They are like a crystal,
Some a dagger,
some a blaze.
Secret they come, full of memory.
Insecurely they sail:
cockleboats or kisses,
the waters trembling.
They are woven of light.
They are the night.
And even pallid
they recall green paradise.
Who hears them? Who
gathers them, thus,
in their pure shells?
Translation: 1985, Alexis Levitin, Inhabited Heart
Perivale Press, Los Angeles, 1985
São como um cristal,
Algumas, um punhal,
Secretas vêm, cheias de memória.
barcos ou beijos,
as águas estremecem.
Tecidas são de luz
e são a noite.
E mesmo pálidas
verdes paraísos lembram ainda.
Quem as escuta? Quem
as recolhe, assim,
nas suas conchas puras?
Eugénio de Andrade, Coração do Dia
Limiar, Porto, 1958
Photo: Point Omega by Don Delillo (sometimes I’m too lazy to take notes)
The souls that throng the flood
Are those to whom, by fate, are other bodies ow’d:
In Lethe’s lake they long oblivion taste,
Of future life secure, forgetful of the past.
Photo: Ponte de Lima (2017) I have spent a lot of happy and not so happy days in this place during my childhood and teenage years. A village which is known for a legend of forgetfulness has helped me to know a little bit more of who I am.
The Aeneid by Virgil
Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.
O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimful of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago!
Echo, Christina Rossetti
Photo: Leça da Palmeira, after the storm (March 2018)
This is not a good photo. I couldn’t get out of the car and attempt a proper photo, the letter box stands right by a traffic light and words on walls and urban equipments tend to vanish quickly, so you get them when you spot them.
Pause and reflect on the [your / mine] path
That’s how it reads to me. That’s what’s lacking, the time to stop and try to see the direction.
Hoje de manhã saí muito cedo,
Hoje de manhã saí muito cedo,
Por ter acordado ainda mais cedo
E não ter nada que quisesse fazer…
Não sabia por caminho tomar
Mas o vento soprava forte, varria para um lado,
E segui o caminho para onde o vento me soprava nas costas.
Assim tem sido sempre a minha vida, e
Assim quero que possa ser sempre —
Vou onde o vento me leva e não me
“Poemas Inconjuntos”. In Poemas de Alberto Caeiro. Fernando Pessoa.
I went out very early in the morning today
Because I woke up even earlier
And there was nothing I wanted to do…
I didn’t know which road to take
But the wind rose strong, sweeping up from one side,
And I followed the road where the wind pushed at my back.
That’s how my life has always been, and
That’s how I’d like to be able to have it always be —
I go where the wind leads me
And don’t feel like thinking.
Photo: Afurada on a perfect Saturday morning
And the World is different. And it’s summer in February even though it’s still the Northern Hemisphere.
Photo: last Sunday, somewhere in Gondomar