In the days when my birthday was celebrated
I was happy and nobody was dead.
In the old house, even my birthday was a tradition of centuries
And everybody’s joy, and mine, was as certain as any religion.
In the days when my birthday was celebrated
I had the great health of not understanding anything
Of being intelligent amongst the family
And of not having the hopes that others had for me
When I came to have hope, I did not know how to have hope any longer
When I came to face life, I had lost the meaning of life.
Yes, what I supposedly was to myself
What I was of heart and relatives
What I was of evenings in the province
What I was of being loved and being a small boy
What I was – my God!, what I only know today that I was
So long ago!...
(I cannot even find it)
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
What I am today is like humidity in the corridor at the end of the house
Causing mould on the walls…
What I am today (and the house of those who loved me trembles through my tears),
What I am today is selling the house,
Is everybody dead,
Is me surviving myself, like a cold match…
I see everything again with a clarity that blinds me to what is in front of me
The table set with extra seats, with better porcelain, with more glasses,
The sideboard with many things – sweets, fruit, all the rest in the shade, under the porch
The old aunts, the different cousins, and everything because of me,
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
My heart, stop.
Do not think. Let the head think.
Oh my God, my God, my God
Today is not my birthday any more.
I last.
Days are added to my life.
I will become old when I become old.
Nothing else.
The anger of not having brought the past stolen in my pocket!
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
I was happy and nobody was dead.
In the old house, even my birthday was a tradition of centuries
And everybody’s joy, and mine, was as certain as any religion.
In the days when my birthday was celebrated
I had the great health of not understanding anything
Of being intelligent amongst the family
And of not having the hopes that others had for me
When I came to have hope, I did not know how to have hope any longer
When I came to face life, I had lost the meaning of life.
Yes, what I supposedly was to myself
What I was of heart and relatives
What I was of evenings in the province
What I was of being loved and being a small boy
What I was – my God!, what I only know today that I was
So long ago!...
(I cannot even find it)
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
What I am today is like humidity in the corridor at the end of the house
Causing mould on the walls…
What I am today (and the house of those who loved me trembles through my tears),
What I am today is selling the house,
Is everybody dead,
Is me surviving myself, like a cold match…
I see everything again with a clarity that blinds me to what is in front of me
The table set with extra seats, with better porcelain, with more glasses,
The sideboard with many things – sweets, fruit, all the rest in the shade, under the porch
The old aunts, the different cousins, and everything because of me,
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
My heart, stop.
Do not think. Let the head think.
Oh my God, my God, my God
Today is not my birthday any more.
I last.
Days are added to my life.
I will become old when I become old.
Nothing else.
The anger of not having brought the past stolen in my pocket!
In the days when my birthday was celebrated.
Fernando Pessoa, 1888 - 1935
I'm so sorry I cannot provide an extraordinary English rendition of this poem. This is the best I could do. I felt I had to have this poem here. The only thing I can say when I read it is "sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in. " I wonder if Pessoa felt the same every time he finished writing one of his poems. Did he know that what he wrote would one day mean so much to so many? Does any poet know that? I hope they do, at some level.
Happy 120th birthday, Pessoa.
Happy 120th birthday, Pessoa.
1 comment:
I don't think there is a good reason to be modest here: this is not a blog, this is a fucking piece of art. I love the surprise of opening the blog, perhaps self-lovingly, to see my last, stupid post again, to read it and indulge myself, and then, oh joy, I find this!
What a beautiful poem and what an extraordinary translation this is, Youkali. For me this is indeed perfection in art, when form and message are of equal beauty and importance, as in this poem. Some people grow old clumsily, some others do so writing these poems.
I am so proud you forced me to take a picture with this guy, a long time ago. I think I should frame it :)
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