*****
Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935) was born in Lisbon. At six years old, he accompanied his mother to Durban where his stepfather was Portuguese consul. At seventeen, he returned to Lisbon, where he remained throughout the rest of his life. Pessoa wrote poems either under his own name or under three heteronyms (poetic personae he invented, each with a very different personality, style and biography). These were Alberto Caeiro (agrarian, little formal education, positivistic in outlook), Ricardo Reis (medical doctor, influenced by Horace) and Alvaro de Campos (retired naval engineer, explosively modernistic, influenced by both Whitman and the Italian futurist Marinetti). He wrote in Portuguese, English and a short sequence in French, Chansons Mortes.
NB: There are links to two of the original poems being read in Portuguese on Youtube.
Just click on the titles below.
*****
MULTITUDES INHABIT US
by Fernando Pessoa, writing as Ricardo Reis
Multitudes inhabit us;
Thinking, feeling, ignorant
Who it is that thinks or feels,
I am only the venue
Where thoughts or feelings play out.
Souls I have — yes, more than one!
There are more I’s than I myself.
Nevertheless, I exist,
To all comers indifferent.
I enforce silence: I speak.
Intercrossing impulses
Of what I feel or don’t feel
Dispute over who I am.
I ignore them. They’ve no say
In which ‘me’ I know: I write.
*
Vivem em nós inúmeros;
Se penso ou sinto, ignoro
Quem é que pensa ou sente.
Sou somente o lugar
Onde se sente ou pensa.
Tenho mais almas que uma.
Há mais eus do que eu mesmo.
Existo todavia
Indiferente a todos.
Faço-os calar: eu falo.
Os impulsos cruzados
Do que sinto ou não sinto
Disputam em quem sou.
Ignoro-os. Nada ditam
A quem me sei: eu ‘screvo.
***
THE KEEPER OF SHEEP
by Fernando Pessoa, writing as Alberto Caeiro
I am a shepherd and I guard my sheep,
Which are my thoughts. I let them graze
And, grazing, take their shape.
Each thought is a sensation. Eyes,
Ears, hands, feet, nose, mouth
Think/feel.
Think flower — see, smell!
Eat fruit — it signifies!
A hot day, when enjoyment soars
To surfeit into sadness, I stretch out
In the grass to close warm eyes,
Feel my whole body, feel the whole feel of me,
Stretching into reality,
Knowing the truth, happy to feel, think, be.
I am a shepherd and I tend my flock,
No metaphysics to unearth, unlock.
*
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.
Pensar uma flor é vê-la e cheirá-la
E comer um fruto é saber-lhe o sentido.
Por isso quando num dia de calor
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.
***
SLANTING RAIN II
by Fernando Pessoa, writing as himself,
The church is illuminated from within by this day’s rain,
And each inflamed candle’s more rain slashing the stained glass …
I delight to hear the rain as it’s the temple lit into flame,
And the church’s stained glass windows seen from without are the
sound of the rain heard within …
The high altar’s splendour is that I barely glimpse the mountains
Through the rain that is the gold so solemn on the altar cloth …
The choir soars in descant, Latin and wind shaking the glass panes in
me
And you feel the water’s hiss in the fact of the choir’s existence
The mass is an automobile that passes
Through and across the faithful kneeling in the day’s sadness
Suddenly the wind gusts in greater splendour
Shaking the cathedral’s feast and all is absorbed in the rain’s roar
Till all you can hear is the priest’s voice distantly dissolving
Into the sound of the car wheels passing …
And the lights are quenched,
Drenched in the rain that, stanched, ceases…
*
Ilumina-se a igreja por dentro da chuva deste dia,
E cada vela que se acende é mais chuva a bater na vidraça …
Alegra-me ouvir a chuva porque ela é o templo estar aceso,
E as vidraças da igreja vistas de fora são o som da chuva ouvido por dentro …
O esplendor do altar-mor é o eu não poder quase ver os montes
Através da chuva que é ouro tão solene na toalha do altar …
Soa o canto do coro, latino e vento a sacudir-me a vidraça
E sente-se chiar a água no facto de haver coro …
A missa é um automóvel que passa
Através dos fiéis que se ajoelham em hoje ser um dia triste…
Súbito vento sacode em esplendor maior
A festa da catedral e o ruído da chuva absorve tudo
Até só se ouvir a voz do padre água perder-se ao longe
Com o som de rodas de automóvel …
E apagam-se as luzes da igreja
Na chuva que cessa…
***
THREE DEAD SONGS
by Fernando Pessoa, writing as himself in French
*
You‘re beautiful: you are adored.
Your youth wins smiles in every part.
Could a love but once be stirred
To blossom in this lightless heart,
This smile of mine that shows my sadness
Would turn, a faraway reflection,
Your ash-gold tresses’ faithful witness,
Matt white hands my fond addiction.
But this smile’s all I can muster,
Slumbering deep within my eyes,
Cold lake that gleams back your laugh’s lustre,
Forgets itself in joy’s surprise.
*
I had a dream. The dawn
Did not have in its gift,
For all its costly gown,
My sleep, though light, to lift.
In vain did all the shade
Cast its black cloak aside.
My heart’s still darker made,
My darkness self-supplied.
It’s dead. Now I exist
By what came from that source,
Sadder for it. Extinct
What quickened, when in force,
The hour’s pace, too slow,
Let weariness less weigh —
This dream, what was it, though?
Ah, this I cannot say!
*
If you loved me a little? … In dream,
Not love as such …
A nothing … love that achieves its aim
Lacks the light touch.
Make of me one that loves you, never
Who I am … let
The dream be fair, day will deliver
A smile yet.
That I be sad or ugly …. a shadow-play …
Day’s freshness just to earn
For you, I do not stray
From sombre sojourn.
(Previously published in the French Literary Review)
***
Trois Chansons Mortes
*
Vous êtes belle: on vous adore.
Vous êtes jeune: on vous sourit.
Si un amour pourrait éclore
Dans ce cœur où rien ne luit,
Ce sourire de ma tristesse
Se tournerait, reflet lointain,
Vers l’or cendré de votre tresse,
Vers le blanc mat de votre main.
Mais je n’en fais que ce sourire
Qui sommeille au fond de mes yeux —
Lac froid qui, en vous voyant rire,
S’oublie en un reflet joyeux.
*
J’eus un rêve. L’aube
N’a pu soulever
Du frais de sa robe
Mon sommeil léger.
En vain toute l’ombre
Jetait sa noirceur.
Mon cœur est plus sombre.
C’était dans mon cœur.
Il est mort. J’existe
Par ce qui m’en vint.
Quoi? J’en suis plus triste…
Ah, ce rêve éteint
Faisait l’heure brève
Et mon cœur moins las…
Quel était ce rêve?
Je ne le sais pas.
*
Si vous m’aimiez un peu?… Par rêve,
Non par amour…
Un rien… L’amour que l’on achève
Est lourd.
Faites de moi un qui vous aime,
Pas qui je suis…
Quand le rêve est beau, le jour même
Sourit.
Que je sois triste ou laid — c’est l’ombre…
Pour que le jour
Vous soit frais, je vous fais ce sombre
Séjour.
***
Ranald Barnicot is a retired English language teacher, having worked in Spain, Portugal, Italy and the UK. He has published original poems and translations from Ancient Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian in journals, including Poetry Salzburg Review, Acumen, Orbis and The High Window. A Greek Verse for Ophelia, and other poems by Giovanni Quessep (Out-spoken Press), co-translated from Spanish with Felipe Botero Quintana, came out in November 2018. By Me, Through Me, original poems and translations, was published by Alba Publishing in January 2019. Friendship, Love, Abuse etc The shorter Poems of Catullus (Dempsey and Windle) was published in July 2020.
The High Window 