Today, 7 September, marks the 153rd birthday of Camilo Pessanha. To mark the occasion, here's a draft translation of his poem "Violoncelo." This particular version of the poem comes from the edition of Clepsidra edited by Paulo Franchetti; another version (also present in Franchetti's book) has a couple different words and different punctuation.
It's also Labor Day here in the United States. Last last year I celebrated by joining the National Writers Union, and I encourage you to unionize as well, since the bosses ain't gonna give us anything out of the goodness of their hearts—we gotta fight for it, and the only way to do that successfully is when we organize.
Enjoy the poem, folks. Até próxima.
D.A.S.
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"Violoncelo"
Camilo Pessanha
Chorai, arcadas
Do violoncelo,
Convulsionadas.
Pontes aladas
De pesadelo...
De que esvoaçam,
Brancos, os arcos.
Por baixo passam,
Se despedaçam,
No rio, os barcos.
Fundas, soluçam
Caudais de choro.
Que ruínas, ouçam...
Se se debruçam,
Que sorvedouro!
Lívidos astros,
Soidões lacustres...
Lemes e mastros...
E os alabastros
Dos balaústres!
Urnas quebradas.
Blocos de gelo!
Chorai, arcadas
Do violoncelo,
Despedaçadas...
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"Cello"
Camilo Pessanha
Weep, arcades,
at the cello,
Convulsing,
winged bridges of
nightmare...
From which flutter,
white, the arches...
On the river below,
boats pass,
and break apart.
Deep within, they sob
rivers of tears.
What ruins, listen...
they lean over,
what an abyss!
Livid blue stars,
Lakeside solitudes...
Rudders and masts...
And the alabaster
of the balusters!
Broken urns.
Blocks of ice!
Weep, arcades,
shattered,
at the cello.
