A keresés eredménye

Prayer

Lord, the night's come and our soul is vile.
We've seen such willful and tragic scenes!
We're now left, in a silence so hostile,
With a broken sea and our memories.
 
Yet the flame which life in us lit,
If still lively has not yet ceased.
The cold so deadly threw ashes over it,
The hands of the wind might still catch it.
 
Blow gentle winds to help us — or a windstorm to wake us —
Through which our endeavour will blaze anew,
And one more time will seize the blue,
Wether it be heaven's or sea's, it'll be ours!
 

Nem érdekelnek a rímek. Ritkán találni...

Nem érdekelnek a rímek. Ritkán találni
Az erdõben egymás mellett két egyforma fát.
Úgy gondolkodom s írok, ahogy a virágoknak színe van
Bár jóval tökéletlenebbül,
Mert hiányzik belõlem az az isteni egyszerûség,
Hogy csak úgy magától értetõdõen legyek.
 
Nézem a világot és meghatódom.
Érzékenységem, akár a dombról lefutó vizeké,
S úgy születik bennem a költészet, ahogy a szél kerekedik…
 

A szappanbuborékok, amelyeket ez a kisgyerek

A szappanbuborékok, amelyeket ez a kisgyerek
A maga mulatságára szalmaszálból ereget,
Áttetszõségükben egész filozófiai rendszert teremtenek.
Átlátszóak, haszontalanok és múlandóak, mint a Természet,
 
A szemnek szólnak, mint általában a dolgok,
S légies gömbölydedségükkel
Egyértelmûen azok, amik,
És senki, még az õket fújdogáló gyerek sem
Akarja, hogy többek legyenek, mint aminek látszanak.
 
És néhányuk már alig kivehetõ a fényességes égben.
Olyanok, akár a szellõ, mely épphogy érinti a virágokat s tovalibben,
Csak azt tudjuk róla, hogy elleng,
Mert valami könnyûvé válik bennünk,
És mindent pontosan olyannak fogad el, amilyen.
 

Így vagy úgy...

Így vagy úgy.
Attól függ, megfelel vagy nem felel meg.
Néha elmondhatni jól, amit gondolok.
Máskor rosszul és zavarosan.
Verseket írok anélkül, hogy akarnám.
Mintha a tollforgatás nem mozdulatok sora volna.
Mintha az írás úgy történne meg velem,
Ahogyan kintrõl besüt a nap.
 
Megpróbálom elmondani, amit érzek,
De úgy, hogy nem gondolok arra, amit érzek.
Megkísérlem az eszmékhez igazítani a szavakat,
És nincs szükségem vezetõre,
Amely a gondolattól a szóig terel.
 
Tudom, nem mindig érzem, amit éreznem kellene.
És csak nagyon lassan szeli át a folyót a gondolatom,
Nehéz rajta a ruha, amelybe az emberek kényszer-öltöztették.
 
Megpróbálom ledobni magamról mindazt, amit megtanultam,
És feledni próbálom, amit tanítottak nekem.
Megpróbálom levakarni a festéket, mellyel bekenték érzékszerveim,
Megpróbálom kiszabadítani igazi érzéseimet,
És põrére vetkezve végre én akarok lenni, s nem Alberto Caeiro,
Emberi állat akarok lenni, akit a Természet alkotott.
 
Írok, vágyva a Természetet, még csak nem is úgy, mint egy ember,
Hanem, mint aki érzékeli a Természetet és semmi több.
Így írok, néha remeket, néha csapnivalót,
Olykor telibe találom, amit mondani akarok, olykor nem,
Elbotlok itt, fölkelek ott,
De mindig a magam útját járom, mint egy makacs vak ember.
 
És még így is vagyok valaki.
A Természet felfedezõje,
Az igazi érzékelések Argonautája vagyok.
A Világmindenségnek egy új Mindenséget adok,
Mert elhozom a Világmindenségnek önmagát.
 
Ezt érzem, ezt írom.
Totális teljében a tudásnak, anélkül, hogy látnám,
Hajnali öt óra van,
És a nap még nem emelte tûzgömb-fejét
A látóhatár boltíve fölé,
De sugár-ujjai haloványan már látszanak,
Ahogy belekapaszkodnak az alacsony
Hegyek fölött az ég peremébe.
 

Inkább röptét a madárnak, mely szálltában nem hagy nyomot...

Inkább röptét a madárnak, mely szálltában nem hagy nyomot,
Mint az állatok csapát vájó járását, mely emlékeztetõ marad.
A madár tovaszáll a feledésbe, ez így rendjén való.
Az állat, amely volt, de már nincs, s így végtére haszontalan,
És a nyoma csak arra emlékeztet, hogy már nem jó semmire.
 
Az emlékezés árulás a Természet ellen.
Mert a tegnapi Természet nem az a Természet.
Ami elmúlt, az semmi, s aki emlékszik rá, nem lát.
 
Röpülj madár, röpülj s taníts meg szállani engem!
 

Ellibeg egy lepke elõttem...

Ellibeg egy lepke elõttem,
És a Világmindenségben elõször én veszem észre,
Hogy a lepkéknek se színük, se mozgásuk.
Amiként a virágoknak sincsen színük, se illatuk.
A szín az, aminek színe van a lepke szárnyán,
A mozgás az, ami mozog a lepke-lebbenésben,
Az illat az, ami aroma a virág illatában.
A lepke csupán lepke
És a virág csak virág.
 

Boldog hajók, kik csöndes révre leltek...

Boldog hajók, kik csöndes révre leltek
A tenger éji útjait bejárva,
A vész nyomán, ha hajnal fénye leng -
Szívem halott tó, melynek partja mellett,
A bús vizek fölött, álomba zárva,
Egy középkori várkastély mereng.
 
S e kastélyban, hol álmodik bolondul,
Nem tudja, ó, a hókarú, a halvány,
Szép várúrnő, kit lankadt búja nyom,
Nem tudja, hogy van kikötő amott, túl,
Honnan sötét hajók, halkan suhanván
Indulnak útnak minden hajnalon.
 
A kastélyról se tud, hol egyre bágyad,
S hol álmodik... Szerzetes lelke holt ág:
Nem érzi azt, mi test, mi durva, pőre...
S amíg borongva önmagába árad,
Jönnek a vízen, messze, tárt vitorlák,
Hajók a középkori kikötőbe...
 

Ogdr27 - Only Nature is divine, and she is not divine

Only Nature is divine, and she is not divine . . .
 
If at times I speak of her like of a being
It is to speak of her precise to use the language of men
Who give personalities to things,
And impose names on things.
 
But the things do not have names nor personalities:
They exist, and the sky is large and the earth wide,
And our heart the size of a shut fist . . .
 
Blessed may I be for all that which I do not know.
I pride myself in all of that like who knows that there is Sun.
 

Msg35 The symbols - The lucky islands

What sound comes in the sound of the waves
Which isn't the voice of the sea?
It is the voice of someone who speaks to us,
But who, if we listen, falls quiet,
For having been heard.
 
And only if, half asleep,
Without knowing that we hear we hear,
That she tells us the hope
To which, like a sleeping
Child, upon sleeping we smile.
 
They are lucky islands
They are lands without having place,
Where the King dwells waiting.
But, if we start wakening,
It silences its voice, and there is only sea.
 

Odes, Book One - 09

Crown me with roses,
Crown me with truth
. . . Of roses -
Roses that extinguish themselves
Ahead of extinguishing themselves
. . . So early!
Crown me with roses
And with brief leaves.
. . . And it is enough.
 

Msg25 The Columbuses

Others shall have
That which we shall lose.
Others shall be able to discover
That which, in our own searching,
Was discovered, or not discovered,
According to the given destiny.
 
But that which does not touch them
Is the Magic that evokes
The Faraway and makes of it history.
And because of this its glory
Is a just halo given
By a loaned-out light.
 

Msg22 Pattern

The effort is great and the man is small.
I, Diogo Cão, navigator, have left
This pattern at the feet of the dark beach
And forwards I navigated.
 
The soul is divine and the work is imperfect.
This pattern signals to the wind and to the skies
That, from the audacious work, the finished part is mine:
The to-do is only with God.
 
And to the immense and impossible ocean
These cinchonas teach, what you here see,
That the sea with end will be Greek or Roman:
The sea without end is Portuguese.
 
And the Cross overhead says that what lies in my soul
And makes the fever in me of navigating
Will only find of God in the eternal calm
The port always to be found.
 

Ogdr44 - I wake from the night suddenly

I wake from the night suddenly,
And my clock occupies the entire night.
I don't feel Nature there outside.
My room is a dark thing with walls vaguely white.
There outside there is a quietude as if nothing existed.
Only the clock proceeds with its noise.
And that small thing of gears that is atop my table
Stifles all the existence of the Earth and of the sky . . .
Almost so that I lose myself thinking what this means,
But I return, and I feel myself smile in the night with the songs from the mouth,
Because the only thing that my clock symbolizes or means
Filling with its smallness the enormous night
Is the curious sensation of filling the enormous night
With its smallness . . .
And this sensation is curious because only it is only for me that it fills up the night
With its smallness . . .
 

Ogdr31 – If sometimes I say that the flowers smile

If sometimes I say that the flowers smile
And if I say that the rivers sing,
It is not because I judged that there are smiles in the flowers
And songs in the running of the rivers . . .
It is because that way I make the false people feel more
The truthfully real existence of the flowers and of the rivers.
 
Because I write for them to read me I sacrifice myself sometimes
To their stupidity of sentiments . . .
I don't agree with myself but I absolve myself,
Because I only am that serious thing, an interpreter of Nature,
Because there are people that do not comprehend its language,
Because its language is the absence of language.
 

Ogdr36 – And there are poets that are artists

And there are poets that are artists
And work upon their verses
Just like how a carpenter works upon tables! . . .
 
How sad it is to not know how to blossom!
To have to put verse upon verse, like who constructs a wall
And to see if it is good, and to topple it if it isn't! . . .
When the only artistic house is the entire Earth
That varies and is always good and is always the same.
 
I think about this, not like who thinks, but like who breathes.
And I look at the flowers and smile . . .
I don't know if they understand me
Or even if I understand them as they are,
But I know that the truth is within them and in me
And in our common divinity
Of letting each other go and live throughout the Earth
And to lead on lap through the content Seasons
And to allow the wind to sing so that we may fall asleep
And not have dreams inside of our sleep.
 

Portuguese sea

Oh salinated sea, how much of your salt
Are the tears of Portugal!
When we cross over you, how many mothers cry,
How many children pray in vain!
How many fiancées wait to marry
Why are you ours, oh sea!
 
Is it worth it? Everything is worth the effort
If the soul isn't small.
Who wants to pass beyond Bojador
Must first pass beyond the suffering.
God gave to the sea danger and the abyss,
But in it lies what the sky mirrored.
 

Ogdr13 - Light, light, very light

Versions: #1#2
Light, light, very light,
A very light wind passes,
And goes away, always very light.
And I don't know what I think
Nor do I seek to know it.
 

Ogdr01 - I never kept herds

I never kept herds,
But it is as if I have kept them.
My soul is like that of a shepherd,
It knows the wind and the Sun
And goes hand in hand with the Seasons
To follow and to see.
All the peace of Nature without people
Comes to sit itself beside me.
But I remain sad like a sunset
For our imagination,
When it grows cold in the depths of the plain
And it feels as if the night entered
As a butterfly does through the window.
 
But my sorrow is quiet
Because it is natural and just
And it is what should be inside the soul
When it already thinks that it exists
And the hands pick flowers without even thinking of it.
 
Like the sound of cowbells
From beyond the curve of the road,
My thoughts are content.
I only have the pity of knowing that they are content,
Because, if I didn't know,
Instead of being content and sad,
They would be joyful and content.
To think discomforts like going through the rain
When the wind grows and it appears that it rains even more.
 
I don't have any ambitions or desires.
To be a poet is not one of my ambitions.
It's my way of being alone.
 
And if desire at times,
To imagine, being a little lamb
(Or being the whole herd
To go scattered throughout all the hillside
To be many happy things all at once),
It's only because I feel what I write during sunset
Or when a cloud passes it's hand over the light
And runs a silence through the herbage outside.
 
When I sit down to write verses
Or, ambling through the roads or through the footpaths,
I write verses on a paper that is within my thought,
I feel a staff in my hands
And I see a profile of me
Atop a hill,
Looking out at my herd and seeing my ideas
Or looking at my ideas and seeing my herd,
And smiling vaguely like who doesn't understand what is said
And wants to pretend that they understand.
 
I greet all that read me,
Throwing my large hat to them
When they see me at my door
The diligence barely rises above the hill.
I greet them and wish them Sun,
And rain, when rain is necessary,
And that their houses have
At the foot of an open window
A favorite chair
Where they sit, reading my verses.
And upon reading my verses they think
That I am any natural thing -
For example, the ancient tree
Where children sat down with a thump
In the shade when tired of play
And wiped the sweat from their hot foreheads
With the sleeve of a striped pinafore.
 

Ogdr19 - The moonlight beats on the turf

The moonlight beats on the turf
I don't know what it reminds me of . . .
It reminds me of the voice of the old maid
Telling me tales of pixies.
And of how Our Lady dressed up as a beggar
Went by night in the streets
Rescuing the mistreated children . . .
 
If I can no longer believe that that is the truth
Then why does the moonlight beat on the turf?
 

Ogdr17 - In my meadow what a mixture of Nature!

In my meadow what a mixture of Nature!
My sisters the plants,
My companions of the fountains, the holy ones
To whom nobody prays . . .
 
And they are cut and come to our table
And in the hotels the noisy guests,
That arrive with belts holding blankets
Ask for 'Salad', carelessly . . .
Without thinking of what they demand from the Mother Earth
Her freshness and first children,
The first green words that she has,
The first living and iridescent things
That Noel saw
When the waters descended and the peak of the mountains
Green and waterlogged surged upwards
And in the air through where the dove appeared
The rainbow faded away . . .
 

From our resemblance with the gods

From our resemblance with the gods
For our own sake let us cease
Judging ourselves exiled divinities
And possessing Life
For a primitive authority
And the agemate1 of Jove.
 
Haughtily masters of ourselves
We use existence
Like the villa that the gods concede to us
To forget the Summer.
 
In any other more vexed manner
It isn't worth the effort we use
Indecisive and affluent existence
Fatal of the dark river.
 
Like how atop the gods Destiny
Is calm and inexorable,
Atop us we construct
A voluntary fate
That when it oppresses us we are
The very thing that oppresses us,
And when we enter through the night inside
through our foot we enter.
 

• 1. person of the same age

Ogdr11 - That lady has a piano

That lady has a piano
That is pleasant but it is not the running of the rivers
Nor the murmur that the trees make . . .
 
Why is a piano necessary?
The best is to have ears
And to love Nature.
 

Ogdr23 - My gaze is blue like the sky

My gaze is blue like the sky
It is peaceful like water in the Sun.
It's that way, blue and tranquil,
Because it doesn't interrogate or shock . . .
 
If I interrogated or shocked myself
New flowers wouldn't be born in the meadows
And nothing would change in the Sun in any way to become more beautiful . . .
(Even if new flowers were to be born in the meadow
And if the Sun changed to be more beautiful,
I would feel less flowers in the meadow
And would believe the Sun to be more ugly . . .
Because everything that is is as it is,
And I accept, and I am not even thankful,
For not appearing like I think about that . . . )