Three Poems by Miguel Torga: Translated by us from the Portuguese
Book of Hours, from O Outro Livro de Job (1936)
I, a sinner, confess to being the way I am.
I own to being both the good guy and the villain
At the helm of this vessel
Master of stabs blind and vengeful,
Of tenderness docile and lucid.
I confess to being a pond
And the moonlight that fills it, all entwined.
I confess to being everything
That can be born within me.
Putting down roots in the ground
According to my position.
I confess to being Abel and Cain.
I confess to being a Man.
From the heaven that God allegedly rules;
Looming from the deepest crevasse.
I confess to being myself.
Me myself, squarely as I came
Here, confronting myself.
Voyage, from Diário XII (1973-1977)
I equipped my illusory ship
And reinforced my own seaman’s faith.
It was a long way from my dream, and treacherous was
(We are only given this life
And it’s in this very life,
That we are to strive and find
All set to put out, I loosened the sails,
And bid farewell to the pier, to the benumbed calmness.
The boundless, rough vastness
Into a grave winged and errant.
But I slash through the waves, and don’t lose heart.
What matters is to set off, not to reach destination.
Mortification, from Penas do Purgatório (1954)
Trample down my verses, dissatisfied Muse!
Not even one deserves you.
They are but bitter fruit no one wishes to
They lack ingenuity, and the sun ripening
Spit out in disgust and anger
At every image which disfigures you.
Brought along through hearsay.
Report these counted syllables,
The digital trace of an escapee
Leaving in his flight his fingerprints.
And cut off at once the wings you offered me.
But my whole body was in denial
Of that celestial impetus.
Johann Georg Hainz, Cabinet of Curiosities (in German, Kleinodien-Schrank), 1666
Livro de Horas, O Outro Livro de Job (1936)
Me confesso o bom e o mau
Quando a terra não repete
O dono das minhas horas .
O das facadas cegas e raivosas
E o das ternuras lúcidas e mansas.
E de ser de qualquer modo
Me confesso de ser charco
E luar de charco , é mistura .
E abaixo da minha altura.
Me confesso de Abel e de Caim.
Me confesso de ser Homem.
Do tal céu que Deus governa;
Do buraco mais fundo da caverna.
Viagem, Diário XII (1973-1977)
Aparelhei o barco da ilusão
E reforcei a fé de marinheiro.
Era longe o meu sonho, e traiçoeiro
E disse adeus ao cais, à paz tolhida.
Transforma dia a dia a embarcação
Numa errante e alada sepultura…
Mas corto as ondas sem desanimar.
O que importa é partir, não é chegar.
Maceração, Penas do Purgatório (1954)
Pisa os meus versos, Musa insatisfeita!
São frutos acres que não apetece,
Falta-lhes génio, o sol que amadurece
Em cada imagem que te desfigura.
Denuncia estas sílabas contadas,
Vestígios digitais do evadido
Que deixa atrás de si as impressões marcadas.
E corta-me de vez as asas que me deste.
E eu tinha um corpo inteiro a recusar
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