Camilo Pessanha: "Depois da luta e depois da conquista"

June 24 marks the day in A.D. 1622 that an outnumbered and outgunned Portuguese force, composed of some determined Jesuits, a large number of slaves, and very few actual soldiers, repulsed a Dutch attack on Macau. You can read about it here in Portuguese, or here and here in English. The day was celebrated as a public holiday until Macau was returned to Chinese control in 1999.

Believe it or not, I had all but forgotten about Dia de Macau (which, by the way, is also the feast day of Saint John the Baptist, a fact that takes on a grim aspect when you read about Dutch attackers being decapitated by Portuguese-owned slaves), so my decision to translate the particular poem below, with all its martial overtones, is purely coincidental. Enjoy, and boa leitura!


---


Depois da luta e depois da conquista
Fiquei só! Fora um acto antipático!
Deserta a Ilha, e no lençol aquático
Tudo verde, verde, — a perder de vista.

Porque vos fostes, minhas caravelas,
Carregadas de todo o meu tesoiro?
— Longas teias de luar de lhama de oiro,
Legendas a diamantes das estrelas!

Quem vos desfez, formas inconsistentes
Por cujo amor escalei a muralha,
— Leão armado, uma espada nos dentes?

Felizes vós, ó mortos da batalha!
Sonhais, de costas, nos olhos abertos
Reflectindo as estrelas, boquiabertos...


***

After the fight and after the conquest
I alone remained! It was an unpleasant act!
The island deserted, and on the aquatic sheet
Everything green, green, — extending beyond sight.

Why did you go, my caravels,
Laden with all my treasure?
— Long webs of cloth-of-gold moonlight,
Inscriptions to the diamonds of the stars!

Who undid you, inconsistent forms
For whose love I climbed the wall,
— An armed lion, a sword in my teeth?

Happy you are, oh slain in battle!
You dream, on your backs, your open eyes
Reflecting the stars, staring...

"Fonógrafo" de Camilo Pessanha

Time for another Pessanha poem in English.  This may mark the first time I've included punctuation of my own in the translation. Pessanha's can be pretty idiosyncratic, but it usually doesn't require elaboration; however, in the case of "Quebrou-se agora orvalhada e velada" I felt the need to add a comma to make it work in English.

As for the poem itself, there's something sinister about the first stanza that brings Thomas Ligotti to mind, and I really dig the last two stanzas' synaesthetic quality, which feels like quintessential Pessanha to me. I believe the title has been in use since the first publication of Clepsidra, and what a title it is- I wonder what kind of record(s) Pessanha might have listened to that led to this poem.


Since I'm on the subject of poetry, João Botas over at Macau Antigo recently posted about the stone tablets found at the Camões grotto in Macau. The tablets contain a number of poems in Portuguese, English, Italian, Spanish, and Latin about Camões himself and Macau. When I was there I didn't take the time to read them properly, but I found it pretty neat that they even existed: I'm obviously not the only one taken with 澳門 and its connection to Portugal's national poet.

Boa leitura, friends.

---

Fonógrafo


Vai declamando um cómico defunto.
Uma plateia ri, perdidamente,
Do bom jarreta... E há um odor no ambiente.
A cripta e a pó, — do anacrónico assunto.

Muda o registo, eis uma barcarola:
Lírios, lírios, águas do rio, a lua...
Ante o Seu corpo o sonho meu flutua
Sobre um paul, — extática corola.

Muda outra vez: gorjeios, estribilhos
Dum clarim de oiro — o cheiro de junquilhos,
Vívido e agro! — tocando a alvorada...

Cessou. E, amorosa, a alma das cornetas
Quebrou-se agora orvalhada e velada.
Primavera. Manhã. Que eflúvio de violetas!


***

Phonograph


A defunct comic spouting off.
An audience laughs, madly,
at the old fool... and there is a smell in the air.
The crypt and dust, — of the anachronistic topic.

The register changes, here is a barcarole:
Lilies, lilies, waters of the river, the moon...
Before its body my dream floats
Over a marsh, — ecstatic corolla.

It changes again: trills, refrains
Of a golden clarion — the scent of jonquils,
Vivid and acrid! — playing the reveille...

It ceased. And, amorous, the soul of the trumpets
Is broken now, dewy and veiled.
Spring. Morning. What an effluvium of violets!

"Interrogação" de Camilo Pessanha

Not much to say about this one. Among Camilo Pessanha's poems, this one is strikes me as being one of the more straightforwardly romantic. That said, the sense of sad, bitter longing present in so much of his work is on display here as well, more or less stripped of symbolist imagery. I have no idea where the title comes from.

I couldn't find a satisfactory way to translate the first line of the second stanza, which reads weirdly in Portuguese too, and the shifting verb tenses don't make a lot of sense to me, but I hope you enjoy the poem anyway.

***

Interrogação

 
Não sei se isto é amor. Procuro o teu olhar,
Se alguma dor me fere, em busca de um abrigo;
E apesar disso, crê! nunca pensei num lar
Onde fosses feliz, e eu feliz contigo.

Por ti nunca chorei nenhum ideal desfeito.
E nunca te escrevi nenhuns versos românticos.
Nem depois de acordar te procurei no leito
Como a esposa sensual do Cântico dos Cânticos.

Se é amar-te não sei. Não sei se te idealizo
A tua cor sadia, o teu sorriso terno...
Mas sinto-me sorrir de ver esse sorriso
Que me penetra bem, como este sol de Inverno.

Passo contigo a tarde e sempre sem receio
Da luz crepuscular, que enerva, que provoca.
Eu não demoro o olhar na curva do teu seio
Nem me lembrei jamais de te beijar na boca.

Eu não sei se é amor. Será talvez começo...
Eu não sei que mudança a minha alma pressente...
Amor não sei se o é, mas sei que te estremeço,
Que adoecia talvez de te saber doente.

---

Interrogation


I don't know if this is love. I seek your gaze,
If any pain wounds me, in search of refuge;
Nevertheless, believe me! I never thought of a home
Where you would be happy, and me happy with you.

For you I never cried an unmade ideal.
And I never wrote you any romantic verses.
Nor after waking up did I seek you in bed
Like the sensual wife of the Song of Songs.

I don't know if this is loving you. I don't know if I idealize you
Your healthy color, your tender smile...
But I feel myself smile to see that smile
That penetrates me so, like this winter sun.

I pass the afternoon with you and always without fear
Of crepuscular light that enervates, provokes.
I do not let my gaze linger on the curve of your breast
Nor did I remember to kiss your mouth.

I don't know if this is love. Maybe the beginning...
I don't know what change my soul foresees...
I don't know that love is what it is, but I know you make me tremble,
That I might have sickened to know you ill.

Not poems.

I was going to talk about how I've managed to avoid smoking cigarettes for over two months, but that's boring. I may give in any day, which would consign me to the massive pile of would-be ex-smokers. If I end up there, so be it; if I don't, or do, I have no reason to discuss it. Nothing will make me feel better about giving up smoking, and nothing will make me feel okay about smoking.

All I've posted lately has been poetry, none of it mine and all of it better than anything I could write. Maybe someone wishes I would write something else. As the days accrete, I grow increasingly convinced that, as bad as I am at it, I am better suited to translating other people's poetry than I am offering up my own; but, being a self-involved shit like pretty much every other member of my generation and species, I will continue to post my own work here when I have something I think is worthwhile.

In the interim, allow me to suggest the following things that might enrich your life, dear reader.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, one of the best TV shows ever aired, along with
Twin Peaks and The X-Files. (Not web pages, obviously.)

Mercer Arboretum.

Ursula K. Le Guin's website.

The Macau Streets homepage.

And that's it.

"Madalena" de Camilo Pessanha

Time for another Camilo Pessanha poem. This one has given me more trouble than others, and while I'm not really satisfied with parts of my translation I don't think I'm capable of improving on it at this point. Perhaps when my Portuguese is better and I have a better grasp of Pessanha's poetics.

As has been the case with my other translations of Pessanha's poems, I've tried to stick as closely to the original as I can. This results in the loss of the rhyme and rhythm of the original, and my translation- and pretty much anyone's, I'd wager- suffers for it, but there's no way to maintain the rhyme scheme in English. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.



Madalena

          ...e lhe regou de lágrimas os pés, e os
          enxugou com os cabelos da sua cabeça.

          Evangelho de S. Lucas



Ó Madalena, ó cabelos de rastos,
Lírio poluído, branca flor inútil...
Meu coração, velha moeda fútil,
E sem relevo, os caracteres gastos,

De resignar-se torpemente dúctil...
Desespero, nudez de seios castos,
Quem também fosse, ó cabelos de rastos,
Ensanguentado, enxovalhado, inútil,

Dentro do peito, abominável cómico!
Morrer tranquilo, — o fastio da cama...
Ó redenção do mármore anatómico,

Amargura, nudez de seios castos!...
Sangrar, poluir-se, ir de rastos na lama,
Ó Madalena, ó cabelos de rastos!

***

Magdalene

          ...and she washed his feet with tears, and
          dried them with the hair of her head.

          Gospel of Saint Luke


Oh Magdalene, oh trailing hair,
Polluted lily, useless white flower...
My heart, old useless coin,
Indistinct, the features worn down,

Shamefully pliant in resignation...
Despair, nudity of chaste breasts,
Those who also were, oh trailing hair,
Bloody, soiled, useless,

Within your breast, abominable comedian!
To die peacefully — the tedium of bed...
Oh redemption of anatomical marble,

Bitterness, nudity of chaste breasts!...
To bleed, pollute yourself, crawl through the mud,
Oh Magdalene, oh trailing hair!