13-06-17

Fernando Pessoa , Willem Brakman, William Butler Yeats, Thomas Heerma van Voss, Tristane Banon, Marcel Theroux, Lode Zielens, Dorothy L. Sayers, Franz Alfred Muth

 

De Portugese dichter en schrijver Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa werd geboren in Lissabon op 13 juni 1888. Zie ook alle tags voor Fernando Pessoa op dit blog.

 

Sonnet II

If that apparent part of life's delight
Our tingled flesh-sense circumscribes were seen
By aught save reflex and co-carnal sight,
Joy, flesh and life might prove but a gross screen.
Haply Truth's body is no eyable being,
Appearance even as appearance lies,
Haply our close, dark, vague, warm sense of seeing
Is the choked vision of blindfolded eyes.
Wherefrom what comes to thought's sense of life? Nought.
All is either the irrational world we see
Or some aught-else whose being-unknown doth rot
Its use for our thought's use. Whence taketh me
A qualm-like ache of life, a body-deep
Soul-hate of what we seek and what we weep.

 

 

Sonnet III

When I do think my meanest line shall be
More in Time's use than my creating whole,
That future eyes more clearly shall feel me
In this inked page than in my direct soul;
When I conjecture put to make me seeing
Good readers of me in some aftertime,
Thankful to some idea of my being
That doth not even my with gone true soul rime;
An anger at the essence of the world,
That makes this thus, or thinkable this wise,
Takes my soul by the throat and makes it hurled
In nightly horrors of despaired surmise,
And I become the mere sense of a rage
That lacks the very words whose waste might 'suage.

 

 

Sonnet IV

I could not think of thee as piecèd rot,
Yet such thou wert, for thou hadst been long dead;
Yet thou liv'dst entire in my seeing thought
And what thou wert in me had never fled.
Nay, I had fixed the moments of thy beauty-
Thy ebbing smile, thy kiss's readiness,
And memory had taught my heart the duty
To know thee ever at that deathlessness.
But when I came where thou wert laid, and saw
The natural flowers ignoring thee sans blame,
And the encroaching grass, with casual flaw,
Framing the stone to age where was thy name,
I knew not how to feel, nor what to be
Towards thy fate's material secrecy.

 

 
Fernando Pessoa (13 juni 1888 – 30 november 1935)
Fernando Pessoa door João Beja

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13-06-16

Fernando Pessoa , Willem Brakman, William Butler Yeats, Thomas Heerma van Voss, Tristane Banon, Marcel Theroux, Lode Zielens

 

De Portugese dichter en schrijver Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa werd geboren in Lissabon op 13 juni 1888. Zie ook alle tags voor Fernando Pessoa op dit blog.

 

Heb niets in je handen, noch...

Heb niets in je handen, noch
Een herinnering in de ziel,

Dan zal, wanneer de laatste obool
Men je in de handen legt,

En men je handen openvouwt
Niets je ontvallen.

Welke troon wil men je geven
Die Atropos je niet ontneemt?

Welke lauweren die niet welken
Onder Minos' oordeel?

Welke uren die ook jou niet
Maken tot de schaduw

Die je zijn zult als je gaat
De nacht in en naar 't einde van de weg.

Pluk de bloemen maar laat ze
Los eer je ze hebt bezien.

Ga zitten in de zon. Doe afstand
En wees koning van jezelf.

 

Vertaald door August Willemsen

 

 

The Herdsman

I'm herdsman of a flock.
The sheep are my thoughts
And my thoughts are all sensations.
I think with my eyes and my ears
And my hands and feet
And nostrils and mouth.

To think a flower is to see and smell it.
To eat a fruit is to sense its savor.

And that is why, when I feel sad,
In a day of heat, because of so much joy
And lay me down in the grass to rest
And close my sun-warmed eyes,
I feel my whole body relaxed in reality
And know the whole truth and am happy.

 
Vertaald door Edouard Roditi

 

 

Sonnet I

Whether we write or speak or do but look
We are ever unapparent. What we are
Cannot be transfused into word or book.
Our soul from us is infinitely far.

However much we give our thoughts the will
To be our soul and gesture it abroad,
Our hearts are incommunicable still.
In what we show ourselves we are ignored.

The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged
By any skill of thought or trick of seeming.
Unto our very selves we are abridged
When we would utter to our thought our being.

We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams,
And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.

 

 
Fernando Pessoa (13 juni 1888 – 30 november 1935)
Muurschildering in Bedminster, Bristol

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13-06-15

Fernando Pessoa , Willem Brakman, William Butler Yeats, Thomas Heerma van Voss, Tristane Banon, Dorothy L. Sayers, Marcel Theroux

 

De Portugese dichter en schrijver Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa werd geboren in Lissabon op 13 juni 1888. Zie ook alle tags voor Fernando Pessoa op dit blog.

 

I don’t know if the stars rule the world

I don’t know if the stars rule the world
Or if Tarot or playing cards
Can reveal anything.
I don’t know if the rolling of dice
Can lead to any conclusion.
But I also don’t know
If anything is attained
By living the way most people do.

Yes, I don’t know
If I should believe in this daily rising sun
Whose authenticity no one can guarantee me,
Or if it would be better (because better or more convenient)
To believe in some other sun,
One that shines even at night,
Some profound incandescence of things,
Surpassing my understanding.

For now...
(Let’s take it slow)
For now
I have an absolutely secure grip on the stair-rail,
I secure it with my hand –
This rail that doesn’t belong to me
And that I lean on as I ascend...
Yes... I ascend...
I ascend to this:
I don’t know if the stars rule the world.

 

 

Magnificat

When will this inner night – the universe – end
And I – my soul – have my day?
When will I wake up from being awake?
I don’t know. The sun shines on high
And cannot be looked at.
The stars coldly blink
And cannot be counted.
The heart beats aloofly
And cannot be heard.
When will this drama without theater
– Or this theater without drama – end
So that I can go home?
Where? How? When?
O cat staring at me with eyes of life, Who lurks in your depths?
It’s Him! It’s him!
Like Joshua he’ll order the sun to stop, and I’ll wake up,
And it will be day.
Smile, my soul, in your slumber!
Smile, my soul: it will be day!

 

 

Countless lives inhabit us

Countless lives inhabit us.
I don’t know, when I think or feel,
Who it is that thinks or feels.
I am merely the place
Where things are thought or felt.

I have more than just one soul.
There are more I’s than I myself.
I exist, nevertheless,
Indifferent to them all.
I silence them: I speak.

The crossing urges of what
I feel or do not feel
Struggle in who I am, but I
Ignore them. They dictate nothing
To the I I know: I write.

 

Vertaald door Richard Zenith

 

 

 
Fernando Pessoa (13 juni 1888 – 30 november 1935)

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13-06-14

Fernando Pessoa , Willem Brakman, William Butler Yeats, Thomas Heerma van Voss, Tristane Banon, Dorothy L. Sayers, Marcel Theroux

 

De Portugese dichter en schrijver Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa werd geboren in Lissabon op 13 juni 1888. Zie ook alle tags voor Fernando Pessoa op dit blog.

 

To see the fields and the river

To see the fields and the river
It isn't enough to open the window.
To see the trees and the flowers
It isn't enough not to be blind.
It is also necessary to have no philosophy.
With philosophy there are no trees, just ideas.
There is only each one of us, like a cave.
There is only a shut window, and the whole world outside,
And a dream of what could be seen if the window were opened,
Which is never what is seen when the window is opened.

 

 

Oxfordshire

I want the good, I want the bad, and in the end I want nothing.
I toss in bed, uncomfortable on my right side, on my left side,
And on my consciousness of existing.
I’m universally uncomfortable, metaphysically uncomfortable,
But what’s even worse is my headache.
That’s more serious than the meaning of the universe.

Once, while walking in the country around Oxford,
I saw up ahead, beyond a bend in the road,
A church steeple towering above the houses of a hamlet or village.
The photographic image of that non-event has remained with me
Like a horizontal wrinkle marring a trouser’s crease.
Today it seems relevant...
From the road I associated that steeple with spirituality,
The faith of all ages, and practical charity.
When I arrived at the village, the steeple was a steeple
And, what’s more, there it was.

You can be happy in Australia, as long as you don’t go there.

 

 

The gods grant nothing more than life

The gods grant nothing more than life,
So let us reject whatever lifts us
            To unbreathable heights,
            Eternal but flowerless.
All that we need to accept is science,
And as long as the blood in our veins still pulses
            And love does not shrivel,
            Let us go on
Like panes of glass: transparent to light,
Pattered by the sad rain trickling down,
            Warmed by the sun,
            And reflecting a little.

 

Vertaald door Richard Zenith

 

 

 
Fernando Pessoa (13 juni 1888 – 30 november 1935)

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13-06-13

Fernando Pessoa , Willem Brakman, William Butler Yeats, Thomas Heerma van Voss

 

De Portugese dichter en schrijver Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa werd geboren in Lissabon op 13 juni 1888. Zie ook alle tags voor Fernando Pessoa op dit blog.

 

 

Listen, Daisy, When I Die, Although
                        On an Orient-bound ship
                                      December 1913
                            (as Álvaro de Campos)

Listen, Daisy. When I die, although
You may not feel a thing, you must
Tell all my friends in London how much
My loss makes you suffer. Then go

To York, where you claim you were born
(But I don't believe a thing you claim),
To tell that poor boy who gave me
So many hours of joy (but of course

You don't know about that) that I'm dead.
Even he, whom I thought I sincerely
Loved, won't care.... Then go and break

The news to that strange girl Cecily,
Who believed that one day I'd be great....
To hell with life and everyone in it!

 

 

 

 

I don't Know if the Love You Give is Love You Have
                                                            (as Ricardo Reis)

I don't know if the love you give is love you have
Or love you feign. You give it to me. Let that suffice.
        I can't be young by years,
        So why not by illusion?
The Gods give us little, and the little they give is false.
But if they give it, however false it be, the giving
        Is true. I accept it, and resign
        Myself to believing you.

 

 

 

 

Vertaald door Richard Zenith

 

 

 

 

Fernando Pessoa (13 juni 1888 – 30 november 1935)

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13-06-12

Thomas Heerma van Voss

 

De Nederlandse schrijver Thomas Heerma van Voss werd geboren in Amsterdam op 13 juni 1990. Thomas doorliep het Vossius Gymnasium, studeerde een jaar Engels in Londen en studeert sinds 2009 Nederlands aan de Universiteit van Amsterdam. In 2009 verscheen tevens zijn debuut De Allestafel, dat hij al op achttienjarige leeftijd schreef, bij uitgeverij Augustus,

 

Uit: De kraamafdeling

 

“Ze vragen zelden wie hij is of wat hij komt doen. De dame bij de receptie knikt hem hooguit vriendelijk toe. De eerste weken zei ze nog: ‘Bent u naar iemand op zoek?’ Maar inmiddels herkent ze zijn gezicht, ze weet dat hij hier dagelijks komt en dus de weg wel kent. Ook op de kraamafdeling wordt hij doorgaans met rust gelaten. Soms zegt een arts: ‘Kan ik u ergens mee helpen?’ Of: ‘De bezoekuren zijn al afgelopen, meneer.’ Dan verzint hij snel iets over een ernstig zieke zoon of een vrouw die net aan het bevallen is, geen arts die hem dan nog de deur durft te wijzen. Het is acht uur ’s ochtends. Leon staat voor de badkamerspiegel. Hij haalt een scheerapparaat over zijn wangen, smeert een paar klodders gel in zijn haar en propt zijn witte jas in zijn broek. De gebruikelijke voorbereiding. Ten slotte trekt hij zijn roodbruine trui aan, op zo´n manier dat er niets van de jas zichtbaar is. Met zijn Polaroid-toestel in de hand gaat hij naar buiten. Het is rustig op straat. Leon slaat een hoek om, en nog een. De afgelopen maanden heeft hij deze route dagelijks gelopen. Toch voelt het nog steeds niet helemaal vertrouwd, hij krijgt het idee dat er nog altijd iets onverwachts kan gebeuren, dat Samantha hem elk moment kan bellen: ‘Kom snel. Het is al bezig.’ Toen hij die woorden hoorde, een half jaar geleden, begon hij meteen te rennen. Hij sprintte zoals hij nog nooit in zijn leven had gedaan, midden over straat, door rode lichten, hij duwde mensen opzij en riep: ‘Weg, weg, mijn dochter wordt geboren.’ Hij wist al maanden dat het een meisje zou worden.

 

 

Thomas Heerma van Voss (Amsterdam, 13 juni 1990)

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