The cooling breeze of a Lisbon's night in May

I, the cooling breeze of a Lisbon's night in May, am witness to a man roaming the streets with a dog. It's a Saturday night, and being no exception that man was fully drunk. Half-drunk with tiredness, with happiness half-drunk. Such was the state in which that drunken man could be found.

Men with dogs are supposed to be on the hunt. Yet those two seemed to be wandering aimlessly, as if they were lost. The dog lost in the worlds of scent, the man in those of thought.

Perturbing my own breezy sound, out of that man's device Röyksopp's A Higher Place started to play by chance. He seemed to be in a higher place, and so the sounds were not inadequate. And only by such a perfect momentary blending of thought and sound, I didn't mind being neglected. Men may forget about me for a while, but I'm bound to return and cool them down.

What shook my existence was when that man, a mere sac of flesh and bones, turned into a bagpipe and released into the night a name, but as if that name was attached to the guts from where it came. I tell you, after all these ages of gliding through the night, it still impresses me when these mortals to higher grounds aspire, and use names as hooks to keep them well anchored or to keep on climbing up. And you know, dear mate, dear Fate, that mortals can only die.

While you're out

Overture

Evening, you bring back everything the bright dawn scattered:

bring back the ewe, bring back the kid, bring back the child back to its mother.

                                                                                                                                                         Sappho

Movement

While you're out, lovers should be

forbidden of public amorous display,

pigeons of coo roo-c’too-coo denied,

rain prevented from falling too softly,

warm wind cooled away.

Counter-movement

By a stroke of luck no one will obey

my dictate and the world will proceed

whether I'm in love, or whether it rains,

whether some whisper Amen, or pray,

so I sigh about a Helen a day.

Cleaning

There is no poetry in an uncluttered and neat room, save for the energy spent with the task; the stench of sweat – sweet scent, some would correct it. My inner housewife needs some chaos to sponge it down.

 

A tidy room is a story well told.

 

One can see me now taking a book out of an itshelf only to drop it carelessly on a worktable. The action performed by such a character is loaded with an orderly intention. Yet it is the beginning of turmoil.

 

A smart room is no work of stupidity. It just does not need poetry, or the mud that tends to come stuck to its boots.

 

Poetry is a shameless wanderer, and dust on a bookshelf.

 

 

 

 

 

Playground Questions

Why don’t you let me breathe some air?
Are you afraid I will breathe it all?
Come instead and help me fair
Helping the tree that will fall.

Why don’t you let me dream my dream?
There’s no return to the real shore?
Considering what here I’ve seen
My dream cannot hurt much more.

Why do I in sadness graceful beauty see?
And sadness sense in the peak of joy?
“Those questions only show to me
You’re yet an adult full of boy.”

Off and On

This is dedicated to Natalia Molina, for our talk was a muse.

Short introduction:
The inspiration comes from a forgotten Romanian author, and she writes something like this, "I've nothing to complain about my past relationships, except that they were a drawback to my creativity."


* * *

It was too late for an embrace and yet he gave it true
And told the story of creation and why their bond
Of which he was fond should discontinúe

“When I’m by myself and my days go wrong
The words that flow are more of light
And my vowels become a song

But when you fondle my night
Long syllables run dry
Oh without a fight”

Full of reason he departed waving his hand goodbye
His errand thus beginning while releasing one last sigh

For how long could he hide?

He bent and twisted and created blooming verses new
Trespassing passes that anyone else already knew

He hid well for a year or two

Old ghastly voices soon returned to haunt
His conscience white and he had to write
To his love a new excuse an extra stunt

“When I’m by myself and my day's a song
The words that flow turn into night
And my vowels sound all wrong

But when you kindle my light
Long kisses run dry
Oh with our fight”

* * *

All love letters - Álvaro de Campos

All love letters are

Ridiculous.

They wouldn't be love letters if they weren't

Ridiculous.

In my time I also wrote love letters,

exactly as the others,

Ridiculous.

Love letters, if there is love,

Must be

Ridiculous.

But, after all,

Only the creatures that never wrote

Love letters

Are the ones who are

Ridiculous.

I long for that time when I wrote

Without noticing it

Love letters that were

Ridiculous

The truth is that nowadays

My memories

Of those love letters

Are the ones which are

Ridiculous.

(All words longer than three syllables

Along with uncountable feelings,

Are naturally

Ridiculous.)

--Álvaro de Campos (Fernando Pessoa)

_________

Adapted to English by António Dinis Lopes

At dinner with Diana Vreeland - Bruce Chatwin

Her glass of neat vodka sat on the white damask table-cloth. Beyond the smear of lipstick, a twist of lemon floated among the ice-cubes. We were sitting side by side, on a banquette.
'What are you writing about, Bruce?'
'Wales, Diana.'
The lower lip shot forward. Her painted cheeks swivelled through an angle of ninety degrees.
'Whales!' she said. 'Blue whales!... Sperrrm whales!... THE WHITE WHALE!'
'No... no, Diana! Wales! Welsh Wales! The country to the west of England.'
'Oh! Wales. I DO know Wales. Little grey houses... covered in roses... in the rain...'



in Bruce Chatwin's What Am I Doing Here, Picador, 1990