tragicoptimist

In this corner of time I meet you,
O nocturnal riverside of living waters
Where open lilies put to sleep
The bite of corrosive hours.

Between edges of arms navigating,
Eyes in the stars of your breast,
I round the corner of time resurging
From the current of your body where I lay.

In the secret matrix that molds you,
A crystal fish releases frenzies
And like another sun soaring, shining,
Over the waters, the edges and birds.

[ José Saramago, "Nesta esquina do tempo...", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]

At heart, perhaps, or rather:
A razor-torn wound,
Where life leaves, so badly wasted,
In full awareness shredding us.
Desiring, wanting, not sufficing,
Mislead pursuit for reasons
That justify a random existence,
This is what hurts, perhaps at heart.

[ José Saramago, "No coração, talvez", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]

I trace a line in the ground, on the waterfront:
Not long and the tide levels it.
Just like a poem. A common fate
That sand and poetry both share
From rising tides, to coming death.

[ José Saramago, "Destino", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]

I rove, secret, foreign and disguised
In the city’s usual comings and goings,
I turn corners and stop separated,
Waiting for myself or for the half
That stayed without knowing on the other side.

I put bastard letters along
The newspaper crossword puzzle,
I give a warning yell, horrified,
To the red light of the traffic signal
And touch, like embers, the wet ground.

My crumpled suit stayed behind,
Bleeding from frayed seams,
The tailor called comes to aid,
While I think laughing,
Alive, secret, foreign and disguised.

[ José Saramago, "Acidente de viação", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]

I recut my shadow from the wall,
I give him strings, heat and movement,
Two hands of paint and suffering,
And just enough form, sound, thirst.

Aside, I see him repeat
The gestures and words that are mine,
Doubled figure and confusion
Of truth dressed as lie.

On the lives of others is projected
This two-dimensional game
Where nothing is proven with reasons
Like a bow drawn without an arrow.

Another life will come that absolves me
Of this half humanity that persists
In this shadow without depth,
In depth without any form but resolve.

[ José Saramago, "Recorto a minha sombra...", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]