I translated some poems from Iberian authors

Image result for mário sá-carneiro
Mário de Sá-Carneiro

FALSE STATUE

Only in false gold have my eyes shimmered;
I’m a sphynx without mystery at sight.
The sadness of things that never happened
descend in my soul as a veiled light.

In my pain, craving swords are broken,
illuminated arrows blend with dark.
The shades flowing from me are torn apart,
as with yesterday, to me, today is forsaken.

I quiver no longer in face of secrecy;
Nothing torments me, not even gore:
Life flows through me like a war,
Without a single breath of fear!

I’m a drunken star who lost its skies,
a maddened mermaid who left the sea;
A godless temple crumbling to its lies,
A false statue still held highly.

Mário de Sá-Carneiro, Paris, 5 of May of 1913


MERCEDES IN HER FLIGHT

A gelid and upright guitar
is what you are in rocks of height.
A throatless voice, a dark voice sounding
everything without sounding anything.

Your thoughts are snow slipped
by the infinite glory of whiteness.
Your profile a perennial burn,
your heart a freed dove.

Sing, sing in the freedom of air,
that fragrant dawning melody,
mound of light and wound of lily.

So that we, down here, day and night
shall make in the corners of sadness
a garland of melancholy.

Federico García Lorca


55, Rain Passage

«In each raindrop my failed life cries within nature. There is something in my drop-by-drop disquiet, in the downpour-to-downpour with which the sadness of a day unbecomes uselessly over the earth.
It rains heavily, so heavily. My soul is humid just by hearing it. So heavily… My flesh is liquid and aqueous wrapping around my sensation of it.
A restless cold places those frigid hands around my poor heart. The grey hours stretch out, flatten themselves upon time; the moments drag out.
How it rains!
The gutters spit out scant torrents of water always suddenly. Slithers through my knowledge that there are pipes with an unsettling noise of down-spurt. Rain bangs against the glass, indolent, moaning.

A cold hand grips my throat and impedes me from breathing life.
Everything dies within me, even the knowledge that I can dream! In no physical sense am I fine. Every softness in which I recline has edges for my soul. All eyes I look upon are so dim after this indigent daylight breaks onto them so it can die without pain.»

Fernando Pessoa (through Bernardo Soares), 1914(?) in Book of Disquiet


156

«What imprecise queen holds near her lakes the memory of my broken life? I was the pageboy of promenades too insufficient to the aerial hours of my blue stillness. Distant ships completed the sea by waving over my terraces, and in southern clouds I lost my soul, like a dropped paddle.»

Fernando Pessoa (through Bernardo Soares), 1918(?), in Book of Disquiet


João-Maria

catkins (english|portuguese poetry)

CATKINS

AMENTILHOS

Again, not quite as potent as I would have it; writing compositions over days (or, at times, weeks) allows for a more refined method of writing, but some assaulting sensations end up becoming elements of works where they don’t necessarily belong, which makes the process muddy. Sieving said sensations, percolating them, becomes a bit of an exercise in taste more than anything else. If only this had a science (it wouldn’t be half as interesting if it did).
I also realise that merely saying these are translations doesn’t do much without access to the original texts, so, I’ve provided it here. If you do happen to know Portuguese (olá), and would like to offer translation feedback, I would be immensely grateful of such, since my translation skills are rather primal.

Thank you much for reading,
João-Maria.

MORRE, ACÁCIO

Morre, Acácio, meu amado.

Morre Acácio

(I – O Corpo Chega)

Dois homens e um menino e o mar;

“Olha!, está morto, plácido e escurecido!”

“Não lhe toques, morreu de paixão,

pode ser que entre o coração e o fígado

ainda lhe reste essa úmbrica infecção.”

Dois homens e um menino e o corpo marinho

fluando p’lo azul submarino, subindo e descendo

com a bravada das ondas, admeio escuridão.

É o Acácio — terá morrido pelas açucenas —

tanto as amou que as matou, tão só

que se matou no alto-mar, longe

das flores de amar, de lembrar

um amor que nunca brotou.

“Tão pálido, não há rubra de sangue,

não deve ter sofrido muito.”

“O que havia de sofrer, haverá sofrido

bem antes de ter morrido.”

“A candura de amar é como estas ondas,

tão belas… tão erosivas…”

“Que sabes tu de amar, menino?

Que sabes tu de morrer? De sofrer?”

E o…

View original post 798 more words

Uma Ode a Paulo Cunha

Paulo, desculpa-me, fora a primeira Ode que alguma vês terei escrito, por vias disso, não será a melhor que já haveis lido, talvez nem a melhor dedicada a ti. Mas gostei muito de a escrever, porque a escrevo para ti. Quem não conhece o meu querido Paulo, ele vive aqui.


ode 1

Ode 2

Ode 3

ode 4


João Maria Azevedo, com ajuda de Eugénio de Andrade, na sua tradução da “Ode a Federico Garcia Lorca”, escrita por Pablo Neruda, e com ajuda de Verlaine, na sua “Canção de Outono”, citada na primeira estrofe.

 

CHUVA QUENTE (poesia portuguesa)

Entre os átomos dos livros, a poeira dos dias, a fome de versar tão intensamente que as lágrimas me invadem os olhos, existe um sentimento cuja história da Arte Humana tende em replicar sempre com a mesma tristeza, com o mesmo olhar magoado: o abandono.

Os espaços, as pessoas, os animais, os sonhos e romances, todos ganham a fronte inversa aquando abandonados, não há onda maior de sofrimento, não há perda maior para o imponente Tempo, que a de se ser desertado.

É disso que nasce esta humilde composição, não tenho outro adjectivo para lhe entregar.

Screen Shot 2018-07-10 at 15.54.46Screen Shot 2018-07-10 at 15.54.51

Custa um pouco publicar este poema, cuidem bem dele.


João Maria.