Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Nuno Júdice

“Yes, I was a Prophet”

I experience contact with shades,
nausea from the effervescence of ruins, of the leaves
that take the virgin form of a trunk. I’m already a habit,
inhabited by different spiritual directions, heard at the bottom of human
wells: a tone of voice that multiplies the anxious contradiction
of nostalgias. I was told:

“Seek the first degree of happiness in the chorus
of the dead, a final howl of suffering in the obsessiveness
of oystermen . . . ”, and the words came to me
in a tumult, in heavy breaths, in a death rattle

of the aged. And I saw the end: the spiraling fall of the stars, the face
of a blue ice, the sound of waves drowning out the image
of a belly rent to the entrails. No exorcism could restore
my strength. I entered the procession of the sleepwalkers,
uniting my voice to the common lament. “Who is this?”
“The taciturn poet, the ancient bearer of absolution.”
And they remarked:
“What good is he now? . . . ” And the tide billowed
like the clouds at twilight! Among men there are some
who still remember: the drunk storyteller, the blind musician
of fairs, the mad fortuneteller. The children stone them
at the village gates. One of them appeared,one morning, floating
in the canal

and his eyes saw everything.

“Sim, fui um profeta”

“Sim, fui um profeta”

Experimento um contacto de sombras,
o mal estar de uma efervescência de ruínas, das folhas
que tomam a forma virgem de um tronco. Sou já um hábito,
habitado por diferentes direcções de espírito, ouvido no fundo dos poços
humanos: um tom de voz que multiplica a contradição ofegante
das nostalgias. Diziam-me:

“ – Procura no coro dos mortos o primeiro grau
da felicidade; na obsessão dos pescadores de ostras
um derradeiro uivo de sofrimento . . . ” e as palavras chegavam-me
em tumulto, numa pesada respiração, num estertor

de velho. Então, vi o fim: a queda sinuosa dos astros, o rosto
de um gelo azul, o ruído de ondas sobrepondo-se à imagem
do ventre rasgado até às entranhas. Nenhum exorcismo me restituiu
a força. Entrei na procissão dos sonâmbulos,

juntando a voz ao gemido comum. “ – Quem é este?” –
“ – O taciturno poeta, o antigo portador de absolvição.”
E comentavam :
“De que nos serve, agora? . . . ” E a maré engrossava
como as nuvens do crepúsculo! Entre os homens ainda há
quem se lembre: o bêbado contador de histórias, o músico
cego das feiras, a louca decifradora das sinas. As crianças apedrejam-nos
à entrada das aldeias. Um deles apareceu, de manhã, boiando
no canal

– e os seus olhos viam tudo.
Close

“Yes, I was a Prophet”

I experience contact with shades,
nausea from the effervescence of ruins, of the leaves
that take the virgin form of a trunk. I’m already a habit,
inhabited by different spiritual directions, heard at the bottom of human
wells: a tone of voice that multiplies the anxious contradiction
of nostalgias. I was told:

“Seek the first degree of happiness in the chorus
of the dead, a final howl of suffering in the obsessiveness
of oystermen . . . ”, and the words came to me
in a tumult, in heavy breaths, in a death rattle

of the aged. And I saw the end: the spiraling fall of the stars, the face
of a blue ice, the sound of waves drowning out the image
of a belly rent to the entrails. No exorcism could restore
my strength. I entered the procession of the sleepwalkers,
uniting my voice to the common lament. “Who is this?”
“The taciturn poet, the ancient bearer of absolution.”
And they remarked:
“What good is he now? . . . ” And the tide billowed
like the clouds at twilight! Among men there are some
who still remember: the drunk storyteller, the blind musician
of fairs, the mad fortuneteller. The children stone them
at the village gates. One of them appeared,one morning, floating
in the canal

and his eyes saw everything.

“Yes, I was a Prophet”

I experience contact with shades,
nausea from the effervescence of ruins, of the leaves
that take the virgin form of a trunk. I’m already a habit,
inhabited by different spiritual directions, heard at the bottom of human
wells: a tone of voice that multiplies the anxious contradiction
of nostalgias. I was told:

“Seek the first degree of happiness in the chorus
of the dead, a final howl of suffering in the obsessiveness
of oystermen . . . ”, and the words came to me
in a tumult, in heavy breaths, in a death rattle

of the aged. And I saw the end: the spiraling fall of the stars, the face
of a blue ice, the sound of waves drowning out the image
of a belly rent to the entrails. No exorcism could restore
my strength. I entered the procession of the sleepwalkers,
uniting my voice to the common lament. “Who is this?”
“The taciturn poet, the ancient bearer of absolution.”
And they remarked:
“What good is he now? . . . ” And the tide billowed
like the clouds at twilight! Among men there are some
who still remember: the drunk storyteller, the blind musician
of fairs, the mad fortuneteller. The children stone them
at the village gates. One of them appeared,one morning, floating
in the canal

and his eyes saw everything.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère