praia, o mar dos braços não me inunda.
Nem já me vejo ao sol saudado erguida,
Ou, em êxtase mágico perdida,
Ao luar, à boca da caverna funda.
«Já as sacras potências infernais,
Que, dormentes sem deuses nem destino,
À substância das coisas são iguais,
Não ouvem minha voz ou os nomes seus.
A música partiu-se do meu hino.
Já meu furor astral não é divino
Nem meu corpo pensado é já um Deus.
«E as longínquas deidades do atro poço,
Que tantas vezes, pálida, evoquei
Com a raiva de amar em alvoroço,
Inevocadas hoje ante mim estão.
Como, sem que as amasse, eu as chamei,
Agora, que não amo, as tenho, e sei
Que meu vendido ser consumirão.
«Tu, porém, Sol, cujo ouro me foi presa,
Tu, Lua, cuja prata converti,
Se já não podeis dar-me essa beleza
Que tantas vezes tive por querer,
Ao menos meu ser findo dividi —
Meu ser essencial se perca em si,
Só meu corpo sem mim fique alma e ser!
«Converta-me a minha última magia
Numa estátua de mim em corpo vivo!
Morra quem sou, mas quem me fiz e havia,
Anónima presença que se beija,
Carne do meu abstracto amor cativo,
Seja a morte de mim em que revivo;
E tal qual fui, não sendo nada, eu seja!»
4 552
Fernando Pessoa
On an ankle
A sonnet bearing the imprimatur of the inquisitor-general and other people of distinction and decency
I had a revelation not from high.
But from below, when thy skirt awhile lifted
Betrayed such promise that I am not gifted
With words that may that view well signify.
And even if my verse that thing would try,
Hard were it, if that work came to be sifted,
To find a word that rude would not have shifted
There from the cold hand of Morality.
To gaze is nought; mere sight no mind hath wrecked.
But oh! sweet lady, beyond what is seen
What things may guess or hint at Disrespect?!
Sacred is not the beauty of a queen...
I from thine ankle did as much suspect
As you from this may suspect what I mean.
1907?
I had a revelation not from high.
But from below, when thy skirt awhile lifted
Betrayed such promise that I am not gifted
With words that may that view well signify.
And even if my verse that thing would try,
Hard were it, if that work came to be sifted,
To find a word that rude would not have shifted
There from the cold hand of Morality.
To gaze is nought; mere sight no mind hath wrecked.
But oh! sweet lady, beyond what is seen
What things may guess or hint at Disrespect?!
Sacred is not the beauty of a queen...
I from thine ankle did as much suspect
As you from this may suspect what I mean.
1907?
4 602
Tomás Antônio Gonzaga
Lira IV
Já, já me vai, Marília, branquejando
loiro cabelo, que circula a testa;
este mesmo, que alveja, vai caindo,
e pouco já me resta.
As faces vão perdendo as vivas cores,
e vão-se sobre os ossos enrugando,
vai fugindo a viveza dos meus olhos;
tudo se vai mudando.
Se quero levantar-me, as costas vergam;
as forças dos meus membros já se gastam;
vou a dar pela casa uns curtos passos,
pesam-me os pés e arrastam.
Se algum dia me vires desta sorte,
vê que assim me não pôs a mão dos anos:
os trabalhos, Marília, os sentimentos
fazem os mesmos danos.
Mal te vir, me dará em poucos dias
a minha mocidade o doce gosto;
verás brunir-se a pele, o corpo encher-se,
voltar a cor ao rosto.
No calmoso Verão as plantas secam;
na Primavera, que aos mortais encanta,
apenas cai do Céu o fresco orvalho,
verdeja logo a planta.
A doença deforma a quem padece;
mas logo que a doença faz seu termo,
torna, Marília, a ser quem era d'antes
o definhado enfermo.
(...)
Publicado no livro Marília de Dirceu: Segunda Parte (1799).
In: GONZAGA, Tomás Antônio. Obras completas. Ed. crít. M. Rodrigues Lapa. São Paulo: Ed. Nacional, 1942. (Livros do Brasil, 5
loiro cabelo, que circula a testa;
este mesmo, que alveja, vai caindo,
e pouco já me resta.
As faces vão perdendo as vivas cores,
e vão-se sobre os ossos enrugando,
vai fugindo a viveza dos meus olhos;
tudo se vai mudando.
Se quero levantar-me, as costas vergam;
as forças dos meus membros já se gastam;
vou a dar pela casa uns curtos passos,
pesam-me os pés e arrastam.
Se algum dia me vires desta sorte,
vê que assim me não pôs a mão dos anos:
os trabalhos, Marília, os sentimentos
fazem os mesmos danos.
Mal te vir, me dará em poucos dias
a minha mocidade o doce gosto;
verás brunir-se a pele, o corpo encher-se,
voltar a cor ao rosto.
No calmoso Verão as plantas secam;
na Primavera, que aos mortais encanta,
apenas cai do Céu o fresco orvalho,
verdeja logo a planta.
A doença deforma a quem padece;
mas logo que a doença faz seu termo,
torna, Marília, a ser quem era d'antes
o definhado enfermo.
(...)
Publicado no livro Marília de Dirceu: Segunda Parte (1799).
In: GONZAGA, Tomás Antônio. Obras completas. Ed. crít. M. Rodrigues Lapa. São Paulo: Ed. Nacional, 1942. (Livros do Brasil, 5
4 469
Fernando Pessoa
The lip (Alexander Search)
One day in half‑slumbrous raving
Where I saw strange fancies skip,
I saw in a dream, by no light's gleam,
A man with only one lip -
Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely,
Absolutely with only one lip.
I remember well that he had no face
Nor a nose with a usual tip;
He had nor eyes, nor cheks, nor hair
But only, only one lip -
Only one, only one, only one,
Only one, one, one lip.
Can ye think of it without terror?
No other lip did slip
Into the vision, nor was it a lack:
There was only, only one lip.
Could you see him as I you would grow mad.
That man with only one lip.
2-1-1908
Where I saw strange fancies skip,
I saw in a dream, by no light's gleam,
A man with only one lip -
Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely,
Absolutely with only one lip.
I remember well that he had no face
Nor a nose with a usual tip;
He had nor eyes, nor cheks, nor hair
But only, only one lip -
Only one, only one, only one,
Only one, one, one lip.
Can ye think of it without terror?
No other lip did slip
Into the vision, nor was it a lack:
There was only, only one lip.
Could you see him as I you would grow mad.
That man with only one lip.
2-1-1908
4 419
Fernando Pessoa
V - Now will her grave of untorn maidenhood
V
Now will her grave of untorn maidenhood
Be dug in her small blood.
Assemble ye at that glad funeral
And weave her scarlet pall,
O pinings for the flesh of man that often
Did her secret hours soften
And take her willing and unwilling hand
Where pleasure starteth up.
Come forth, ye moted gnomes, unruly band,
That come so quick ye spill your brimming cup;
Ye that make youth young and flesh nice
And the glad spring and summer sun arise;
Ye by whose secret presence the trees grow
Green, and the flowers bud, and birds sing free,
When with the fury of a trembling glow
The bull climbs on the heifer mightily!
1913
Now will her grave of untorn maidenhood
Be dug in her small blood.
Assemble ye at that glad funeral
And weave her scarlet pall,
O pinings for the flesh of man that often
Did her secret hours soften
And take her willing and unwilling hand
Where pleasure starteth up.
Come forth, ye moted gnomes, unruly band,
That come so quick ye spill your brimming cup;
Ye that make youth young and flesh nice
And the glad spring and summer sun arise;
Ye by whose secret presence the trees grow
Green, and the flowers bud, and birds sing free,
When with the fury of a trembling glow
The bull climbs on the heifer mightily!
1913
4 409
Maria Teresa Horta
Anjos da memória – V
Os anjos alados
da memória
com as suas asas
de pérgula
e medronho
a voarem noite dentro,
pelo sonho
Serás de branco
despojada de tudo
à cabeceira
por detrás do meu ombro
anjo mudo
Serás de branco
despojada de tudo,
asas supostas
de ti
à minha beira
O pássaro cintilante
da tua nudez
(uma matriz calada)
Da tua nudez
Com os teus seios
de anjo
sob as asas
A tomares conta
da memória
És um passaro – digo
És um pássaro
com penas
cintilantes
dos teus olhos
As tuas asas
de pétalas
tecidas com a luz
das penas
das asas que te crescem
Poisar um pouco
nos parapeitos
da memória
antes de recomeçar
o voo
de regresso a casa
Com as nossas asas
lúcidas:
translúcidas e pálidas
Deixa-me voar
por cima do teu
colo
até ir poisar
na tua alma
É a memória,
dos teus dedos pisados
nas asas dos meus ombros
Entrelaçados
Enlaçados
Como entranças
os sonhos
As tuas asas de prata
que atravessam a voar
o território
brando
das minhas lágrimas
Este
é o inconsciente
dos teus olhos
de águas postas – de águas sobrepostas
– rente
à meiga – à mansíssima
racha
do teu ventre
Em voo raso
perto da sua boca:
A ouvir a memória...
Há um ruido de
asas
que te é próximo
um odor a flor,
a framboeza
um sabor a leite
e a morango
numa uterina luz de penumbra acesa
Um pouco acima
dos teus olhos,
como um pássaro
a voar por dentro,
bem por dentro
do interior dos lábios...
do corpo
A parte que é
anjo
do teu corpo
e me procura a meio
da madrugada
Sobrevoando o lago
que é suposto
ser no meu sono
aquilo que calava
A parte que é
anjo
do teu corpo
e me visita
a meio da madrugada
descansando as asas
dos teus ombros,
a meu lado:
em cima da almofada
Voava,
com a memória
das asas
no sentido inverso
do silêncio
e do sono
Oiço atrás de mim,
o breve respirar
das tuas asas
– quase imperceptivel –
Um ligeiro arfar
Como a brisa a passar
por entre as casas
da memória
com as suas asas
de pérgula
e medronho
a voarem noite dentro,
pelo sonho
Serás de branco
despojada de tudo
à cabeceira
por detrás do meu ombro
anjo mudo
Serás de branco
despojada de tudo,
asas supostas
de ti
à minha beira
O pássaro cintilante
da tua nudez
(uma matriz calada)
Da tua nudez
Com os teus seios
de anjo
sob as asas
A tomares conta
da memória
És um passaro – digo
És um pássaro
com penas
cintilantes
dos teus olhos
As tuas asas
de pétalas
tecidas com a luz
das penas
das asas que te crescem
Poisar um pouco
nos parapeitos
da memória
antes de recomeçar
o voo
de regresso a casa
Com as nossas asas
lúcidas:
translúcidas e pálidas
Deixa-me voar
por cima do teu
colo
até ir poisar
na tua alma
É a memória,
dos teus dedos pisados
nas asas dos meus ombros
Entrelaçados
Enlaçados
Como entranças
os sonhos
As tuas asas de prata
que atravessam a voar
o território
brando
das minhas lágrimas
Este
é o inconsciente
dos teus olhos
de águas postas – de águas sobrepostas
– rente
à meiga – à mansíssima
racha
do teu ventre
Em voo raso
perto da sua boca:
A ouvir a memória...
Há um ruido de
asas
que te é próximo
um odor a flor,
a framboeza
um sabor a leite
e a morango
numa uterina luz de penumbra acesa
Um pouco acima
dos teus olhos,
como um pássaro
a voar por dentro,
bem por dentro
do interior dos lábios...
do corpo
A parte que é
anjo
do teu corpo
e me procura a meio
da madrugada
Sobrevoando o lago
que é suposto
ser no meu sono
aquilo que calava
A parte que é
anjo
do teu corpo
e me visita
a meio da madrugada
descansando as asas
dos teus ombros,
a meu lado:
em cima da almofada
Voava,
com a memória
das asas
no sentido inverso
do silêncio
e do sono
Oiço atrás de mim,
o breve respirar
das tuas asas
– quase imperceptivel –
Um ligeiro arfar
Como a brisa a passar
por entre as casas
4 449
Fernando Pessoa
30 - l'inconnue
L'INCONNUE
Let thy hand set
My hair back. Look
Into mine eyes.
There runs a brook
Right through the heat
Of my hushed cries.
Let thy hand rest
Upon my brow.
Let thine eyes smile
Into the unrest
Of mine eyes now
Thine for a while.
Ay, forget not
To let that touch
Be felt by me,
Light like a thought
Of it, and such
As hope can be.
Let thy hand sweep
Over my hair
One little while.
I seem asleep
But cannot bear
To feel me smile.
All things have failed.
All hopes are dead.
All joys are brief.
Ay, let thy hand,
As if it quailed
From feeling sad,
Give me relief!
No matter if
None understand.
Ay, on my brow
Let thy hand be.
What life is now
Is worth so little
That pain seems brittle
And thought a slough.
Put my hair back
From my brow's pain.
There runs a track
Of lightness through
My heavy brain.
What does this mean?
These are words set
To an idle tune.
What I regret
Hath never been.
Lest my rest fret,
True rest, come soon!
Let thy hand set
My hair back. Look
Into mine eyes.
There runs a brook
Right through the heat
Of my hushed cries.
Let thy hand rest
Upon my brow.
Let thine eyes smile
Into the unrest
Of mine eyes now
Thine for a while.
Ay, forget not
To let that touch
Be felt by me,
Light like a thought
Of it, and such
As hope can be.
Let thy hand sweep
Over my hair
One little while.
I seem asleep
But cannot bear
To feel me smile.
All things have failed.
All hopes are dead.
All joys are brief.
Ay, let thy hand,
As if it quailed
From feeling sad,
Give me relief!
No matter if
None understand.
Ay, on my brow
Let thy hand be.
What life is now
Is worth so little
That pain seems brittle
And thought a slough.
Put my hair back
From my brow's pain.
There runs a track
Of lightness through
My heavy brain.
What does this mean?
These are words set
To an idle tune.
What I regret
Hath never been.
Lest my rest fret,
True rest, come soon!
4 437
Fernando Pessoa
O que o seu jeito revela
O que o seu jeito revela
Sabe à vista como um gomo,
E a vida tem fome dela
Nos dentes do seu assomo.
E nele mesmo, vibrante
A esse corpo de amor,
Espreita, próximo e distante,
O seu tigre interior.
1932
Sabe à vista como um gomo,
E a vida tem fome dela
Nos dentes do seu assomo.
E nele mesmo, vibrante
A esse corpo de amor,
Espreita, próximo e distante,
O seu tigre interior.
1932
4 322
Fernando Pessoa
XVI - No matter now or past or future.
XVI
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.
1913
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.
1913
4 373
Fernando Pessoa
XIX - Beauty and love let no one separate
XIX
Beauty and love let no one separate,
Whom exact Nature did to each ocher fit,
Giving to Beauty love as finishing fate
And to Love beauty as true colour of it.
Let he but friend be who the soul finds fair,
But let none love outside the body's thought,
So the seen couple's togetherness shall bear
Truth to the beauty each in the other sought.
I could but love thee out of mockery
Of love and thee and mine own ugliness;
Therefore thy beauty I sing and wish not thee,
Thanking the Gods I long not out of place
Lest, like a slave that for kings' robes doth long,
Obtained, shall with mere wearing do them wrong.
Beauty and love let no one separate,
Whom exact Nature did to each ocher fit,
Giving to Beauty love as finishing fate
And to Love beauty as true colour of it.
Let he but friend be who the soul finds fair,
But let none love outside the body's thought,
So the seen couple's togetherness shall bear
Truth to the beauty each in the other sought.
I could but love thee out of mockery
Of love and thee and mine own ugliness;
Therefore thy beauty I sing and wish not thee,
Thanking the Gods I long not out of place
Lest, like a slave that for kings' robes doth long,
Obtained, shall with mere wearing do them wrong.
4 321
Fernando Pessoa
Heart-music (Alexander Search)
Leaning almost upon thy breast
I heard thy heart's life - made unrest...
And thy heart's beating has a sound
That reminds me of aught I heard long ago,
Long before this life, but what
I do not know, I do not know...
'Twas something going round and round
Something of terrible and of strange
That even now doth shake my soul.
I strive to remember - I fail, l fail
The unmemoried memory doth shake my soul.
‘Twas something terrible and strange,
Going round and going round,
And it had a sound like thy heart's beat...
The memory hangs on my soul's darkness
But notion from my mind doth fleet.
I remember but this: it went round and round
And now thy heart hath such a sound.
12-1905
I heard thy heart's life - made unrest...
And thy heart's beating has a sound
That reminds me of aught I heard long ago,
Long before this life, but what
I do not know, I do not know...
'Twas something going round and round
Something of terrible and of strange
That even now doth shake my soul.
I strive to remember - I fail, l fail
The unmemoried memory doth shake my soul.
‘Twas something terrible and strange,
Going round and going round,
And it had a sound like thy heart's beat...
The memory hangs on my soul's darkness
But notion from my mind doth fleet.
I remember but this: it went round and round
And now thy heart hath such a sound.
12-1905
4 385
Fernando Pessoa
IV - Let the wide light come through the whole house now
IV
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 inhabitèd
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.
1913
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 inhabitèd
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.
1913
4 215
Fernando Pessoa
VII - Now is she risen. Look how she looks down
VII
Now is she risen. Look how she looks down,
After her slow down-slid night-gown,
On her unspotted while of nakedness
Save where the beast's difference from her white frame
Hairily triangling black below doth shame
Her to-day's sight of it, till the caress
Of the chemise cover her body. Dress!
Stop not, sitting upon the bed's hard edge,
Stop not to wonder at by-and-bye, nor guess!
List to the rapid birds i'th' window ledge!
Up, up and washed! Lo! she is up half-gowned,
For she lacks hands to have power to button fit
The white symbolic wearing, and she's found
By her maids thus, that come to perfect it.
1913
Now is she risen. Look how she looks down,
After her slow down-slid night-gown,
On her unspotted while of nakedness
Save where the beast's difference from her white frame
Hairily triangling black below doth shame
Her to-day's sight of it, till the caress
Of the chemise cover her body. Dress!
Stop not, sitting upon the bed's hard edge,
Stop not to wonder at by-and-bye, nor guess!
List to the rapid birds i'th' window ledge!
Up, up and washed! Lo! she is up half-gowned,
For she lacks hands to have power to button fit
The white symbolic wearing, and she's found
By her maids thus, that come to perfect it.
1913
4 256
Fernando Pessoa
VIII - Look how over her seeing-them-not her maids
VIII
Look how over her seeing-them-not her maids
Smile at each other their same thought of her!
Already is she deflowered in others' thoughts.
With curions carefulness of inlocked braids,
With hands that in the sun minutely stir,
One works her hair into concerted knots.
Another buttons tight the gown; her hand,
Touching the body's warmth of life, doth band
Her thoughts with the rude bridegroom's hand to be.
The first then, on the veil placed mistily,
Lays on her head, her own head sideways leaning,
The garland soon to have no meaning.
The first then, on the veil placed mistily,
Fit close the trembling feet, and her eyes see
The stockinged leg, road upwards to that boon
Where all this day centres its revelry.
1913
Look how over her seeing-them-not her maids
Smile at each other their same thought of her!
Already is she deflowered in others' thoughts.
With curions carefulness of inlocked braids,
With hands that in the sun minutely stir,
One works her hair into concerted knots.
Another buttons tight the gown; her hand,
Touching the body's warmth of life, doth band
Her thoughts with the rude bridegroom's hand to be.
The first then, on the veil placed mistily,
Lays on her head, her own head sideways leaning,
The garland soon to have no meaning.
The first then, on the veil placed mistily,
Fit close the trembling feet, and her eyes see
The stockinged leg, road upwards to that boon
Where all this day centres its revelry.
1913
4 281
Fernando Pessoa
XXI - And ye, that wed to-day, guess these instincts
XXI
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 suvh 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.
1913
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 suvh 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.
1913
4 184
Luiza Neto Jorge
O poema
I
Esclarecendo que o poema
é um duelo agudíssimo
quero eu dizer um dedo
agudíssimo claro
apontado ao coração do homem
falo
com uma agulha de sangue
a coser-me todo o corpo
à garganta
e a esta terra imóvel
onde já a minha sombra
é um traço de alarme
II
Piso do poema
chão de areia
Digo na maneira
mais crua e mais
intensa
de medir o poema
pela medida inteira
o poema em milímetro
de madeira
ou apodrece o poema
ou se alteia
ou se despedaça
a mão ateia
ou cinco seis astros
se percorre
antes que o deserto
mate a fome
de Terra Imóvel
Esclarecendo que o poema
é um duelo agudíssimo
quero eu dizer um dedo
agudíssimo claro
apontado ao coração do homem
falo
com uma agulha de sangue
a coser-me todo o corpo
à garganta
e a esta terra imóvel
onde já a minha sombra
é um traço de alarme
II
Piso do poema
chão de areia
Digo na maneira
mais crua e mais
intensa
de medir o poema
pela medida inteira
o poema em milímetro
de madeira
ou apodrece o poema
ou se alteia
ou se despedaça
a mão ateia
ou cinco seis astros
se percorre
antes que o deserto
mate a fome
de Terra Imóvel
4 211
Fernando Pessoa
II - If that apparent part of life's delight
II
If that apparent part of life's delight
Our tingled flesh-sense circumscribes were seen
By aught save reflex and co-carnal sight,
Joy, flesh and life might prove but a gross screen.
Haply Truth's body is no eyable being,
Appearance even as appearance lies,
Haply our close, dark, vague, warm sense of seeing
Is the choked vision of blindfolded eyes.
Wherefrom what comes to thought's sense of life? Nought.
All is either the irrational world we see
Or some aught-else whose being-unknown doth rot
Its use for our thought's use. Whence taketh me
A qualm-like ache of life, a body-deep
Soul-hate of what we seek and what we weep.
If that apparent part of life's delight
Our tingled flesh-sense circumscribes were seen
By aught save reflex and co-carnal sight,
Joy, flesh and life might prove but a gross screen.
Haply Truth's body is no eyable being,
Appearance even as appearance lies,
Haply our close, dark, vague, warm sense of seeing
Is the choked vision of blindfolded eyes.
Wherefrom what comes to thought's sense of life? Nought.
All is either the irrational world we see
Or some aught-else whose being-unknown doth rot
Its use for our thought's use. Whence taketh me
A qualm-like ache of life, a body-deep
Soul-hate of what we seek and what we weep.
4 193
Fernando Pessoa
III - Open the windows and thee doors all wide
III
Open the windows and thee 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.
1913
Open the windows and thee 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.
1913
4 186
Fernando Pessoa
XIV - The bridegroom aches for the end of this and lusts (1913)
XIV
The bridegroom aches for the end of this and lusts
To know those paps in sucking gusts,
To put his first hand on that belly's hair
And feel for the lipped lair,
The fortress made but to be taken, for which
He feels the battering ram grow large and itch.
The trembling glad bride feels all the day hot
On that still cloistered spot
Where only her nightly maiden hand did feign
A pleasure's empty gain.
And, of the others, most will whisper at this,
Knowing the spurt it is;
And children yet, that watch with looking eyes,
Will now thrill to be wise
In flesh, and with big men and women act
The liquid tickling fact
For whose taste they'1l in secret corners try
They scarce know what still dry
1913
The bridegroom aches for the end of this and lusts
To know those paps in sucking gusts,
To put his first hand on that belly's hair
And feel for the lipped lair,
The fortress made but to be taken, for which
He feels the battering ram grow large and itch.
The trembling glad bride feels all the day hot
On that still cloistered spot
Where only her nightly maiden hand did feign
A pleasure's empty gain.
And, of the others, most will whisper at this,
Knowing the spurt it is;
And children yet, that watch with looking eyes,
Will now thrill to be wise
In flesh, and with big men and women act
The liquid tickling fact
For whose taste they'1l in secret corners try
They scarce know what still dry
1913
4 190
Ana Paula Ribeiro Tavares
A abóbora menina
Tão gentil de distante, tão macia aos olhos
vacuda, gordinha,
de segredos bem escondidos
estende-se à distância
procurando ser terra
quem sabe possa
acontecer o milagre:
folhinhas verdes
flor amarela
ventre redondo
depois é só esperar
nela desaguam todos os rapazes.
Benguela, 83
vacuda, gordinha,
de segredos bem escondidos
estende-se à distância
procurando ser terra
quem sabe possa
acontecer o milagre:
folhinhas verdes
flor amarela
ventre redondo
depois é só esperar
nela desaguam todos os rapazes.
Benguela, 83
4 172
Cruz e Sousa
Incensos
Dentre o chorar dos trêmulos violinos,
por entre os sons dos órgãos soluçantes
sobem nas catedrais os neblinantes
incensos vagos, que recordam hinos...
Rolos d'incensos alvadios, finos
e transparentes, fúlgidos, radiantes,
que elevam-se aos espaços, ondulantes,
em Quimeras e Sonhos diamantinos.
Relembrando turíbulos de prata
incensos aromáticos desata
teu corpo ebúrneo, de sedosos flancos.
Claros incensos imortais que exalam,
que lânguidas e límpidas trescalam
as luas virgens dos teus seios brancos.
Publicado no Livro Broquéis (1893).
In: SOUSA, Cruz e. Poesia completa. Introd. Maria Helena Camargo Régis. Florianópolis: Fundação Catarinense de Cultura, 1981. pg. 32
por entre os sons dos órgãos soluçantes
sobem nas catedrais os neblinantes
incensos vagos, que recordam hinos...
Rolos d'incensos alvadios, finos
e transparentes, fúlgidos, radiantes,
que elevam-se aos espaços, ondulantes,
em Quimeras e Sonhos diamantinos.
Relembrando turíbulos de prata
incensos aromáticos desata
teu corpo ebúrneo, de sedosos flancos.
Claros incensos imortais que exalam,
que lânguidas e límpidas trescalam
as luas virgens dos teus seios brancos.
Publicado no Livro Broquéis (1893).
In: SOUSA, Cruz e. Poesia completa. Introd. Maria Helena Camargo Régis. Florianópolis: Fundação Catarinense de Cultura, 1981. pg. 32
4 136
Fernando Pessoa
26 - fever‑garden
FEVER‑GARDEN
I
Red living flakes of demon snow
Poison‑relate the sinning air
To atom‑clear red sick flowers who
Rootless jut out of Night and There
Relation being itself a clutch
Upon the throbbing veins in seeing
So the surviving over‑much
Is not contiguous to being
Yet philter‑aureole or lay
Sung round the rites of altared vice
The poppies of o'er‑memory may
Spin cobweb‑circles lusting thrice
Around the phallic selfness stood
Midway from intellect to sense
Round whose void a tongued mist thrust‑dense
To the cut lips gives conscious blood
II
She the despised communion owes
To vice of tainting holy things
And making eucharists of throes
When lust thickens with pin‑soft wings
For her mouth red till purple is black
Supplies a space in the lost rites
And intermits our heart‑beats' track
Senseward to demon infinites
Till on the point of the spasm cast
Like a mantle on consciousness
The veil is rent in temple waste
And the tongue‑flowers remouth from Space
5-5-1917
I
Red living flakes of demon snow
Poison‑relate the sinning air
To atom‑clear red sick flowers who
Rootless jut out of Night and There
Relation being itself a clutch
Upon the throbbing veins in seeing
So the surviving over‑much
Is not contiguous to being
Yet philter‑aureole or lay
Sung round the rites of altared vice
The poppies of o'er‑memory may
Spin cobweb‑circles lusting thrice
Around the phallic selfness stood
Midway from intellect to sense
Round whose void a tongued mist thrust‑dense
To the cut lips gives conscious blood
II
She the despised communion owes
To vice of tainting holy things
And making eucharists of throes
When lust thickens with pin‑soft wings
For her mouth red till purple is black
Supplies a space in the lost rites
And intermits our heart‑beats' track
Senseward to demon infinites
Till on the point of the spasm cast
Like a mantle on consciousness
The veil is rent in temple waste
And the tongue‑flowers remouth from Space
5-5-1917
4 187
Natália Correia
Cosmocópula
I
Membro a pino
dia é macho
submarino
é entre coxas
teu mergulho
vício de ostras
II
O corpo é praia a boca é a nascente
e é na vulva que a areia é mais sedenta
poro a poro vou sendo o curso da água
da tua língua demasiada e lenta
dentes e unhas rebentam como pinhas
de carnívoras plantas te é meu ventre
abro-te as coxas e deixo-te crescer
duro e cheiroso como o aloendro.
Membro a pino
dia é macho
submarino
é entre coxas
teu mergulho
vício de ostras
II
O corpo é praia a boca é a nascente
e é na vulva que a areia é mais sedenta
poro a poro vou sendo o curso da água
da tua língua demasiada e lenta
dentes e unhas rebentam como pinhas
de carnívoras plantas te é meu ventre
abro-te as coxas e deixo-te crescer
duro e cheiroso como o aloendro.
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