Fernando Pessoa

untitled poem 8 by Fernando Pessoa

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If sometimes I say that flowers smile
And if I should say that rivers sing,
It’s not because I think there are smiles in flowers
And songs in the rivers’ flowing. . .
It’s so I can help misguided men
Feel the truly real existence of flowers and rivers.

Since I write for them to read me, I sometimes stoop
To the stupidity of their senses. . .
It isn’t right, but I excuse myself,
Because I’ve only taken on the odious role, an interpreter of Nature,
Because there are men who don’t grasp its language,
Which is no language at all.

translated by Richard Zenith

untitled poem 7 by Fernando Pessoa

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Oh ship setting out on a distant voyage,
Why don’t I miss you the way other people  do
After you’ve vanished from sight?
Because, when I don’t see you, you cease to exist.
And if I feel nostalgia for what doesn’t exist,
The feeling is in relationship to nothing.
It’s not the ship but our own selves that we miss.

translated by Richard Zenith

untitled poem 6 by Fernando Pessoa

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Now that I feel love,
I’m interested in fragrances.
It never used to interest me that flowers have smell.
Now I feel their fragrance as if I were seeing something new.
I know they smelled before, even as I know I existed.
These are things we know outwardly.
But now I know with the breathing at the back of my head.
Now flowers have a delicious taste I can smell.
Now I sometimes wake up and smell before I see.

translated by Richard Zenith

untitled poem 4 by Fernando Pessoa

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Whether I’m happy or sad?. . .
Frankly I don’t know.
What does it mean to be sad?
What is happiness good for?

I’m neither happy nor sad.
I don’t really know what I am.
I’m just one more soul that exists
And feels what God has ordained.

So then, am I happy or sad?
Thinking never ends well. . .
For me sadness means
Hardly knowing myself. . .

But that’s what happiness is. . .

translated by Richard Zenith

untitled poem 3 by Fernando Pessoa

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Calm because I’m unknown,
And myself because I’m calm,
I want to fill my days
With wanting nothing from them.

For those whom wealth touches,
Gold irritates the skin.
For those on whom fame blows,
Life fogs over.

On those for whom happiness
Is their sun, night will fall.
But those who hope for nothing
Are glad for whatever comes.

translated by Richard Zenith