"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.

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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!