"Estátua" de Camilo Pessanha

I'm in the midst of reading Paulo Franchetti's O Essencial sobre Camilo Pessanha, which dissects most of the myths surrounding the man, e.g., his reasons for leaving Portugal, his supposed unwillingness to write down his poems, his terrible personal hygiene, the level of his knowledge of Chinese, his relationship with his son and the concubine he had in place of a wife, and so on. Franchetti argues, based on available evidence, that for various reasons some of the people charged (often by themselves) with guarding Pessanha's legacy saw fit to distort the truth and give posterity the image of a heartbroken man who lived in squalor among the Chinese, ignored the mores of Portuguese colonial society, and had little time for anything but opium. Of course, it's never that simple.

Franchetti also delves into the literary aspects of Pessanha's work, which is where I am now. I'm sure it, along with the criticism in Rui Cascais' book, will give me more to think about when I next sit down to read and translate Pessanha's poems. I recommend Franchetti's book to anyone who, like me, not only enjoys Pessanha's poetry but finds the man himself fascinating. You'll have to read it in Portuguese, though; não há uma tradução inglês.

Anyway, here's another poem from Clepsydra for you to enjoy. Like all the others I've translated, I'm not completely happy with the results, but that's how it goes, isn't it?

Oh, and here's another estátua de Camilo Pessanha.

Adeus, dudes.

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Estátua

Cansei-me de tentar o teu segredo:
No teu olhar sem cor, — frio escalpelo,
O meu olhar quebrei, a debatê-lo,
Como a onda na crista dum rochedo.

Segredo dessa alma e meu degredo
E minha obsessão! Para bebê-lo
Fui teu lábio oscular, num pesadelo,
Por noites de pavor, cheio de medo.

E o meu ósculo ardente, alucinado,
Esfriou sobre o mármore correcto
Desse entreaberto lábio gelado...

Desse lábio de mármore, discreto,
Severo como um túmulo fechado,
Sereno como um pélago quieto.

 ***

Statue

I tired of trying to expose your secret:
Under your colorless gaze, — a cold scalpel,
My look crumbled, debating it,
Like the wave on the crest of a cliff.

Secret of this soul and my exile
And my obsession! To drink it,
Was to kiss your lips, in a nightmare,
In nights of terror, full of fear.

And my burning kiss, hallucinating,
Went cold on the marble proper,
These half-open frozen lips...

These marble lips, discreet,
Severe as a sealed tomb,
Serene as a quiet sea.