tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64078616227066808572024-03-21T23:20:34.985-07:00Poems of Fernando PessoaFernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-2219020747173494512021-07-24T12:42:00.003-07:002021-07-24T12:46:06.088-07:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDZqDaWBPMI4DzUXBrsz9XU_Ca7VgHwR02J-dPEZIZl_UGm8Lq5HPpVOPaVgoomXycdFHVl571EDqt4COc6_pFfSB9CiBClUreDz1EZugfNpFW9HdMkAFkefaxDae8unJZizl2LztaWgn/s1250/sea.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1250" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDZqDaWBPMI4DzUXBrsz9XU_Ca7VgHwR02J-dPEZIZl_UGm8Lq5HPpVOPaVgoomXycdFHVl571EDqt4COc6_pFfSB9CiBClUreDz1EZugfNpFW9HdMkAFkefaxDae8unJZizl2LztaWgn/w200-h160/sea.jpg" width="200" /></a></div> O morning that breaks without looking at me,<p></p><p>O sun that shines without caring that I see you,</p><p>It's for me that you</p><p>Are true and real,</p><p>For it's in the foil to my desire</p><p>That I feel nature and life to be real.</p><p>In what denies me I feel</p><p>They exist and I am small,</p><p>And in this knowledge I become great</p><p>Even as the wave which, tossed by storms</p><p>High into the air, returns</p><p>With more weight to a deeper sea</p><br /><p><br /></p>Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-72116485891957242772019-07-14T08:05:00.003-07:002019-07-14T08:05:48.432-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfiL_gt9McpiU3EC68VnQJE-zsXhhzC6W23gG8BAVF_A-uG2bIOA3mGkKbwvw8xKzG7hxetKP4NBfTAVCK_OBOjJCSEKkUj0NUIVavmfY8rHfqHsg1xqul5trJSzTi13D3_uM1veV0MFJ2/s1600/balloons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfiL_gt9McpiU3EC68VnQJE-zsXhhzC6W23gG8BAVF_A-uG2bIOA3mGkKbwvw8xKzG7hxetKP4NBfTAVCK_OBOjJCSEKkUj0NUIVavmfY8rHfqHsg1xqul5trJSzTi13D3_uM1veV0MFJ2/s200/balloons.jpg" width="200" /></a>I don't want the sincere gifts<br />
You pretend to give me<br />
As presents of your offering.<br />
Give me what I'll love,<br />
Grieving for it lost, twice<br />
Over, for you and for me.<br />
<br />
Better, promise me it without<br />
Giving it, so the loss<br />
Will be more in the hope<br />
Than in the memory.<br />
<br />
I'll take no more displeasure<br />
Than in life's continuing,<br />
Seeing that as days pass, what's<br />
Hoped for is delayed, which is nothing.</div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-67802543200137430032017-04-08T13:49:00.002-07:002017-04-08T13:49:44.249-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I see a butterfly go by<br />
And for the first time in the universe I notice<br />
That butterflies do not have color or movement,<br />
Even as flowers do not have scent or color.<br />
Color is what has color in the butterfly's wings,<br />
Movement is what moves in the butterfly's movement,<br />
Scent is what has scent in the flower's scent.<br />
The butterfly is just a butterfly<br />
And the flower just a flower. <br />
<br /></div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-44768729923041575342016-07-02T07:41:00.000-07:002016-07-05T19:26:02.141-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I don't believe in God because I have never seen him.<br />
If he wanted me to believe in him,<br />
Then surely he'd come and speak to me.<br />
He would enter by my door<br />
Saying, "Here I am!"<br />
<br />
(This may sound ridiculous to those who,<br />
Because they aren't used to looking at things,<br />
Can't understand a man who speaks of them<br />
In the way that looking at things teaches.)<br />
<br />
But if God is the flowers and trees<br />
And hills and sun and moon,<br />
Then I believe in him,<br />
I believe in him at every moment,<br />
And my life is all a prayer and a mass<br />
And a communion by way of my eyes and ears.<br />
<br />
But if God is the flowers and the trees<br />
And hills and sun and moon,<br />
Then why should I call him God?<br />
I'll call him flowers and trees and hills and sun and moon.<br />
Because if to my eyes he made himself<br />
Sun and moon and flowers and trees and hills,<br />
If he appears to me as trees and hills<br />
And moon and sun and flowers,<br />
Then he wants me to know him<br />
As trees and hills and flowers and sun and moon.<br />
<br />
And so I obey him.<br />
(Do I know more about God than God knows about himself?)<br />
I obey him by living spontaneously<br />
As a man who opens his eyes and sees,<br />
And I call him moon and sun and flowers and hills and trees,<br />
And I love him without thinking of him,<br />
And I think him by seeing and hearing,<br />
And I am with him at every moment. </div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-44331380013529100802016-06-26T08:28:00.002-07:002016-06-26T08:28:30.747-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The child who thinks about fairies and believes in them<br />
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Acts like a sick god, but like a god nonetheless,<br />
For although affirming the existence of what doesn't exist,<br />
He knows how it is that things exist, which is by existing,<br />
He knows that existence exists and cannot be explained,<br />
He knows there is no reason for anything to exist,<br />
And he knows that to exist is to occupy a point.<br />
What he doesn't know is that thought is not a point.</div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-61879912519377812362015-12-29T09:21:00.000-08:002017-04-08T13:56:34.578-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ah! They want a light that's better than the sun's!<br />
They want meadows greener than these!<br />
They want flowers more beautiful than these which I see!<br />
For me this sun, these meadows and these flowers are enough.<br />
But if they weren't enough,<br />
What I would want is a sun more sun than the sun,<br />
Meadows more meadows than these meadows,<br />
Flowers more flowers than these flowers --<br />
Everything more ideal than what it is, in the same way and same manner!<br />
That thing over there more there than it is!<br />
Yes, sometimes I weep for the perfect body that doesn't exist.<br />
But the perfect body is the body that's the most body of all,<br />
And the rest is the dreams of men,<br />
The myopia of those who see little,<br />
And the desire to sit felt by those who don't know how to stand.<br />
All of Christianity is a dream of chairs.<br />
<br />
And the soul is what doesn't appear,<br />
The perfect soul is the one that never appears:<br />
The soul that is made out of body,<br />
The absolute body of things,<br />
Existing -- absolutely real -- without shadows or errors,<br />
The exact and entire coincidence of a thing with itself.<br />
<br /></div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-6987566073377623852015-06-14T07:59:00.002-07:002015-06-14T08:16:03.950-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6GAhw9W0ka_8yxvcICTIXICP-XDD_rTMB1BXy-R2dbV1tn73eVHsW_ljVkk6KWs9UUKJu3SYY7nuKwUa_UtkRuNhj8PvuYg7KKHCige-Rw11ekjPzujQM_j3OP2okWLm7piGYJeeiSk4y/s1600/ocean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6GAhw9W0ka_8yxvcICTIXICP-XDD_rTMB1BXy-R2dbV1tn73eVHsW_ljVkk6KWs9UUKJu3SYY7nuKwUa_UtkRuNhj8PvuYg7KKHCige-Rw11ekjPzujQM_j3OP2okWLm7piGYJeeiSk4y/s200/ocean.jpg" width="142" /></a>Outside where the trees<br />
Are rustling to a standstill<br />
The only thing I see<br />
Beyond them is the ocean.<br />
<br />
It is intensely blue,<br />
Flashing here and there,<br />
And in its lazy wave<br />
There is a sleepy sighing.<br />
<br />
But neither I nor the ocean<br />
Sleeps on this gentle day,<br />
And it calms while it advances,<br />
And I don't think and I'm thinking. </div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-52764410871340431662014-02-24T15:21:00.001-08:002014-02-24T15:23:16.435-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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At long last... no doubt about it... <br />
Here it is!<br />
Madness has definitely entered my head.<br />
<br />
My heart exploded like a two-bit bomb,<br />
And the shock went up my spine to my head...<br />
<br />
Thank God that I'm crazy!<br />
That everything I did has come back to me as garbage<br />
And like spit in the wind has splattered all over my face!<br />
That everything I was has gotten tangled around my feed,<br />
Like packing cloth to pack nothing at all!<br />
That everything I thought tickles my throat<br />
And makes me want to vomit, although I ate nothing!<br />
Thank God, since this, as for drunkenness,<br />
Is a solution.<br />
<br />
How about that, I found a solution, via my stomach!<br />
I discovered a truth, I perceived it with my intestines!<br />
<br />
Transcendental poetry? I've done that too!<br />
Great lyrical raptures have already paid me a visit!<br />
The organization of poems by general topics divided into subtopics?<br />
That's no novelty either.<br />
I feel like vomiting, and like vomiting my own self...<br />
I feel a nausea such that, if I could eat the universe to throw it up into the sink, I'd eat it<br />
With a struggle, but it would be for a good purpose.<br />
At least it would be for a purpose.<br />
Such as I am I have no purpose and no life...</div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-84646404556273820622014-02-04T09:29:00.000-08:002014-02-04T09:29:06.303-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIrVHKoozWi7n0UAXfjq0Qli-0Y_rOP2LhsjjIo9Mh7KEWy9lZdLmtXL23IEOQp6Ix1jmg5fC6A9QDU62DMY38rihNrsl4Ppgq2EgFk9px9jZZusKPsQC0E92sdiNxZNhyZq2vySbjauLJ/s1600/man_dejected.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIrVHKoozWi7n0UAXfjq0Qli-0Y_rOP2LhsjjIo9Mh7KEWy9lZdLmtXL23IEOQp6Ix1jmg5fC6A9QDU62DMY38rihNrsl4Ppgq2EgFk9px9jZZusKPsQC0E92sdiNxZNhyZq2vySbjauLJ/s1600/man_dejected.jpg" height="200" width="157" /></a>But at least, from my bitterness over what I'll never be,<br />
There remains the hasty writing of these verses,<br />
A broken gateway to the Impossible.<br />
But at least I confer on myself a contempt without tears,<br />
Noble at least in the sweeping gesture by which I fling<br />
The dirty laundry that's me -- with no list -- into the stream of things,<br />
And I stay at home, shirtless.</div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-59209326475451721152014-01-22T10:36:00.002-08:002014-01-22T10:36:52.106-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm beginning to know myself. I don't exist.<br />
I'm the gap between what I'd like to be and what others have made of me,<br />
Or half this gap, since there is also life . . .<br />
That's me. Period.<br />
Turn off the light, shut the door, and get rid of the slipper noise in the hallway.<br />
Leave me alone in my room with the vast peace of myself.<br />
It's a shoddy universe.</div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-12928057890255353432013-12-17T07:37:00.001-08:002013-12-17T07:38:53.055-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTwo457j-zR4ODy3A2i082UpXvZfmPs24jLNFPhUzmseXoBujU65w4pW2tYMIilIY6RuOFJNqZ9Joxg-Fp5Kh143zAUT-AvKLCtxjB4g4KsMqoCQgJdIOZbBZ9OI_LbaD8iSHBbU7E6Kg/s1600/dream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOTwo457j-zR4ODy3A2i082UpXvZfmPs24jLNFPhUzmseXoBujU65w4pW2tYMIilIY6RuOFJNqZ9Joxg-Fp5Kh143zAUT-AvKLCtxjB4g4KsMqoCQgJdIOZbBZ9OI_LbaD8iSHBbU7E6Kg/s200/dream.jpg" width="200" /></a>Between the tree and seeing it,<br />
Where is the dream?<br />
What bridge's arch observes God<br />
More? . . . And I am downcast,<br />
Not knowing if the bridge's curve<br />
Is the horizon's . . .<br />
<br />
Between life and what is living,<br />
Toward what side does the river flow?<br />
Trees with leaves laden,<br />
Between Treeness and all this, what's the thread?<br />
Doves in flight, is the dovecote<br />
Ever to their right, or is it real?<br />
<br />
God is a huge Interval,<br />
But between what and what? . . .<br />
Between my speech and speechlessness,<br />
Do I exist? Who is it sees me?<br />
I stray . . . And the dovecote up above,<br />
Is it around the dove, or to one side?<br />
<br /></div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-31841138839254740592013-11-03T17:40:00.002-08:002013-12-17T07:37:56.345-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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As long as I feel the full breeze in my hair<br />
And see the sun shining bright on the leaves,<br />
I will not ask for more.<br />
What better thing could destiny give me<br />
Than the sensual passing of life in moments<br />
Of ignorance like this?<br />
Where there are roses we plant doubt.<br />
Most of the meaning we glean is our own,<br />
And forever not knowing, we ponder.<br />
Foreign to us, capacious nature<br />
Unrolls fields, opens flowers, ripens<br />
Fruits, and death arrives.<br />
I'll only be right, if anyone is right,<br />
When death at last confounds my mind<br />
And I no longer see,<br />
For we cannot find and should not find<br />
The remote and profound explanation<br />
For why it is we live.<br />
Wise is the one who does not seek.<br />
The seeker will find in all things<br />
The abyss, and doubt in himself.</div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-79496997320107268432013-10-10T08:49:00.001-07:002013-10-10T08:50:30.681-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd9FTig8tDed9fTJbVgHPhz1x1_eKbnNOiD2rtaqem3xSd6btpXcmGyN5u4eiYN8V2BFx-aPUCr1UroiCW-aEbyUmqaMo8G7WVdYEfu1Z6U3RUK0UYEDB61j8vy5ydzzlU04ktotfLhQHy/s1600/mountains_hiker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd9FTig8tDed9fTJbVgHPhz1x1_eKbnNOiD2rtaqem3xSd6btpXcmGyN5u4eiYN8V2BFx-aPUCr1UroiCW-aEbyUmqaMo8G7WVdYEfu1Z6U3RUK0UYEDB61j8vy5ydzzlU04ktotfLhQHy/s200/mountains_hiker.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Above the truth reign the gods,<br />
Our science is a flawed copy<br />
Of the certainty with which<br />
They know the Universe exists.<br />
<br />
Everything is everything,<br />
And higher are the gods, who science<br />
Cannot know, but we should<br />
Praise them like the flowers.<br />
<br />
Visible to our higher sight,<br />
They're as real as flowers are real,<br />
And on their calm Olympus<br />
They are another Nature.Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-2826033706719127652013-08-23T17:56:00.001-07:002013-08-23T17:56:35.519-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Whatever the case, it would have been better not to be born,<br />
For no matter how interesting it is at every moment,<br />
Life sometimes hurts, jades, cuts, bruises, grates,<br />
Makes us want to scream, to jump, to wallow, to walk<br />
Out of every house and every logic and off every balcony,<br />
And to become savage and die among trees and things forgotten,<br />
Among collapses and hazards and absence of tomorrows,<br />
And all this, O life, should be something closer to what I think,<br />
To what I think or what I feel, whatever that is.<br />
<br />
I cross my arms on the table, I lay my head on my arms,<br />
And I need to want to cry, but I don't know where to find the tears.<br />
No matter how hard I try to pity myself, I don't cry,<br />
My soul is broken under the curved finger that touches it . . .<br />
What will become of me? What will become of me?Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-31168789921308500082013-08-17T07:18:00.000-07:002013-08-17T07:20:00.568-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJv6itlhNJAs3FAyqiGjennjCYBFfDphOndDpMkww2-XfWM4wme6UOgI5jt-6CsEGoKOyn3Hd0ZlrRHw8DOLbJggv4-jrpuPwmd54qM5TlhdoOVQXpXKg5LATgpqCg5DjXCu0HsQtLfZy2/s1600/grass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJv6itlhNJAs3FAyqiGjennjCYBFfDphOndDpMkww2-XfWM4wme6UOgI5jt-6CsEGoKOyn3Hd0ZlrRHw8DOLbJggv4-jrpuPwmd54qM5TlhdoOVQXpXKg5LATgpqCg5DjXCu0HsQtLfZy2/s200/grass.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I FALL full length into all life,<br />
And my lust for living roars within me.<br />
No pleasures in the world can equal<br />
The stupendous joy of one who can't tell it<br />
Except by rolling on the ground in the grass and the daisies,<br />
Mingling with the dirt until his suit and hair are dirty . . .<br />
There are no verses that can grant this.<br />
Pluck a blade of grass, bite into it, and you will understand,<br />
You will completely understand what I incompletely express.<br />
I crave to be a root<br />
Pursuing my inner sensations like a sap . . .<br />
I'd like to have all the senses -- including<br />
My intellect, imagination and inhibition --<br />
On my skin's surface so that I could roll over the rough ground<br />
More deeply within, feeling more roughness and bumps.<br />
I'd be satisfied if my body were my soul,<br />
For only then would all winds, all suns and all rains<br />
Be felt by me in the way I'd like.<br />
This being impossible, I despair, I rage,<br />
I wish I could gnash at my suit<br />
And have a lions tough claws to rip at my flesh<br />
Until the blood would flow, flow, flow, flow . . .<br />
I suffer because all of this is absurd,<br />
As if I could scare somebody<br />
With my hostile feeling toward destiny, toward God,<br />
Which arises when we confront the Ineffable<br />
And suddenly perceive our weakness and smallness. Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-6466515181498403892013-07-05T07:17:00.002-07:002013-07-28T06:32:01.820-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6y0ZLuGy3f08k3mt0Solgac_t4OD-iZOzwWXPGtgi8l_7waCe5acUl4iz8pNDHvcbs1pyOof2cIsiMCEANH0o4S8Pm72TIVjZWqbIa7sWr2jKFgM9fFrLagco81stXR_47zvNENQRPMY/s1600/consolation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6y0ZLuGy3f08k3mt0Solgac_t4OD-iZOzwWXPGtgi8l_7waCe5acUl4iz8pNDHvcbs1pyOof2cIsiMCEANH0o4S8Pm72TIVjZWqbIa7sWr2jKFgM9fFrLagco81stXR_47zvNENQRPMY/s200/consolation.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I'm unable to feel, to be human, to reach out<br />
From inside my sad soul to my fellow earthly brothers.<br />
And even were I to feel, I'm unable to be useful, practical, quotidian, definite,<br />
To have a place in life, a destiny among men,<br />
To have a vocation, a force, a will, a garden,<br />
A reason for resting, a need for recreation,<br />
Something that comes to me directly from nature.<br />
<br />
So be motherly to me, O tranquil night . . .<br />
You who remove the world from the world, you who are peace,<br />
You who don't exist, who are only the absence of light,<br />
You who aren't a thing, a place, an essence or a life,<br />
Penelope who weaves darkness that tomorrow will be unravelled,<br />
Unreal Circe of the fevered, of the anguished without a cause,<br />
Come to me, O night, reach out your hands,<br />
And be coolness and relief, O night, on my forehead . . .Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-26094654249064536372013-07-03T12:23:00.001-07:002013-07-28T06:32:20.190-07:00 I devote my higher mind to the ardent <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOIIvGEfY3wh5k-R1aMrMEWxHfOobUbj60MDQOLFLQ2hL0wZ8xBcj6uPQDT2iHHLk7NRM30LCYkjk1wSuHYIScChhqDOCn7pAEhI2Y5b2hKd_0rQugByDi5YU37191BVG4EL1SngabZPx/s230/quilt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqOIIvGEfY3wh5k-R1aMrMEWxHfOobUbj60MDQOLFLQ2hL0wZ8xBcj6uPQDT2iHHLk7NRM30LCYkjk1wSuHYIScChhqDOCn7pAEhI2Y5b2hKd_0rQugByDi5YU37191BVG4EL1SngabZPx/s200/quilt.jpg" width="190" /></a></div>
Pursuit of the summit, leaving<br />
Verse to chance and its laws,<br />
For when the thought is lofty and noble,<br />
The sentence will naturally seek it,<br />
And rhythm slavishly serve it.Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-42994732666107234002013-05-15T13:31:00.002-07:002013-05-15T13:31:48.832-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_Ah8ZZ6MoPHxQYM7LwdC6KBJvbDJglwxTUtu05VVv9JR8G-d9WW81wmTc1HeoWeUuaRqqZLsBmd_bDD0oRsReqzHCsxnZfPzLN-Xsr_ZAw6pc9RcgePMqYzwFTbeVAdzDmbVPVHrvOiq/s1600/darksoul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_Ah8ZZ6MoPHxQYM7LwdC6KBJvbDJglwxTUtu05VVv9JR8G-d9WW81wmTc1HeoWeUuaRqqZLsBmd_bDD0oRsReqzHCsxnZfPzLN-Xsr_ZAw6pc9RcgePMqYzwFTbeVAdzDmbVPVHrvOiq/s200/darksoul.jpg" width="200" /></a>I kiss every whore on the lips,<br />
I kiss every pimp on the eyes,<br />
My passivity lies at the feet of every killer,<br />
And my Spanish cape shields every fleeing thief.<br />
Everything is the raison d'etre of my life.<br />
<br />
I've committed every crime,<br />
Lived within every crime<br />
(In vice I was not this person or that person<br />
But the vice-in-person carried out between them,<br />
And these are my life's most arch-triumphant times.)<br />
<br />
I multiplied myself to feel myself,<br />
To feel myself I had to feel everything,<br />
I overflowed, I did nothing but spill out,<br />
I undressed, I yielded,<br />
And in each corner of my soul there's an altar to a different god.Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-65703141478794611352013-04-26T09:11:00.000-07:002013-04-26T09:11:23.818-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgpebKpPvlMovK_gJOaYGnVKi-5UjBv2scIv1lG32hfFhyphenhyphenX9wpxA_TEsBMi6etO3jumVki0A6zkOrnNkt_7CeTSRk8eNPPUHJPh3FCptgiqP7eon5nD7EJ1dObReNZmhDQMNVhu0j8PXx/s1600/questions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgpebKpPvlMovK_gJOaYGnVKi-5UjBv2scIv1lG32hfFhyphenhyphenX9wpxA_TEsBMi6etO3jumVki0A6zkOrnNkt_7CeTSRk8eNPPUHJPh3FCptgiqP7eon5nD7EJ1dObReNZmhDQMNVhu0j8PXx/s200/questions.jpg" width="192" /></a></div>
This old anguish,<br />
Which I've carried around for centuries,<br />
Overflowed from its vessel<br />
In tears, in wild imaginings,<br />
In nightmarish dreams without terror,<br />
In sudden huge emotions that make no sense.<br />
<br />
It overflowed.<br />
I am at a loss to know how to live life<br />
With this malaise that is crumpling my soul.<br />
If at least I could be positively crazy!<br />
But no: always this in-betweenness,<br />
This almost,<br />
This it might be that . . .<br />
This.<br />
<br />
An inmate in an insane asylum is at least someone.<br />
I'm an inmate in an asylum without an asylum.<br />
I'm consciously crazy,<br />
I'm a lucid lunatic,<br />
I am alien to everything and equal to all:<br />
I'm sleeping while awake with dreams that are madness<br />
Because they are not dreams.<br />
I'm . . .<br />
<br />
Poor old house of my lost childhood!<br />
Could you ever have imagined I'd so desert myself?<br />
What happened to your boy? He went nuts.<br />
What happened to the one who slept soundly under your provincial rooftop?<br />
He went nuts.<br />
What happened to who I was? He went nuts. Today he is who I am.<br />
<br />
If at least I had some kind of a religion.<br />
The religion, for example, of that idol from Africa<br />
We had at home (the one I've mentioned).<br />
It was unsightly, it was grotesque,<br />
But it contained the divinity of everything that is believed in.<br />
If I could believe in some idol or other --<br />
Jupiter, Jehovah, Humanity . . .<br />
Any one would do,<br />
For isn't everything merely what we think it is?<br />
<br />
Shatter, heart of painted glass! Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-80201056788037366302013-03-22T08:07:00.001-07:002013-03-22T08:07:21.613-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHm2ckb3VROgM2UXmEAqB1zArip4E5fDKHyY4n7PkHj0ji1rtNLXB1cns7itIryah0V9yOT3d16bArhAtHu7zdSeE3ilFIZqdIHxRIfCKC0DZ89grbvrvF7mE_w0dMpcDLZHjWS_ZsOieJ/s1600/rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHm2ckb3VROgM2UXmEAqB1zArip4E5fDKHyY4n7PkHj0ji1rtNLXB1cns7itIryah0V9yOT3d16bArhAtHu7zdSeE3ilFIZqdIHxRIfCKC0DZ89grbvrvF7mE_w0dMpcDLZHjWS_ZsOieJ/s200/rain.jpg" width="156" /></a></div>
Cleopatra lies dead in the shade.<br />
It rains.<br />
<br />
The ship was dressed with the wrong flags.<br />
It continues to rain.<br />
<br />
Why do you gaze at the distant city?<br />
Your soul is the distant city.<br />
It rains a chill rain.<br />
<br />
And as for the mother who rocks a dead child in her arms --<br />
We all rock a dead child in our arms.<br />
It rains, it rains.<br />
<br />
I see the sad smile left on your weary lips<br />
In the way your finger won't let go of your rings.<br />
Why does it rain?Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-49634992542848558922013-03-06T14:16:00.001-08:002013-03-06T14:17:42.515-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKm-YFL-nFJ7Hc1H50WBVeRriMe-bcNUwYx3l7bQzBJ1i3JL_MraOHFm4WltifRPumXp60SaiC6gJBwQ-Z8mrCNhKAHRffJkMVHecX-Cl2MdXI6rgGEaXCsJkRW_eR7TxwDutY-2Rs0VKf/s1600/rivergodess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKm-YFL-nFJ7Hc1H50WBVeRriMe-bcNUwYx3l7bQzBJ1i3JL_MraOHFm4WltifRPumXp60SaiC6gJBwQ-Z8mrCNhKAHRffJkMVHecX-Cl2MdXI6rgGEaXCsJkRW_eR7TxwDutY-2Rs0VKf/s200/rivergodess.jpg" width="200" /></a>I seem to be growing calm.<br />
Perhaps I'm about to die.<br />
There's a new and gentle fatigue<br />
Around all I wanted to want.<br />
<br />
I'm surprised to find my soul<br />
So resigned to feeling.<br />
Suddenly I see a river<br />
Shining in a grove.<br />
<br />
And they are a real prescence:<br />
The river, light, and trees.Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-30589060273093569862013-01-26T06:43:00.000-08:002013-01-26T06:43:42.240-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCG_eLOB2z-UNo1CddkJACI7R0L6YtVfeHzie2V1Xfrh_V7H4DOMbbgYWzXzt6y345nH9rlCRU3mIS82lnCbFF3Arj-NaSJWuyvo6gUomtcyMhUAi8FVhi0NIkoC8fIw_29jGI0RlLbxu/s1600/sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCG_eLOB2z-UNo1CddkJACI7R0L6YtVfeHzie2V1Xfrh_V7H4DOMbbgYWzXzt6y345nH9rlCRU3mIS82lnCbFF3Arj-NaSJWuyvo6gUomtcyMhUAi8FVhi0NIkoC8fIw_29jGI0RlLbxu/s1600/sun.jpg" /></a></div>
This may be the last day of my life.<br />
I lifted my right hand to wave at the sun,<br />
But I did not wave at it in farewell.<br />
I was glad I could see it -- that's all.Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-88549712920326572882012-09-19T21:15:00.002-07:002012-09-19T21:17:29.635-07:00To be able to laugh, laugh, laugh uproariously,<br />
To laugh like an overturned glass,<br />
Completely crazy just from feeling,<br />
Completely disfigured from scraping against things,<br />
My mouth cut up from biting on things,<br />
My fingernails bloody from clawing at things,<br />
And then give me whatever cell you like that I may look back on life.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5PU_U1OCSej-lNadh1qlSnznoaa04D32Rb_-LYurHJxONh5tVYs5l1J16KBsUDgkIS2GkE6fAj0LUW2IYF-ucSuDP-qm5gI9AkrC64jE1iPcTiqMf5kTbijC8BriUNIhOVCow1mcRlL7/s1600/laugh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="96" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5PU_U1OCSej-lNadh1qlSnznoaa04D32Rb_-LYurHJxONh5tVYs5l1J16KBsUDgkIS2GkE6fAj0LUW2IYF-ucSuDP-qm5gI9AkrC64jE1iPcTiqMf5kTbijC8BriUNIhOVCow1mcRlL7/s400/laugh.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-53274949243937994022012-08-29T06:24:00.000-07:002013-12-21T01:32:31.345-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKQw6FRo335LGaXgYqtR33rO-yAtOPsuuubrMKwb1DwAY7O9i6nDsTNsnYbChbjo9dtWqUQOmi_duPQ27s1-DlF40cjImOQtK8k_QvSYnn_iP1vj__BwCKz2MURj6U4UrgKHLOkG7vREk/s1600/dutch_woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKQw6FRo335LGaXgYqtR33rO-yAtOPsuuubrMKwb1DwAY7O9i6nDsTNsnYbChbjo9dtWqUQOmi_duPQ27s1-DlF40cjImOQtK8k_QvSYnn_iP1vj__BwCKz2MURj6U4UrgKHLOkG7vREk/s200/dutch_woman.jpg" width="178" /></a>(That woman whose smile suggests the peace I don't have,<br />
In whose lowering of the eyes there's a Dutch landscape<br />
With the female heads wrapped in white linen<br />
And the daily effort of a tidy and tranquil people . . .<br />
That woman who is the ring left on the top of the dresser,<br />
And the ribbon that is caught when the drawer is shut,<br />
A pink ribbon, I don't like the color but I like the ribbon being caught,<br />
As I don't like life but like to feel it . . .<br />
<br />
To sleep like a spurned dog on the open road,<br />
Definitively for the rest of the universe,<br />
Run over by every passing vehicle . . .)</div>
Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6407861622706680857.post-58714559232844906282012-08-18T14:29:00.002-07:002012-08-18T18:25:41.119-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2gjLP9ubJWbGjd12jzkKR6aUWhoAZd3H-EXsGFkjVDNPft9X0TSVmx-8X-RWdz3GNoHWMiH6YIfAr54CBZfNljQuhU8NHrgGznYKXHq6tUHhWfRiP3Aoyq3erZEgrOmmZHsQjApwDP7s/s1600/dreams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2gjLP9ubJWbGjd12jzkKR6aUWhoAZd3H-EXsGFkjVDNPft9X0TSVmx-8X-RWdz3GNoHWMiH6YIfAr54CBZfNljQuhU8NHrgGznYKXHq6tUHhWfRiP3Aoyq3erZEgrOmmZHsQjApwDP7s/s200/dreams.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
I've gone to bed with every feeling,<br />
I've been the pimp of every emotion,<br />
All felt sensations have bought me drinks,<br />
I've traded glances with every motive for every act,<br />
I've held hands with every urge to depart,<br />
Tremendous fever of time!<br />
Anguished furnace of emotions!<br />
Rage, foam, the vastness that doesn't fit in my handkerchief,<br />
The dog in heat howling in the night,<br />
The pond from the farm going in circles around my insomnia,<br />
The woods as they were, on our late-afternoon walks, the rose,<br />
The indifferent tuft of hair, the moss, the pines,<br />
The rage of not containing all this, not retaining all this,<br />
O abstract hunger for things, impotent libido for moments,<br />
Intellectual orgy of feeling life!Fernando Pessoahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09472690686010560413noreply@blogger.com0