Another Portuguese Favourite

Portugal

by Alexandre O'Neill

If only, Portugal, you were just three syllables,
a beautiful view of the sea,
the green Minho, the whitewashed Algarve,
a tiny, tranquil donkey
trotting along the mountain ridge,
a mill swinging its arms at a wind as stubborn
as a bull but with padded horns and after all friendly,
if only you were just salt, sun, the south,
the shrewd sparrow,
the meek colloquial ox,
the sizzling sardine,
the waddling fishwife,
the scribbler bundled up in pretty adjectives,
the silent, almondish complaint
of sharp eyes with black lashes,
if only you were just the buzzing of summer, the buzz of fashion,
the decrepit asthmatic dog of beaches,
the caged cricket, the cagey customer,
the calendar on the wall, the pin on a lapel,
if only, Portugal, you were just three syllables
made of plastic, which would be cheaper!

*

Confectioners of Amarante, potters from Barcelos,
lace-makers of Viana, bullfighters from Golegã,
your celebrated sweets don’t hit my fancy,
no clay cock sings in color on my shelf,
no lacy whiteness trims my daydreams,
and no banderilla adorns my neck.

Portugal: an ongoing discussion with myself,
a soreness to the bone, an unrelenting hunger,
an attentive bloodhound with no nose and no ducks,
a spruced-up nag,
a dingy fair,
my regret,
my regret for us all . . .

Translation: Richard Zenith

A Portuguese Favourite

Acrobacias

sentados em Trafalgar Square
no intervalo de amigos
com o tempo entre as mãos
treinávamos o nosso inglês
num inquérito de revista
com Francis Bacon na capa
que perguntava:
qual dos membros
- superiores ou inferiores -
preferíamos perder
(esta ablação em língua estrangeira
tornava-se indolor, quase anestesiada)
respondeste: os braços
as pernas conservá-las-ias
como a liberdade de poder andar
respondi: as pernas
não queria ver-me
impedida de abraçar.
Assim juntando as nossas
perdas
eu abraço-me a ti
e peço-te anda, mostra-me o mundo
e quando nos cansarmos
abraçar-me-ás, então, com as pernas
e eu
andarei com os braços.

Ana Paula Inácio

In revista Telhados de Vidro, nº3

A Poem with leaves

Trees
by Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth's flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

in www.poets.org