Poem
Manuel de Freitas
POMPE INUTILI
Nobody’s born; it would make no senseto call the placental remains
enveloping a bunch of organs
whose action is all but predetermined
somebody.
Only the dead truly
exist. They wrote or didn’t
write books, love letters,
diaries. No matter: they crossed
our paths, sometimes sat
at the same table, and even believed
in the sweet torture of love.
They had real hands when they touched
the pubescent face they were saying farewell to.
A kiss, though it kissed only wrinkles,
was able to make the mornings less cold.
The dead aren’t very good at farewells,
even if they’re precise and sincere
as never before in the moment they descend
into the earth and won’t let us
partake with them a cigarette,
one last drink, a species of destiny.
The dead are frightfully real.
A whole life is insufficient
for us to kill them all, one
by one, as the most basic metaphysical
hygiene would surely recommend.
And yet they give us the necessary strength
to die more and more, to endure
our rented days, these homes not quite fit
to live in. Because the truth is that other
people are merely the imperfect dead.
They, like us, are a bit too alive.
But perhaps they’ll one day write
a poem like this (and it might not even be
a poem, let alone like this) which denotes,
besides the obvious influences, what we might
call a penchant for horror.
For that’s what it all comes down to.
The dead know.
Knowledge is useless.
Poetry too.
© Translation: 2007, Richard Zenith
POMPE INUTILI
POMPE INUTILI
Ninguém nasce; seria descabidochamar alguém aos resíduos
de placenta que envolvem
um conjunto de órgãos
a tudo ou quase tudo predispostos.
Só os mortos, verdadeiramente,
existem. Escreveram ou não
escreveram livros, cartas de amor,
diários. Não importa: cruzaram-se
connosco, sentaram-se por vezes
à mesma mesa, acreditaram até
no terno suplício do amor.
E tinham mãos reais, ao tocarem
o rosto imberbe de que se despediam.
Um beijo, sobre rugas apenas,
conseguia tornar menos frias as manhãs.
Despedem-se muito mal, os mortos.
Embora, por uma vez, sejam
exactos e sinceros – no momento
em que descem à terra e nos impedem
de partilhar com eles um cigarro,
o último copo, uma espécie de destino.
São terrivelmente reais, os mortos.
A vida inteira não chega
para que possamos matá-los a todos,
um a um, como decerto aconselharia
a mais elementar higiene metafísica.
Dão-nos, contudo, a força necessária
para morrer cada vez mais, tolerando
dias de aluguer, casas ligeiramente
inabitáveis. Porque os outros, na
verdade, não passam de mortos imperfeitos.
Estão, como nós, um pouco demasiado vivos.
Talvez um dia, porém, venham a
assinar um poema assim (e pode até não ser
um poema, muito menos assim), em que se note,
além das influências óbvias, uma certa
– digamos – especialização no horror.
Pois é disso apenas que se trata.
Os mortos sabem-no.
A sabedoria é inútil.
A poesia também.
© 2005, Manuel de Freitas
From: A Flor dos Terramotos
Publisher: Averno, Lisboa
From: A Flor dos Terramotos
Publisher: Averno, Lisboa
Poems
Poems of Manuel de Freitas
Close
POMPE INUTILI
Nobody’s born; it would make no senseto call the placental remains
enveloping a bunch of organs
whose action is all but predetermined
somebody.
Only the dead truly
exist. They wrote or didn’t
write books, love letters,
diaries. No matter: they crossed
our paths, sometimes sat
at the same table, and even believed
in the sweet torture of love.
They had real hands when they touched
the pubescent face they were saying farewell to.
A kiss, though it kissed only wrinkles,
was able to make the mornings less cold.
The dead aren’t very good at farewells,
even if they’re precise and sincere
as never before in the moment they descend
into the earth and won’t let us
partake with them a cigarette,
one last drink, a species of destiny.
The dead are frightfully real.
A whole life is insufficient
for us to kill them all, one
by one, as the most basic metaphysical
hygiene would surely recommend.
And yet they give us the necessary strength
to die more and more, to endure
our rented days, these homes not quite fit
to live in. Because the truth is that other
people are merely the imperfect dead.
They, like us, are a bit too alive.
But perhaps they’ll one day write
a poem like this (and it might not even be
a poem, let alone like this) which denotes,
besides the obvious influences, what we might
call a penchant for horror.
For that’s what it all comes down to.
The dead know.
Knowledge is useless.
Poetry too.
© 2007, Richard Zenith
From: A Flor dos Terramotos
From: A Flor dos Terramotos
POMPE INUTILI
Nobody’s born; it would make no senseto call the placental remains
enveloping a bunch of organs
whose action is all but predetermined
somebody.
Only the dead truly
exist. They wrote or didn’t
write books, love letters,
diaries. No matter: they crossed
our paths, sometimes sat
at the same table, and even believed
in the sweet torture of love.
They had real hands when they touched
the pubescent face they were saying farewell to.
A kiss, though it kissed only wrinkles,
was able to make the mornings less cold.
The dead aren’t very good at farewells,
even if they’re precise and sincere
as never before in the moment they descend
into the earth and won’t let us
partake with them a cigarette,
one last drink, a species of destiny.
The dead are frightfully real.
A whole life is insufficient
for us to kill them all, one
by one, as the most basic metaphysical
hygiene would surely recommend.
And yet they give us the necessary strength
to die more and more, to endure
our rented days, these homes not quite fit
to live in. Because the truth is that other
people are merely the imperfect dead.
They, like us, are a bit too alive.
But perhaps they’ll one day write
a poem like this (and it might not even be
a poem, let alone like this) which denotes,
besides the obvious influences, what we might
call a penchant for horror.
For that’s what it all comes down to.
The dead know.
Knowledge is useless.
Poetry too.
© 2007, Richard Zenith
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