Volume LIII Number 1-2
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Poetry
Learning Portuguese
O poeta e um fingidor
—Fernando Pessoa
The poet is a faker. And aren’t you,
pretending you have no hand in this verse?
Easily as sea-green slides to blue
my thought dies into yours. The word’s a hearse.
Pretending you have no hand in this verse,
you sip your tea and smile and look away;
my thought dies into yours, the word’s a hearse,
so leave this where it lies and seize the day.
You sip your tea and smile and look away—
windchimes stroke the air, the blossom’s out
so leave this where it lies and seize the day.
The poem can wait (it never had much clout).
Windchimes stroke the air, the blossom’s out,
and look, there’s Venus mimicking a star!
The poem can wait (it never had much clout)
slip over the brink of whoever you think you are.
Look, there’s Venus mimicking a star.
As easily as sea-green slides to blue
we merge at the brink of whoever we think we are.
The poet is a faker. And aren’t you?