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Trazes os sapatos pretos

Trazes os sapatos pretos
Cinzentos de tanto pó.
Feliz é quem tiver netos
De quem tu sejas avó!
👁️ 1 572

APOLLO UNTO NEPTUNE

Apollo unto Neptune said:
        «Come, I shall drink the sea!»
But Neptune laughed out like a lad
        In his boyish jollity,
And cried: «You would drink the earth, if you could,
        And infinity.»
And the poet the symbol who understood
        Felt his misery.
👁️ 1 368

O vaso de manjerico

O vaso de manjerico
Caiu da janela abaixo.
Vai buscá-lo, que aqui fico
A ver se sem ti te acho.
👁️ 1 486

NAVAL ODE

Alone, on the deserted quay, this summer morning,
I look towards the bar, I look towards the Indefinite,
I look and find pleasure in seeing,
Little, black and clear, a steamer coming in.
It is very far yet, distinct and classic after its own fashion.
It leaves on the distant air behind it the vain curls of its smoke.
It is coming in, and morn comes in with it, and on the river
Here, there, naval life awakes,
Sails arise, tugs advance,
Small boats jut out from behind the ships in the port.
There is a vague breeze.
But my soul is with the things that I see least,
With the in-coming steamer,
Because it is with Distance, with Morn,
With the naval meaning of this Hour,
With the painful softness that rises in me like a qualm,
Like a beginning of sea-sickness, but in my soul.

I look from afar at the steamer, with a great independence of mind
And a whell begins to spin in me, very slowly.

The steamers that enter the bar in the morning,
Bring to my eyes with their coming
The glad and sad mystery of all who arrive and depart.
They bring memories of distant quays, and of other moments
Of another kind of the same mankind in other ports.
Every (...), every departure of a ship,
Is — I feel it in me like my blood —
Unconsciously symbolic, terribly
Threatening metaphysical meanings
That startle in me the being I once …

Ah, every quay is a regret made of stone!
And when the ship leaves the quay
And we note suddenly that a space is widening
Between the quay and the ship,
There comes to me, I know not why, a recent anguish,
A mist of feelings of sadness
That shines in the sun of my mosy anguishes
Like the first window the morning strikes on,
And clings round me like some one else's remembrance
Which is somehow mysteriously mine.

Ah, who knows, who knows,
If I did not leave long ago, before Myself,
A quay; if I did not depart, a ship in
The oblique sun of morning,
From another kind of port?
Who knows if I did not leave, before the hour
Of the exterior world as I see it
Dawned for me,
A large quay full of few people,
Of a great half-awakened city,
Of a great city commercial, overgrown, apopletical,
As much as that can be outside Time and Space?

Ay, from a quay, from a quay somehow material,
Real, visible as a quay, really a quay,
The Absolute Quay on whose type, unconsciously imitated,
Insensibly evoked,

We men have built
Our quays in our harbours,
Our quays, of actual stone overlooking true water,
Which, once built, suddenly show themselves to be
Real-Things, Things-Spirits, Entities in Stone-Souls,
At certain moments of ours of root-sentiments
When it seems that a door is opened in the outer world
And, without anything changing
Everything reveals itself to be different.

Ah, the Great Quay whence we embarked in Ship-Nations!
The Great Earlier Quay, eternal and divine!
Of what port? Over what waters? And why do I think of this?
A Great Quay like all other quays, but the Only One.
Full, as they are, of murmurous silences in the fore-dawns
And budding with the dawns in a noise of cranes
And arrivals of goods-trains
And under the black, occasional and light cloud
Of the smoke of the chimneys of the near factories
Which clouds its ground, black with small shining coal,
As if it were the shadow of a cloud passing over dark water.

Ah, what essentiality of mystery and arrested senses
In a divine revealing ecstasy
At the hours coloured like silences and anguishes
Is the bridge between any quay and THE QUAY!

Quay blackly reflected in the still waters,
Suddle [?] on board the ships,
Oh wandering and unstable soul of the people who live in ships,
Of the symbolic people who pass and for whom, nothing lasts
For when the vessel returns to the port,
There is always some change on board!

On continual flights, goings, drunknness of the Different!
Eternal soul of navigators and navigations!
Hulls slowly reflected in the waters
When the ship leaves the port!
To float as soul of life, to depart as voice,
To live the moment tremulously on eternal waters!
To wake to more direct days than the days of Europe,
To see mysterious ports over the loneliness of the sea,
To double distant capes and see sudden great landscapes
Of unnumbred astonished alones!

Ah, the distant beaches, the quays seen from afar,
And then the near beaches and the quays seen from near.
The mystery of each departure and of each arrival,
The painful instability and incomprehensibility
Of this impossible universe
At each naval hour ever more deeply felt right in my skin.
The absurd sob that our souls spill
Over the ever-different tracts of seas with islands afar,
Over the distant lines of the coasts we merely pass by,
Over the clear growing-clear of ports, with their houses and their people,
When the ship nears the land.

Ah, the freshness of morns when we arrive,
And the paleness of the morns when we depart,
When our entrails are gripped up
And a vague sensation resembling a fear
— The ancestral fear of going away and leaving,
The mysterious ancestral terror of Arrivals and New Things —
Grips up our skin and gives us qualms
And all our anguished body feels,
As if it were our soul,
An unexplained desire to feel this in some other way:
A regret at something,
A perturbation of tendernesses towards what vague fatherland?
What coast? what ship? what quay?
That thought sickens within us
And only a great vaccum remains in us,
A hollow satiety of naval minutes,
And a vague anxiety that would be weariness or pain
If it knew how to be that…

The summer morning is, nevertheless, slightly cool,
A slight night-dullness lies yet on the shaken air.
The wheel within me quickens its motion slightly.
And the steamer keeps on coming in, because surely it must coming in,
And not because I see it moving in its excessive distance.

In my imagination it is already near and visible
In all the extent of the lines of its portholes,
And everything trembles in me, all my flesh and all my skin,
On account of that creature that never arrives in any ship
And whom I have come to await to-day on this quay, through an oblique command.
👁️ 1 555

II - Mas antes era o Verbo, aqui perdido

II

Mas antes era o Verbo, aqui perdido
Quando a Infinita Luz, já apagada
Do Caos, chão do Ser, foi levantada
Em Sombra, e o Verbo ausente escurecido.

Mas se a Alma sente a sua forma errada,
Em si, que é Sombra, vê enfim luzido
O Verbo deste Mundo, humano e ungido.
Rosa Perfeita, em Deus crucificada.

Então, senhores do limiar dos Céus,
Podemos ir buscar além de Deus
O Segredo do Mestre e o Bem profundo;

Não só de aqui, mas já de nós, despertos,
No sangue actual de Cristo enfim libertos
Do a Deus que morre a geração do Mundo.
👁️ 1 260

FLASHES OF MADNESS — IV

IV.

1.
When thou didst speak but now I felt
        A terror mad and strange.
Conceive it thou. I could have knelt
To thy lips, to their curve, to its change.
        The talking curve of thy lips
        And thy teeth but slightly shown
Were my delirium's waking whips.
        I felt my reason overthrown.

A super-sensual fetichism
        Haunts my deep-raving brain.
Greater than ever grows the abysm
Of my reason's and feeling's schism,
        Cut with the pickaxe of pain.

More than they show all things contain.

2.
Something not of this world doth lie
        In thy smile, in thy lips live turn;
A figure, a form I know not why
That wakes in me — without a sigh
        But with terror I cannot spurn
        With terror wild and mute —
Is it remembrances, is it
        Desires so vague half-known they flit
And not in thought nor sentiment take root?

        My mind grows madder and more fit
        In everything to catch and find
        Meanings, resemblances defined
        By not a form that thought can hit.

Smile not. Thou canst not comprehend!
        What is this? What truth doth sleep
        In these ravings without end
                And beyond notion deep?
Laugh not. Know'st thou what madness is?
Wonder not. All is mysteries.
        Ask not. For who can reply?
Weep for me, child, but do not love me
Who have in me too much that is above me,
        Too much I cannot call «I».
        Weep for the ruin of my mind
Weep rather, child, that things so deep should move me
        To lose the clear thoughts that could prove me
                One worthy of mankind.
👁️ 1 339

FLASHES OF MADNESS — I

I.

Thy hand with its lovely fingers
        And the heavy rings on them!
How my soul over them lingers
Each finger with a heavy gem,
Each ring like a small diadem!

When thou and I are alone,
One only wish my soul stings —
Holding thy hand in my own,
All night, while the night-bird sings,
To take off and replace thy rings.
👁️ 943

THE WOMAN IN BLACK

I

My tale is simple, sad and brief -
As simple as all tales of grief,
As brief as all that is ours, though
It seem eternal to its woe;
No tale of glorious deeds or fair,
But one short poem of despair;
Dark as all things where man is caught
In the fine‑poisoned nets of thought.
Here is no flame of love's old fire,
Nor song of pent or free desire,
No thousand herses [?] fill its plan,
But it is centred round one man.
A man? A boy, if boyhood be
That where is sober misery.
About a boy all moves, an elf
Careless of happiness or pelf,
But fated to sing but himself.

I was not born to joy nor love.
The earth below, the sky above
Compel a sense within my soul
That deeply, heavily doth roll,
Like a tremendous, mystic sea
In lands where dreams alone can be;
A feeling that a sadness is,
Weeping in broken‑hearted bliss;
A sense that is a deep despair -
I know not why I should feel this
Before the things that are most fair.

Beauty is more than pleasure's joy:
That which must please is made to cloy,
And Nature cloys not with distaste
But gives a sorrow [?], as of past
Things whence the Present does inherit
Something where [...] is and deep
Beauty delicious in a sleep
That is half‑sadness to the spirit.

For Pleasure is not Joy - we know
Joy lives as sorrow in the heart;
One or the other lives; the dart
That Sorrow kills comes from Joy's bow.
Pleasure and distaste are not so.
Sorrow and Joy are as the strange
And unknown forms of life and change
That are ignored in depths of ocean:
Pure is the depth of their emotion.
Pleasure and Pain are not like these,
But as on surfaces of seas
The alternation of their motion
And shows of shifting without end.
Joy may like the sun's light transcend
The clouds of Pain; Pleasure may be
The face and look of Misery.

III

Ay, Nature chills me with deep fear,
For Nature, to my seeing, spent
With looking on my woes too near,
It is but Mystery eloquent.
The plainest stone, the simplest flower -
All have a meaning deep and vast,
Mocking their living of an hour.
But this significance, that hath past
So oft to poet’s song and word,
Makes them but madmen, even as I,
Speaking in outline [?] sense absurd
Strange thoughts for beings that must die.
But Man to me is dreader still,
The thing of thought, feeling and will,
Which is so dark unto mine eyes
That of the sense he calls his soul
- Let not of seeing speak the mole [?] -
I cannot dream to theorize.

For men, who have wrought creeds and codes
And guided nations by the roads
Of feeling and of speculation,
Have seen as much - nothing - as I
Into the world. All could perceive
That Nature aught doth signify:
Beyond this they could stop or rave.
Most raved and therefore could believe.

Yet I, naturally wrapt about,
Normally, as in feathers the bird,
With hesitation and with doubt,
Find all the world a thing absurd.
Because myself, a part of it,
Am an absurdity unfit.

Too young I learnt to reason coldly
And draw conclusions firmly, boldly,
From thoughts and facts to shatter creeds,
Careless of man's mendacious needs.
Preciseness cast in me the seeds
Of madness, and the soil was good
For that abnormal growth of pain
Whose flowers are red, colour of blood.

Too soon I learned to see too clear,
And therefore nothing now can capture
My heart, to which reasoning is rapture,
That sees night where most poets say
«'Tis day - I see it all - ­'tis day.ª
They sing of joy, T sing of fear.

Alas! Why should I stop thus long
Over the illness of my life,
That has Insanity for wife?
Turn I back with an impulse strong.
Leave I this shallowness and sing.
The deeper sorrow of my song.
👁️ 1 530

Nem vã esperança vem, não anos vão,

Nem vã esperança vem, não anos vão,
Desesperança, Lídia, nos governa
        A consumanda vida.
Só espera ou desespera quem conhece
Que há que esperar. Nós, no labento curso
        Do ser, só ignoramos.
Breves no triste gozo desfolhamos
Rosas. Mais breves que nós fingem legar
        A comparada vida.
👁️ 1 364

Eu voltei-me para trás

Eu voltei-me para trás
Para ver se te voltavas.
Há quem dê favas aos burros,
Mas eles comem as favas.
👁️ 1 144

Comentários (17)

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Gabriel
Gabriel
2025-09-17

What?

ademir domingos zanotelli
ademir domingos zanotelli
2025-07-27

Simplesmente um pensador ( tão grande) pois todos nós temos máscaras, nossos sentimentos são todos ocultos na nossa eterna alma. fantástico este texto para sua época vivida.

rodrigl
rodrigl
2023-12-01

cmt

tomaslopes
tomaslopes
2023-06-23

O maior e mais pensador poeta para a sua antiga época. O maior e mais revolucionista da literatura portuguesa, com os seus poemas e textos que enchem a alma de pensamentos. Tem um forma única de se expressar e ditar o que vem da sua alma, como ele dizia " Quem tem alma não tem calma".

mcegonha
mcegonha
2023-04-21

O profeta dos poetas!