>Are Fernando Pessoa the ultimate boss of the poets? I&

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why was petrarch so based?

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Come this way — some say with sweet eyes,
Opening their arms, and sure
That it could be good that I would listen to them
When they say: “Come this way”!
I look at them with unattached eyes,
(In my eyes there is irony and tiredness)
And I cross my arms,
And I never go that way…
This is my glory:
To create inhumanity!
Never to accompany anybody.
—For I live with the same unwillingness
I teared my mother’s womb with.
No, I won’t go that way! I only go through where
My own steps take me…
If what I search to know none of you can answer,
Why do you repeat: “Come this way”?
I prefer to slide on muddy corners,
To whirl at the wind,
Like rags, to drag my bleeding feet,
Than to go that way…
If I came to the world, was
Only to deflower virgin rain-forests,
And to draw my own feet on the unexplored sand!
All the rest I do is worth nothing.
How come you are the ones
Who will give me axes, tools and courage,
For I to throw down my obstacles?…
It runs, in your veins, the old blood of the grand-parents,
And you love what is easy!
I love the Far and the Mirage,
I love the abysses, the torrents, the deserts…
Go! you have roads,
You have gardens, you have flower-beds,
You have homelands, you have roofs,
And you have rules, and treatises, and philosophers, and wisemen.
I have my Madness!
I hold it high, like a torch, burning in the dark night,
And I feel foam, and blood, and chants on the lips…
God and the Devil are the ones who guide me, nobody else.
All of you had a father, all of you had a mother;
But I, who never start or end,
I was born from the love between God and the Devil.
Hah! That nobody gives me pious intentions!
That nobody asks me for definitions!
That nobody tells me: “Come this way”!
My life is a storm-wind that got unlocked.
It is a wave that has risen.
It is an extra atom that got animated…
I don’t know where I’m going through,
I don’t know where I’m going,
—I know I’m not going that way.

>>8616854
yes and any who claim otherwise are objectively wrong. Dude had like a billion different pseudonyms he published under, and all of them have distinct styles and personalities, and all of them are amazing.

>>8616854

Peter Altenberg did it before him and better too.

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The rain auditions at my window, its symphony echoes in my womb
My gaze scans the walls of this apartment
To rectify the confines of my tomb

I'm the cyclops in the tenement, I'm the soul without the cause
Crying 'midst my rubber plants, ignoring beckoning doors
Clippings from ancient newspapers lie scattered cross the floor
Stained by the wine from a shattered glass
Meaningless words, yellowed by time, faded photos exposing pain
Celluloid leeches bleeding my mind
You've finished playing hangman, you've cast the fateful dice
Advice, advice, advice me
This shroud will not suffice

And thus begins the web

Attempting to discard these clinging memories
I only serve to wallow in our past
I fabricate the weave with my excuses
Its strands I hope and pray shall last
Oh please do last

The flytrap needs the insects, ivy caresses the wall
Needles make love to the junkies, the sirens seduce with their call
Confidence has deserted me, with you it has forsaken me
Confused and rejected, despised and alone
I kiss isolation on its fevered brow
Security clutching me, obscurity threatening me
Your reasons were so obvious
As my friend have qualified, I only laughed away your tears
But even jesters cry

I realise I hold the key to freedom
I cannot let my life be ruled by threads
The time has come to make decisions
The changes have to be made
I realise I hold the key to freedom
I cannot let my life be ruled by threads
The time has come to make decisions
The changes have to be made

Now I leave you, the past does have it's say
You're all but forgotten a mote in my heart
Decisions have been made, decisions have been made
I've conquered my fears, the flaming shroud

Thus ends the web

My love, she speaks like silence
Without ideals or violence
She doesn't have to say she's faithful
Yet she's true like ice, like fire
People carry roses
And make promises by the hour
My love she laughs like the flowers
Valentines can't buy her

In the dime stores and bus stations
People talk of situations
Read books, repeat quotations
Draw conclusions on the wall
Some speak of the future
My love, she speaks softly
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all

The cloak and dagger dangles
Madams light the candles
In ceremonies of the horsemen
Even the pawn must hold a grudge
Statues made of matchsticks
Crumble into one another
My love winks she does not bother
She knows too much to argue or to judge

The bridge at midnight trembles
The country doctor rambles
Bankers' nieces seek perfection
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring
The wind howls like a hammer
The night wind blows cold n' rainy
My love, she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing

>>8616880
Petrarch's "Triumphs" are literarly "Based: The Poem"

>>8616854
I know it's in translation, but still, HOW UGLY.

I don't care about your whining Fernando, you're sad, I'm sad. Who cares? Give me something beautiful. Art doesn't give you the right to vomit your feels onto the page without any aesthetic concern whatsoever.

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Did Fernando Pessoa invent anarcho-capitalism?

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The clock striking midnight
Ironically invites us
To call to mind what use we made
Of the day that is fleeing:
— Today, a fateful date,
Friday the thirteenth we have
In spite of everything we know
Lived the life of a heretic;
We have blasphemed Jesus,
The one God one cannot deny!
Like a parasite at the table
Of some monstrous Croesus,
We have, to please the brute,
Worthy vassal of the Demons,
Hurled insults at that which we love
And flattered what repulses us.
Servile hangman, we have saddened
The weak man, wrongfully despised,
Saluted enormous Folly,
Folly with the brow of a bull;
Kissed with great devotion
Stupid and unfeeling Matter
And bestowed our blessing on
The wan light of putrefaction;
Finally we have, to drown
Vertigo in delirium,
We, the proud priest of the Lyre,
Whose glory is to show
The rapture of sorrowful things,
Drunk without thirst, eaten without hunger!
— Quickly let us snuff out the lamp,
So we may hide in the darkness!

>>8616854
I really enjoyed this poem, OP. You legitimately have my thanks for posting it. Let me know if you have any other recs, either from his works or by similar poets.

>>8616909

Goddamn, that was based.

Quality thread. Gotta look up these gents.

>>8616880
It makes me rethink my ban to translated poetry.

ITT: fedora tipping.

>>8618038
I never kept sheep,
But it is as I did watch over them.
My soul is like a shepherd,
Knows the wind and the sun,
And goes hand in hand with the Seasons
To follow and to listen.
All peace of Nature without people
Comes to sit by my side.
But I remain sad like a sunset
As our imagining shows it,
When a chill falls at the side of the valley
And you feel night has come in
Like a butterfly through a window.

But my sadness is calm
Because it is natural and right
And is what there should be in the soul
When it is thinking it exists
And the hands are picking flowers without noticing
which.

At a jangle of sheep-bells
Beyond the bend of the road,
My thoughts are contented.
Only, I am sorry I know they are contented,
Because, if I did not know it,
Instead of being contented and sad,
They would be cheerful and contented.
To think is uncomfortable like walking in the rain
When the wind is rising and it looks like raining more.

I have no ambitions or wants.
To be a poet is not ambition of mine.
It is way of staying alone.

There is ample metaphysics in not thinking at all.

What do I think about the world?
How should I know what I think about the world?
If I were ill I would think about it.

What idea have I about things?
What opinion do I have on causes and effects?
What meditations have I had upon God and the soul
And upon the creation of the World?
I don't know. For me, to think about that is to shut
me eyes.
And not think. It is to draw the curtains
Of my window (but it has no curtains).

The mystery of things? How should I know I know what
mystery is?
The only mystery is there being somebody who might
think about mystery.
A man who stands in the sun and shuts his eyes
Begins not to know what the sun is
And to think many things full of heat.

But he opens his eyes and sees the sun,
And now he cannot think of anything,
Because the light of the sun is worth more than the
thoughts
Of all the philosophers and all the poets.
The light of the sun does not know what it is doing
And so does stray and is common and good.

Metaphysics? What metaphysics do those trees have?
That of being green and having crowns and branches
And that of giving fruit at their hours, - which is not
what makes us think,
Us, who don't know to be aware of them.
But what better metaphysics than theirs,
Which is not knowing why they live
And not knowing they don't know?

One wildly clear day,
The kind when you wish you had done a pile of work
Not to have to do any that day,
I caught sight, like a road ahead among trees,
Of what may be the Great Secret,
That Great Mystery the false poets speak of.

I saw that in no Nature,
That Nature does not exist,
That there are mountains, valleys, plains,
That there are trees, flowers, grasses,
That there are steams and stones,
But that there's not a whole to which this belongs,
That any real and true connection
Is a disease of our ideas.
Nature is parts without a whole.


full poem:
https://allpoetry.com/The-Keeper-of-Sheep--(Excepts)

>>8617521
my man

>>8616854
*Is Fernando Pessoa the ultimate boss of the poets?
I've fixed that for you

>>8616854
this is awesome

>>8618545
You can say "are", since Pessoa is so many poets at a time.