Poems of Fernando Pessoa

by Fernando Pessoa

"At last, at last, at last, Pessoa again! More Pessoa! One of the very great poets of the twentieth century, again and more! And one of the fascinating figures of all literature, with his manifold identities, his amazing audacities, his brilliance and his shyness. I think I have under control the reluctance I feel in having to share Pessoa with the public he should have had all along in America: until now, only the poets, so far as I can tell, have even heard of him, and delighted and exulted in him. He is, in some ways, the poet of modernism, the only one willing to fracture himself into the parcels of action, anguish, and nostalgia which are the grounds of our actual situation." —C. K. Williams

"Pessoa is one of the great originals (a fact rendered more striking by his writing as several distinct personalities) of the European poetry of the first part of this century, and has been one of the last poets of comparable stature, in the European languages, to become known in English. Edwin Honig's translations of Spanish and Portuguese poetry have been known to anyone who cares about either, since his work on Lorca in the forties, and his Selected Poems of Pessoa (1971) was a welcome step toward a long-awaited larger colection." — W. S. Merwin

"Fernando Pessoa is the least known of the masters of the twentieth-century poetry. From his heteronymic passion he produced, if that is the word, two of our greatest poets, Alberto Caeiro and Álvaro de Campos, and a third, Ricardo Reis, who isn't bad. Pessoa is the exemplary poet of the self as other, of the poem as testament to unreality, proclamation of nothingness, occasion for expectancy. In Edwin Honig's and Susan Brown's superb translations, Pessoa and his "others" live with miraculous style and vitality." —Mark Strand

Fernando Pessoa is Portugal’s most important contemporary poet. He wrote under several identities, which he called heteronyms: Albet Caeiro, Alvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis, and Bernardo Soares. He wrote sublime poetry under his own name as well, and each of his “voices” is completely different in subject, temperament, and style. This volume brings back into print the comprehensive collection of his work published by Ecco Press in 1986.

Genres: Poetry, Portugal, Classics, Portuguese Literature, Literature, Fiction, 20th Century

240 pages, Paperback

First published March 1, 1930

About the author

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa was a poet and writer.

It is sometimes said that the four greatest Portuguese poets of modern times are Fernando Pessoa. The statement is possible since Pessoa, whose name means ‘person’ in Portuguese, had three alter egos who wrote in styles completely different from his own. In fact Pessoa wrote under dozens of names, but Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis and Álvaro de Campos were – their creator claimed – full-fledged individuals who wrote things that he himself would never or could never write. He dubbed them ‘heteronyms’ rather than pseudonyms, since they were not false names but “other names”, belonging to distinct literary personalities. Not only were their styles different; they thought differently, they had different religious and political views, different aesthetic sensibilities, different social temperaments. And each produced a large body of poetry. Álvaro de Campos and Ricardo Reis also signed dozens of pages of prose.

The critic Harold Bloom referred to him in the book The Western Canon as the most representative poet of the twentieth century, along with Pablo Neruda.

Reviews

[هدى يحيى · Rating 5 out of 5]

Without madness what is man
But a wholesome beast,
Postponed corpse that begets?‎


عظيم بيسوا
بكل ما يكتب
بكل حرف سطره في لا طمأنينة الوجود
بكل لغة تُرجم إليها
بكل اسم تخفى وراءه
وبكل صوت تحدث على لسانه

عظيم بجنونه
وبعبقريته
وبتفرده
وبألقه
وبقيمته في نفوس معجبيه

عظيم بكل شهقة انبهار صعدت من فم احدنا
نحن المغتربين في هذه الدنيا
نحن المخلدين في أرق القلق
نخن المغموسين في شهد العزلة

بيسوا كلماته هي سفرنا
وملاذنا
وهويتنا

بيسوا هو ذلك الذي جاء ليعبر عنا أخيرا

‏...‏
‎
‎I don’t know how many souls I have.
I’ve changed at every moment.
I always feel like a stranger.
I’ve never seen or found myself.
From being so much, I have only soul.
A man who has soul has no calm.
A man who sees is just what he sees.
A man who feels is not who he is.‎

***

To be great, be whole;
Exclude nothing, exaggerate nothing that is not you.
Be whole in everything. Put all you are
Into the smallest thing you do.
So, in each lake, the moon shines with splendor
Because it blooms up above.
...

[Dolors · Rating 5 out of 5]

Some might consider it eccentric that I could feel closer to Pessoa, this restless and mysterious Portuguese poet with a rather tragic life, than to actual living people with whom I share "real" conversations in my everyday life. He was a Shepherd of ideas, poetry his only way of existence, he who embraced solitude and anonymity with grace. He chose writing as his only release. Well then, I choose him. And I do it gladly.
So, I allowed this shepherd of thoughts to drag me into his world of unsettling and intoxicating verses, where there is no line between real and imaginary lives; was he pretending or acting out of sheer spontaneity?

"The poet is a forger who
forges so completely that
he forges even the feeling
he feels truly as pain."

He was a thousand different persons in one, always using several literary heteronyms, and with his endless thirst to experience, he pushed his mind to the limit, questioned everything relentlessly to the point of exhaustion and then was pulled down inexorably towards the abyss of his disturbing thoughts; leaving this huge legacy, leaving his poems, on the way.

"I don't know how many souls I have...

I do not know how many souls I have.
Each moment I have changed.
Feeling myself always as a stranger.
Never have I seen nor found myself.
Being so much, yet only soul I have.
Those who have souls have no peace
He who sees is just what he sees
He who feels is not he who he is. "

Some of his poems are overwhelmingly nostalgic and bleak, even a bit dantesque, they talk about the ruthless passage of time, death, love and his own understanding of the world. Others, for example his Odes, appear as enthusiastic ramblings in free verse, with a certain touch of tenderness, refreshingly innocent and somehow whitmanian with his aim to to become part of everything, to embrace humanity in all its forms, without exceptions.

"When I didn’t have you
I loved Nature as a calm monk loves Christ.
Now I love Nature
Like a calm monk loves Virgin Mary,
Religiously, in my way, like before,
But in other ways more moving and intimate…
I see the rivers better when I go with you
To the river banks through the fields;
Sitting beside you watching the clouds
I watch the clouds better…
You haven’t taken away Nature from me…
You have changed the Nature…
You have brought Nature closer to me
Since you exist, I see it better, though like before,
Since you love me, I love it the same way, but more,
Since you choose me to have you and love you,
My eyes stare for much longer time
At all things.
I do not regret for what I was in the past
Because I am still the same."

And the more I advanced reading, the more I noticed his overflowing love for Lisbon, the city with dimmed splendour, decadent and narrow cobbled streets, the land with its melancholic fados or laments; brilliant without light. And impossibly alluring, like his poems.

I close my eyes and I can imagine Pessoa walking down the Rua dos Douradores, reaching the Praça do Comércio with its imposing arches, or sitting in one of the tables of the literary Café A Brasileira scribbling down in a napkin, with his black topper on and the people passing by without taking any notice, and all his thoughts screaming in deafening silence only to be heard for future readers like us, who have come to appreciate Pessoa for what he really was. A man advanced for his time, a humanist who lived in isolation, wrapped in grief but contented anyway, and there is no contradiction there.
I choose Pessoa. Gladly.

[Ulysse · Rating 5 out of 5]

Settantasei

There was one Fernando Pessoa
A worthy descendant of Noah
Whose ark was a shelf
Where he sextupled himself
Like some crazy spermatozoa

A sinistra... / A destra...


.

[Luís · Rating 5 out of 5]

These poetry pages ring valid; the language is musical, rhythmic, and pleasant to read despite the peculiarity of the author's thoughts and ideas.
I appreciated this excellent book, which highlights (well) chosen texts and opens up a new horizon for the author.

[Maria Bikaki · Rating 5 out of 5]

-Μπαίνω μέσα και κλείνω το παράθυρο.
Μου φέρνουν ένα κερί και με καληνυχτίζουν,
Κι η φωνή μου είναι χαρούμενη λέγοντας καληνύχτα.
Μακάρι η ζωή μου να ήταν πάντα έτσι:
Η μέρα γεμάτη ήλιο, ή γλυκαμένη από τη βροχή,
‘Η και με κατακλυσμούς, σαν να’ ταν η συντέλεια του κόσμου,
Το βράδυ ήρεμο, κι αυτοί που περνούν,
Κοιτάζοντας με ενδιαφέρον το παράθυρο .
Η τελευταία ματιά του φύλλου κάτω από την ηρεμία των δέντρων,
Κι ύστερα το παράθυρο κλειστό, το κερί αναμμένο,
Χωρίς να διαβάζω τίποτα, ούτε να σκέφτομαι τίποτα,
Ούτε να κοιμάμαι.
Να νιώθω τη ζωή να τρέχει μέσα μου,
Όπως ένα ποτάμι στην κοίτη του,
Κι απέξω μια απέραντη σιωπή όπως αυτή
Ενός Θεού που αποκοιμήθηκε.

-Σήμερα το πρωί βγήκα νωρίς
Γιατί σηκώθηκα ακόμα πιο νωρίς
Και τίποτα δεν είχα που να θέλω να το κάνω
Να πάω που, δεν ήξερα,
Αλλά ο άνεμος φυσούσε δυνατά προς μια κατεύθυνση.
Τον ακολούθησα όπου με πήγαινε.
Ετσι ήταν πάντα η ζωή μου, και έτσι τη θέλω πάντα να είναι:
Να πηγαίνω όπου ο άνεμος με σπρώχνει
Και να μη χρειάζεται να σκέφτομαι.

-Λυδία μη θέλεις να χτίσεις στο διάστημα
Που μέλλον νομίζεις
‘Η υποσχέσεις να δίνεις αύριο στον εαυτό σου.
Τελειώνει σήμερα, χωρίς να περιμένει, η ζωή σου.
Η ζωή σου είσαι εσύ.
Μην προσδιορίζεσαι γιατί μέλλον δεν έχεις.
Ποιος ξέρει αν στην κούπα που αδειάζεις
Και στην άλλη που γεμίζεις
Ανάμεσα,
Δεν μπαίνει η άβυσσος, η μοίρα;

Τον αγαπώ τον Πεσσόα. Όταν τον διαβάζω δε νιώθω ποτέ μόνη.

[Adam · Rating 5 out of 5]

The poet is a faker
Who's so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.

[Abubakar Mehdi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fernando Pessoa is all humanity compressed in one soul.

Pessoa is torn into many personalities, because he has too much to say and because he can’t say anything. Words are smoke, love a delusion, existence a sham, truth a perception, idea a dream and the only reality is; ‘Nothingness’. The only truth is the ineffability of emotions.

The rest, as Nabokov said, is rust and stardust.

“Whether we write or speak or do but look
We are ever unapparent. What we are
Cannot be transfused into word or book.
Our soul from us is infinitely far.
However much we give our thoughts the will
To be our soul and gesture it abroad,
Our hearts are incommunicable still.
In what we show ourselves we are ignored.
The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged
By any skill of thought or trick of seeming.
Unto our very selves we are abridged
When we would utter to our thought our being.
We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams,
And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.”

[Carmo · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fernando Pessoa deu-lhe vida em Lisboa, mas levou-o a viver no sossego do Ribatejo trazendo-o de volta à capital para morrer tuberculoso ainda muito novo.
Foi assim, simples e sem sobressaltos a vida do " meu Pessoa" favorito; poeta da natureza, da objetividade, das sensações.
A sua poesia fala por si, na linguagem simples e ingénua de quem só fez a 4˚classe, é um louvor aos sentidos, à alegria de viver contemplando a realidade, sem pensar e sem necessidade de explicações. Apela a uma vida sem dor, sem desgostos e sem receio da morte.

"Quando vier a Primavera,
Se eu já estiver morto,
As flores florirão da mesma maneira
É as árvores não serão menos verdes que na Primavera passada.
A realidade não precisa de mim."(...)

"Se depois de eu morrer, quiserem escrever a minha biografia,
Não há nada mais simples.
Tem só duas datas - a da minha nascença e a da minha morte.
Entre uma e outra coisa todos os dias são meus."(...)

Perdoem-me a falta de originalidade, mas este é mesmo o meu favorito:


"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."

[Anastasia · Rating 4 out of 5]

Μέσα από 35 μικρής έκτασης ποιήματα μπορεί κανείς να αντιληφθεί την πρωτοποριακή - πολλές φορές ίσως και επαναστατική - σκέψη του Fernando Pessoa σε σχέση με την εποχή του. Ένας από τους σημαντικότερους στοχαστές της εποχής του, μεταφέρει και αποτυπώνει την περιπλοκότητα του χαρακτήρα του στο χαρτί με εξαιρετική μαεστρία.

Παρά το μικρό τους μέγεθος, αρκετές φορές χρειάστηκε να ξαναδιαβάσω πολλούς από τους στίχους προκειμένου να πλησιάσω στη συμπηκνωμένη τους ουσία. Ωστόσο παραμένει ένα εύκολο και ευχάριστο ανάγνωσμα.

Πολύ θετικό στοιχείο της συγκεκριμένης έκδοσης θεωρώ την παράθεση των μεταφρασμένων στίχων σε παραλληλία με το αυθεντικό κείμενο. Ακόμη κι αν δε γνωρίζει κάποιος τη γλώσσα, διευκολύνεται η άμεση κατανόηση της μελωδικότητας και του ρυθμού του κειμένου, θεμελιώδη στοιχεία της ποιητικής έκφρασης.

[misael · Rating 4 out of 5]

Alberto Caeiro é o heterónimo mais naturalista, mais contemplativo das realidades despojadas de cultura e de criação antrópica e mais entregue às filosofias simples - mas que encerram as verdades mais universais - de um dos poetas mais multifacetados da poesia europeia. Caeiro nasceu, segundo Pessoa, órfão de pais, criado por uma tia-avó idosa, num ambiente campestre, um simples "guardador de rebanhos", expressão aproveitada por Pessoa para a inserir no conceito mais metafísico e filosófico possível.
Caeiro é o poeta contemplativo, o poeta "do olhar nítido como um girassol", o poeta que vê, da sua aldeia "tudo quanto se pode ver no Universo", o poeta que não se importa com as rimas, que sonha com a sua vida como "um carro de bois", que almeja ser "o pó da estrada", que se contenta com o misticismo e que exige que, se um dia lhe quiserem oferecer, em lápide própria, uma biografia, nela gravem, apenas e unicamente, a data de nascença e a da morte, porque todos os restantes dias, aqueles que ocorreram entre uma data e outra, lhe pertencem exclusivamente a si.
Caeiro é, portanto, o heterónimo das metafísicas e da simplicidade, dos carros de bois e dos girassóis, do misticismo e da aldeia. Nestes poemas, isto revê-se. Exala-se. E respira-se.

[Danilo Scardamaglio · Rating 4 out of 5]

Pessoa è un poeta unico, e non soltanto per la straordinaria creazione degli eteronimi, poeti dotati di voce e vita distinta e separata dal loro artefice, ma anche per l'abilità nel riuscire ad attingere ad esperienze e percorsi poetici diversi, dando così vita ad un'esperienza radicata nella tradizione letteraria portoghese e nella letteratura classica, ma capace di essere incredibilmente moderna ed aperta a qualsiasi influsso avanguardistico e novecentesco (tanto è vero che alcune poesie ricordano vagamente Ginsberg, forse per la comune passione per Whitman). Ciò è possibile grazie alle diverse voci degli eteronimi , come già detto: e dunque a partire da Caeiro, il primo eteronimo creato, un contadino semi incolto, cantore di una poesia essenziale, scarna, priva di metafisica, neopagana nel suo approccio sensistico alla natura. Di fatti egli è l'iniziatore del sensazionismo, la corrente poetica creata da Pessoa e, con fortune alterne, a cui aderiscono le sue creature. Reis è un poeta neoclassico, armonico e misuratissimo, gran debitore di Orazio, la cui voce risente delle più importanti correnti del pensiero greco-romano: vi è del timido edonismo, un discreto stoicismo, e una composita affermazione dell'atarassia. Il mio preferito, e colui più vicino alla poesia ortonima di Pessoa, è sicuramente De Campos, inizialmente fervido cantore della modernità, da vivere attraverso ogni singola sensazione offertaci, e man mano poeta sempre più disilluso, disperato da una sofferenza vibrante per la sete insaziabile di vita. È lui la vera componente modernista della poesia di Pessoa, metafisico nel profondo, filosofico nel pensiero, a tratti cervellotico. Pessoa, amaro burattinaio , tesse i fili delle sue creature riversando in essi strade, percorsi gnoseologici battuti ed abbandonati, speranze vivide e poi prontamente abortite, le sue creature sono i tentativi molteplici di assaporare la verità cosmica, tentativi ovviamente falliti. E così la sua poesia ortonima è una poesia amarissima, profondamente rassegnata, intrisa di una malinconica musicalità. Consiglio vivamente la lettura.

[Rosa Ramôa · Rating 5 out of 5]

Não digas nada

Não digas nada!
Nem mesmo a verdade
Há tanta suavidade em nada se dizer
E tudo se entender —
Tudo metade
De sentir e de ver...
Não digas nada
Deixa esquecer

Talvez que amanhã
Em outra paisagem
Digas que foi vã
Toda essa viagem
Até onde quis
Ser quem me agrada...
Mas ali fui feliz
Não digas nada.

[Ken · Rating 4 out of 5]

Fernando Pessoa, early 20th-century favorite of C.K. Williams, W.S. Merwin, Mark Strand, and other poetic illuminaries, took the childhood game of "imaginary friends" to another level. He developed various personas to write under, and this collection from City Lights Books in San Francisco includes a few of them.

Though I found many poems lackluster and/or treating on topics that didn't stir much interest, I'll accent the positive that the good poems brought for me as a reader. The first persona featured is Alberto Caeiro. Here the translators (Edwin Honig and Susan M. Brown) include segments from a long poem called "The Keeper of Sheep." Caeiro is used to present a distinct view of life as seen, for example, in VI:

To think of God is to disobey God
Because God wanted us not to know him,
And therefore did not show himself to us...
Let's be calm and simple,
Like brooks and trees,
And God will love us for it, make us
Beautiful as brooks and trees,
And will give us the green of his spring,
And a river to got to when we are done!

The most interesting poet persona was Álvaro de Campos. After reading the at-times bleak Book of Disquiet by Pessoa, I was not expecting such a playful sense of humor, most evident in the two long poems, "Maritime Ode" (a spoof on the wonders of the pirate life) and "Salutation to Walt Whitman" (a tongue-in-cheek salute to our--though not his--national poet). Here's a little from the "Salutation to Walt Whitman" which is addressed to Walt in the heavens:

This is why I send you
My leaping verses, my bounding verses, my spasmodic
verses,
My hysteria-attack verses,
Verses that pull the cart of my nerves.

My crazy tumbling inspires me,
Barely able to breathe, I get to my feet exalted,
For the verses are not being able to burst from living.

Open all the windows for me!
Throw open all the doors!
Pull the whole house up over me!
I want to live freely, out in the open,
I want to make gestures beyond my body,
To run like the rain streaming down over walls,
To be stepped on like stones down the broad streets,
To sink like heavy weights to the bottom of the sea,
And all this voluptuously, a feeling alien to me now!

You get the idea.

Under his own name, Pessoa wrote a lot of interesting works but also a long stretch of poems dedicated to Portugal's maritime history and sea explorers in general. This includes references to King Sebastian, a King of Portugal I knew nothing about.

At the end of this text, there are a few prose snippets from Bernardo Soares, a persona already met in The Book of Disquiet. Familiar turf, and a little sampler for readers who decided to approach Pessoa's poetry first.

Overall, for me, a great way of expanding your appreciation of Pessoa's moods and abilities after reading his more famous book. He can write poetry, too, and for a homebody, his imagination and outlook on life traveled well.

[Sheyla Durán Oviedo · Rating 5 out of 5]

Algunos poemas son tremendamente realistas, mientras otros son emocionales; así se logra observar un poco la contradicción en la que se encuentra el autor entre la razón y las emociones. Entre los heterónimos, mis poemas favoritos son de Alberto Caeiro.

Lo releí, y sin lugar a dudas mi poema favorito es El guardador de rebaños. A mí me calma y me reconforta en momentos de desasosiego. Hay tanta verdad en él... Es casi que un manual para vivir y no ahogarse en el proceso.

[☆ Carmen ⁠☆ · Rating 5 out of 5]

Me embarqué en esta aventura a principios de año y aquí estamos ahora. Ya era una costumbre leer un poquito cada día e ir traduciendo las partes complicadas (aunque el portugués escrito se entiende muy bien para los hispanohablantes hay palabrejas por ahí para las que conviene tener diccionario a mano), tanto que al llegar al final me sorprendí porque no me esperaba que terminara.

Me encanta Pessoa. Muy sencillo, humilde, sosegado, y hablando de emociones universales, sueños y reflexiones con las que es muy fácil identificarse. La sensibilidad con la que escribe sobre el alma, la identidad, la vida, la voluntad... convierte temas complicados en algo accesible. Pone palabras a emociones profundas y las hace comprensibles, como si te pusiera un espejo delante del alma. Siento que me entiende, pero quizá es algo que le sucede a todo lector de Pessoa.

(Que podemos hablar de que su apellido significa literalmente "persona"??? Le encaja ya no solo por el juego de heterónimo sino porque es tan emocional y humano que es, efectivamente, una persona).

Dejo por aquí un puñadín de mis versos favoritos porque no quiero perderlos y porque sirven de muestra de todo lo que digo.

•••

Minhas mesmas emoções
são coisas que me acontecem.

•••

Mas não; ou seja a selva escura
ou seja um Dante mais diverso,
A alma é literatura
E tudo acaba em nada e verso.

•••

Nada sabemos da alma
Senão da nossa;
As dos outros são olhares,
São gestos, são palavras,
Com a suposição de qualquer semelhança
No fundo.

•••

E mais do que isto
É Jesus Cristo,
Que não sabia nada de finanças,
Nem consta que tivesse biblioteca...

•••

Não sei quantas almas tenho.
Cada momento mudei.
Continuamente me estranho.
Nunca me vi nem achei.
De tanto ser, só tenho alma.
Quem tem alma não tem calma.
Quem vê é só o que vê,
Quem sente não é quem é,

•••

Sonolento revolvo omnisciências,
Turbulentamente estagnado.

•••

Por quê
Esperar?
Tudo é
Sonhar.

•••

E os navios passam por dentro dos troncos das árvores
Com uma horizontalidade vertical,
E deixam cair amarras na água pelas folhas uma a uma dentro...

•••

E tudo é chuvas que orvalham
folhas caídas que secam.

•••

Os meus desejos balouçam-se
Em meio de um jardim vertical.
[...]
Música longínqua

•••

E, ó vento vago
Das solidões,
Minha alma é um lago
De indecisões.

•••

CEIFEIRA 🩵
Mas não, é abstrata, é uma ave
De som volteando no ar do ar,
E a alma canta sem entrave
Pois que o canto é que faz cantar.

•••

Há no firmamento
Um frio lunar.
Um vento nevoento
Vem de ver o mar.

•••

Mais triste do que o que acontece
É o que nunca aconteceu.
Meu coração, quem o entristece?
Quem o faz meu?

•••
Meu ser vive na Noite e no Desejo.
Minha alma é uma lembrança que há em mim.

•••

Nada sou, nada posso, nada sigo.
Trago, por ilusão, meu ser comigo.
Não compreendo compreender, nem sei
Se hei de ser, sendo nada, o que serei.

•••

Mudam no campo o campo. Ali, no escuro,
Só sombras múrmuras, êxuis de tudo,
Salvo da saudade, eternas moram.

•••

Mar sou; baixo marulho ao alto rujo,
Mas minha cor vem do meu alto céu,
E só me encontro quando de mim fujo.

•••

Porque é que um sono agita
Em vez de repousar

•••

Ah! os caminhos estão todos em mim.
Qualquer distância ou direção, ou fim
Pertence-me, sou eu. O resto é a parte
De mim que chamo o mundo exterior.

•••

Não existo senão para saber
que não existo, e, como a recordar,
vejo boiar a inércia do meu ser
no meu ser sem inércia, inútil mar.

[Jacqueline · Rating 5 out of 5]

Fernando Pessoa ми се струва някак... особен. Именно това бе и причината да се влюбя безвъзвратно в думите му, и то още от първото прочетено изречение. Казвам "думите", защото самият той, доколкото разбирам, не се възприема като поет в истинския смисъл на думата:

Аз дори не съм поет: виждам.
Ако писаното от мен има стойност, аз я нямам:
Стойността е там, в стиховете ми.
Всичко то никак не зависи от волята ми.

Стихотворен��ята му успяха да смутят дълбоко онази част у мен, която бих могла приблизително да оприлича на неспокойното "началство" от "Alexis Zorbas"- което беше във вечно търсене на някакъв скрит смисъл във всичко и всеки, оплетено във философски терзания, докато най-накрая не бе "излекувано" от Zorbas. Ами, Pessoa определено не беше моят Zorbas. Точно обратното. С всяко следващо стихотворение сякаш все по-настойчиво се бореше да ме убеди, че смисъл всъщност... няма. Всичко е такова, каквото е. Такова, каквото го виждаш и усещаш самият ти. Няма място за излишни разсъждения и преиначаване на онова, което е пред собствените ти очи.

Защото единственият скрит смисъл на нещата
Е да нямат никакъв скрит смисъл.
То е по-чудно от всички чудности
И от мечтите на всичките поети
И мислите на всички философи: -
Нещата да са наистина каквито изглеждат
И в тях да няма нищо за разбиране.

Да, ето какво моите сетива научиха самички:
Нещата нямат значение: имат съществуване.
Нещата са единственият скрит смисъл на нещата.

На моменти правех асоциации с Meursault от "L'Étranger", може би заради странното спокойствие, отчужденост и липса на емоция, която долавях на места:

Може би е последният ден в живота ми.
Поздравих Слънцето, вдигнал дясна ръка,
Ала не го поздравих казвайки сбогом,
По-скоро направих знак, че ми харесва да го виждам: нищо повече.

Винаги е бил такъв животът ми и
Такъв го искам винаги да бъде -
Вървя накъдето ме води вятърът и
Не чувствам, че мисля.

Колкото и да ми е трудно да го приема ("Колко трудно е да бъдеш ти самият и единствено да виждаш видимото."), усещам, че е напълно прав. Може би тъкмо заради това изпитвам такова огромно удоволствие да ми разказва за щастието от малките неща, които можеш да докоснеш, да видиш, да оцениш, без да влагаш нищо от себе си. Без празни приказки.

Просто оставяш сърцето само да си свърши работата.

***
Ден без услада не бил е твой:
Бил е само времетрайност в него.
Каквото изживееш без услада, не го живееш.

Не тежи да обичаш, пиеш или се усмихваш:
Достатъчен е слънчевият отсвет, тръгнал по водата
В локва, щом ти е приятен.

Честит е онзи, на когото най-малките неща
Услаждат се: никой ден
Не му отказва естественото щастие!

***
Не е достатъчно да отвориш прозореца,
За да видиш полята, реката.
Не е достатъчно да не си сляп,
За да виждаш цветята, тревите.
Трябва да нямаш и философия, никаква.
С философия няма цветя: има идеи.
Има само всеки един от нас, като мазе.
Има само затворен прозорец и целият свят навън;
И една мечта какво би могло да видиш, ако прозореца отвориш,
А то никога не е каквото виждаш щом прозореца отвориш.

***
За да си велик, бъди цялостен: нищо твое
Не преувеличавай или изключвай.
Бъди цял във всяко нещо. Влагай всичко каквото си
И в най-малкото, което вършиш.
Тъй във всяко езеро блести цялата луна.
Защото живее нависоко.

***
Ти, мистико, виждаш значение във всяко нещо.
За теб всичко има забулен смисъл.
Има нещо скрито във всяко нещо, което виждаш.
Каквото виждаш винаги го виждаш за да видиш друго нещо.
Пък аз, нали имам очи само за да виждам,
Виждам липса на значение във всичките неща;
Виждам го и се обичам, понеже да си нещо не означава нищо.
Да си нещо е да не подлежиш на изтълкуване.

***
Ужасяващата действителност на нещата
Е всекидневното мое откритие.
Всяко нещо е каквото е
И трудно е някому да обясня колко много радва ме това
И колко то ми стига.

Достатъчно е да съществуваш, за да си всецялостен.

(...)
Понякога стоя и гледам някой камък.
Не мисля дали той чувства.
(...)
Харесвам го, защото не чувства нищо,
Харесвам го, защото няма родство с мен.

Друг път слушам да минава вятърът
И смятам, че само за да чувам как минава вятърът струва си, че съм роден.

***
Смея се като поток, звучащ сред камъни.

***
Птицата минава и забравя; така и трябва да е.
(...)
Споменът предателство е към природата,
Защото вчерашна природа не е природа,
Каквото е било е нищо, спомняш ли си, ти не виждаш.

Минавай, птицо, минавай и ме научи да мина.

***
Такава е човешката дейност в света.
Нищо не отнемаме, нищо не добавяме; минаваме-забравяме;
А всеки ден слънцето е точно.

***
Нощ е. Нощта е много тъмна. В къща на голямо разстояние
Светлина блести в прозорец.
Виждам я и от главата до петите чувствам се човек.
Любопитно е, че целият живот на онзи обитател, а не знам и кой е,
Привлича ме само с тая светлина, видяна отдалеч.
Несъмнено животът му действителен е и той има лице, жестове, занятие, семейство.
Но сега ме интересува само оная светлина в прозореца му.
(...)
Светлината угасна.
Какво ме засяга, че мъжът все тъй съществувал?

***
Като празна чаша душата ми се разтроши.
По стълбището падна прекалено долу.
(...)
Щуротия? Невъзможно? Знам ли!
Имам повече усещания отколкото когато се усещах аз.
(...)
При падането вдигнах шум като строшаваща се чаша.
И боговете надвесват се от стълбищния парапет,
В чирепите взират се, които слугинята ме стори.

Не й се сърдят.
С нея те са търпеливи.
Че празна чаша бях аз?

[Davide · Rating 5 out of 5]

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️½

Vivere è sentire saudade.
Non so quale vita sia la mia
ché oggi ho saudade soltanto
di quando avevo saudade.

Vissi lontano del mondo,
e sono come il mondo mi ha fatto,
ma serbo nel mio profondo dell'anima
la mia anima portoghese.

E il portoghese è saudade.
Perché solo la può sentire
chi possiede questa parola
per dire che ha saudade.

[maria vitória · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ô homi bom

[Algirdas · Rating 5 out of 5]

Tai kol kas geriausia šiais, 2011 metais skaityta lietuvių kalba knyga. Nepaprastas minties gilumo ir išraiškos lakoniškumo bei paprastumo derinys. Pasirašinėjo savo kūrinius keliomis pavardėmis, teigdamas, kad tai visiškai skirtingi asmenys jam diktavo tuos eilėraščius. Šiam jo fenomenui Finn Skårderud knygoje "Nerimas" paskyrė visą skyrių.
Labai vykęs vertimas, lenkiuosi Nijolei Simonai Pukinskaitei.
Rekomenduoju susirasti Pessoa knygą knygyne, atsiversti bet kur ir paskaityti. Kas žino, gal ir Jus ji užkabins.

[Damian Reyes · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Todas las cartas de amor son/ ridículas./ No serían cartas de amor si no fuesen/ ridículas.
Pero, al fin y al cabo,/ sólo las criaturas que nunca escribieron/ cartas de amor/ son las ridículas."

Pero que personaje es Pessoa en su obra, increíbles poemas.

[Ana Lúcia · Rating 5 out of 5]

Uma preciosa antologia de poemas de Fernando Pessoa e dos seus principais heterónimos Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis e Álvaro de Campos.

[José Miguel Pereira · Rating 5 out of 5]

Estes poemas de Alberto Caeiro fazem perceber como às vezes a vida é tão simples e complicamos tudo por simplesmente pensar.

Foi engraçado ter lido este mini livro depois do Lobo das Estepes, porque consigo relacionar algumas ideias de um com o outro apesar de serem tão diferentes.

[Blixen · Rating 4 out of 5]

Pessoa è stato il più grande sognatore del Novecento e anche il più solo, ma in sé aveva tutti i mondi possibili. Una bella raccolta, peccato non ci fosse la poesia Se qualcuno la lessi una volta in un'antologia e mi rapì perché nelle sue liriche si percepisce un senso di attesa e di stupore e di riscoperta. Sembra che il tempo si fermi per aspettare il nostro risveglio.

Quando i bambini giocano
e io li sento giocare,
qualcosa nell'anima mia
si comincia a rallegrare.

E tutta quell'infanzia
che non ebbi mi giunge,
sull'onda d'una allegria
che non fu di nessuno.

Se chi fui è enigma
e chi sarò visione,
che almeno chi sono senta
questo nel suo cuore

5 settembre 1933

[M. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Never been this captived with poetry since Baudelaire. Pessoa was a great writer without a hint of a doubt.

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poetic perfection, what's not to like. One of the true greats

[Marina · Rating 5 out of 5]

In questa raccolta è racchiusa la poetica di Pessoa nella sua produzione ortonima. I temi toccati sono tanti, così come gli stili delle poesie. Pessoa si fa poeta di testi d’amore, con il tipico tratto nostalgico e malinconico (incorniciato dal concetto di saudade portoghese), ma anche di patriottismo, di morte, di misticismo e di religione.
Di particolare pregio è la resa dei testi in italiano (nella cura e traduzione di Tabucchi e De Lancastre). Tanti sono i testi che mi hanno toccata (alcuni già noti da altre raccolte dell’autore).

"[…] Fai aiuole come quelle degli altri,
s�� che gli sguardi altrui intravedano
il tuo giardino come lo fai vedere.
Ma laddove ti appartieni, dove nessuno vede,
lascia che i fiori spuntino
da soli, ed le erbe crescano selvatiche. […]"

"Non ci sarà dunque,
per le cose che sono,
non la morte, bensì
un’altra specie di fine,
o una grande ragione:
qualcosa così,
come un perdono?"

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️1/2

[margot · Rating 5 out of 5]

yeah, i think that this is the body of work that solidifies fernando pessoa as my favorite author. there is not much more to say than he has the some of the most interesting, dynamic, and emotional writing i have had the pleasure of coming across. some poems in here range from curious to erotic to gut wrenching, and still remain hauntingly relatable for the modern reader, a century later. god i LOVE this man's mind. so so fucking good. soul touching, and a fascinating account of a unique mind always suffering, pushing itself, and living for beauty and solace.

"The whole constitution of my spirit is one of hesitancy and doubt. Nothing is or can be positive to me; all things oscillate around me, and I with them, an uncertainty unto myself. All for me is incoherance and change. All is mystery and all is meaning. All things are "unknown", symbolic of the Unknown."

"I want to be a creator of myths; it is the supreme mystery a human being can make."

[Raoul G · Rating 3 out of 5]

Most of the poems in this collection couldn't really convince me. The language in the English translation is a bit wooden and the grammatical structure is often not very intelligible. This might well have to do with the fact that these poems are translated from Portuguese. The themes and subjects of the poems could only sometimes grab my attention.
Still, a few of the poems really stood out and struck me as hauntingly beautiful. Among them are the Poems from the Keeper of Sheep, I Dream - Fathomless and two others I'm gonna share with you. Here, maybe my favorite poem:

Great Mysteries Inhabit

Great mysteries inhabit
The threshold of my being,
On its sill hop and sit
Great sparrows that watch, avid,
My late crossing to seeing.

There are birds full of abyss,
Like the ones in dream. Dare
I sound and think what is?
My soul's cataclysm, this
Threshold - my soul now there.

Then I wake from the dream mystery
And rejoice in the light - till it grows
Into day and for me sad horror
Seeing the threshold is terror
And each step is a cross.

(2.10.33)

And another one talking about no-thing, and the (non)existence paradox :

There Are Diseases

There are diseases worse, yes, than diseases,
Aches that don't ache even in one's soul
And yet, that are more aching than the others.
There are dreamed anguishes that are more real
Than the ones life brings us, there are sensations
Felt only by imagining
Which are more ours than our own life is.
There's so often a thing which, not existing,
Does exist lingeringly
And lingeringly is ours and us...
Above the cloudy green of the broad river
The white circumflexes of the gulls...
Above the soul the useless fluttering -
What never was, nor could be, and is everything.

Give me some more wine, because life is nothing.
(19.11.35)

[Maria Leonor Santos · Rating 4 out of 5]

“Aceito por personalidade.
Nasci sujeito como os outros a erros e a defeitos,
Mas nunca ao erro de querer compreender demais,
Nunca ao erro de querer compreender só com a inteligência.
Nunca ao defeito de exigir do Mundo
Que fosse qualquer coisa que não fosse o Mundo.”

[acidbriana · Rating 4 out of 5]

"No soy nada.
Nunca seré nada.
No puedo querer ser nada.
Aparte de esto, tengo en mí todos los sueños del mundo."


(no es esta la recopilación que leí)

Los poemas de Pessoa son de una excelencia exquisita. Su forma de llevarnos a través de las palabras se siente como un viaje en el que todo puede pasar. Sin dudas un imprescindible.