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Best Portuguese Poems

Below are the all-time best Portuguese poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Portuguese poems written by PoetrySoup members

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The Little Portuguese Princess by de Casanove, Mathieu

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Details | Portuguese Poem | |


So I walked into my local supermarket
to buy my weekly shipment of Kit Kat bars,
Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
and Ovaltine powder mix.

As I shake off the snow on my fake Timberland boots,
my skin,
coated in frozen animation,
thaws into warmth’s teardrops from
the supermarket’s 75 degree vents.

This moist sense of happiness was quickly interrupted
when I heard Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”
over the PA system.

Thankfully, the cutlery isle was just to my left. 
So, now, I had plans!

But, before I could commit felony’s song,
I saw her.

A Portuguese goddess
with a strut that can ruin a man’s dignity.

She had Autobahn curves,
dark brown curls of hair & visuals,
and thick flesh meat that even Vegans would envy.

Her face lacked Maybelline coated misapprehension.
Thank God!
Cause I never did like clowns.

After staring longingly at her,
like a crack head with impulsive eyes upon a broken/unlabeled bag of baby powder,
she breezed past my stifled posture and clocked in to work.

She didn’t even get a chance to smell my $500 cologne called “Piece of Me”.

So with new-found urges to grab all my groceries,
like a burglar who really has to pee,
I rush to express checkout. 

There she is.

Her register beeps in coupon lady’s rhapsody,
while my register needs a cleanup on Isle 9.

Now it’s my turn.

With girlish inner-screams of boy-band intensity,
I say, “Hi”.

She scans my apples, while I scan her melons.
The melons that the customer ahead of me didn’t want…
…they were on sale.

Go fig.

As if she read my mind,
she asks,
“Are you feeling warm now?”

“All I want is to be the heat in your moment”,
which I almost said.

But, “Now I am”, is uttered.

As she smiled with seductive demure,
she handed me my receipt
with her phone number on back.

As I left the market,
I began to get cold again.

These winds of change
became gusts of numbness.

I locked myself out of my heart.

I turned around to go back inside.

Only to discover, 
she didn’t have the key.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes

More great poems below...

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

The Old man of Merces1

The Old man of Merces  

His wrinkled face bearing slaps of time
His eyes barren like a desert starved of rain
Glittering they must be during his prime
Crumbling body holding spirit in chain

His trembling hands resting on knees
Sinking and floating in thoughts deep 
Oblivious of dry leaves falling of trees
Looking exhausted from lack of sleep

Unloved by loved ones abandoned by friends
His profile silhouetted like a ship aground
Tired of beleaguered life’s twists and bends
Wishing his soul ascended the chariot Heaven-bound

A loveless life senseless for him
Agony and heartache ceaseless for him
The society appears as heartless for him
A longer living meaningless for him

My heart urged to stop by and greet
His souring thoughts from confines of chest release
The man with love and compassion treat
But alas my tongue isn’t Portuguese

Each day in the morning cold
The snow-haired I found, resting on a boulder
Wearing a coat lusterless and old
With the muffler around neck hanging over shoulder

After absence of few months as I return
I find him no more on the boulder dozed
Like boiling waters in vapor turn
Seeing everything with eyes closed

With spirit in bondage and soul in chain
The picture of despair in a society blind
The symbol of affliction, anguish and pain
The venerable old man I failed to find
 1 A small town in Sintra District in Portugal


Copyright © Mohammad Yamin

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Amazing Rio

Rio de Janeiro, a city by the shore:
Home to Ipanema, Carnival and dance folklore.
As a child, of you I read, from books that showed your Christ.
Arms outstretched, He guards your days and lights your sky by night.
And now I’ve stood beneath His feet and breathed the air you breathe.
I’ve viewed the famous Sugar Loaf, seen monkeys play in trees,
visited your fruit stands and drunk from a coconut shell.
I’ve searched for creatures hewn in stone that midnight vendors sell,
and on your soft and clinging sand, I thrust my toes deep in
and glistened under winter sun, brown sugar on my skin.
Along Copacabana, I jumped waves, enjoyed a beach
which, when they cross an avenue, all visitors can reach.
On weekends and on holidays, your several sea fronts teem
with hundreds, no with multitudes, of people who all seem
content to chat beneath umbrellas, lounging in the sun,
while on a road closed to all traffic, others like to run.
And on that winding promenade are folks, most clad in shorts,
thong-bikinied women, sundry shapes and shades all sorts!
Kids whiz by on roller blades; old or young may ride a bike.
Many simply merrily stroll, though dressed as for a hike.

And in your city’s whole, the countless cars and bodies stream;
pedestrians and door-less shops, props in your waking dream.
with taxis veering left and right and people catching buses;
Cacophony of life your subways and your streets encompass.
Children on their mother’s hands; boys in soccer shirts.
Men sip beers at sidewalk bars; girls scurry in their tight skirts.
Portuguese artisans laid the paths your people walk.
What tales immersed in history if cobblestones could talk!
More than a metropolis, you are yourself, unique!
And I have had the pleasure to have sampled your mystique.

For Linda-Marie's Viva Vacation

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Der Pazifische Ozean / The Pacific Ocean / El Océano Pacífico

Zwischen dem Morgen und der Nacht 
fallen die Sterne in den Pazifischen Ozean.

Die ewige Sonne lässt die Wellen erklingen,
mit dem weichen Schaum leichten Schnees.

Die See singt Lieder des Vergessens,
von versunkenen Bäumen,
von leuchtenden Stränden,
von der Liebe.

Ich bin wie der Wind,
der den frischen und vollen Morgen berührt.

Der Ozean kennt viele Lieder.

Ich will keine verwundeten Wolken im Morgen zurücklassen,
um die Erinnerung nicht zu trüben.

Der Pazifische Ozean hat die Farbe von Azulejos,
den blauen Kacheln eines alten portugiesischen Hauses.

Die Wellen tragen meine Träume,
unvergessen, der Vergangenheit.

Die Möwen bringen mir die Zukunft,
mit frischer, ruhiger Stimme.

In stillen Nächten ertönt die Musik des Meeres,
dann stehen die Sterne auf, um erneut zu scheinen.


Between morning and night 
the stars fall into the Pacific Ocean.

The everlasting sun lets the waves sound,
with the soft foam of light snow.

The sea sings songs of oblivion,
of submerged trees,
of luminous beaches,
of the love.

I am like the wind,
which touches the fresh and full morning.

The ocean knows many songs.

I do not want to leave behind  wounded clouds in the morning,
not to cloud the memories.

The Pacific Ocean has the color of Azulejos,
the blue tiles of an old Portuguese house.

The waves carry my dreams,
unforgotten, of the past.

Sea gulls will bring me the future,
with a fresh, and quiet voice.

In silent nights the music of the sea resounds,
then  stars arise to shine anew.


Entre la mañana y la noche
las estrellas caen hacia el Océano Pacífico. 

El sol eterna hace sonor las ondas, 
con la suave espuma de ligera nieve. 

El mar canta canciones de olvida,
de árboles sumergidos,
de playas luminosas, 
del amor . 

Yo soy como el viento, 
que toca la fresca y llena mañana. 

El océano tiene muchas canciones. 

Yo no quiero dejar nubes heridos en la mañana 
para no empañar la memoria.

El Océano Pacífico es el color de los azulejos, 
esos  azulejos de una antigua casa portuguesa.

Las olas llevan mis sueños, 
inolvidadas, del pasado.

Las gaviotas me traen el futuro,
con voz fresca y calma.

En noches tranquilas suena la música del mar, 
y luego las estrellas se levantan para brillar de nuevo.

Copyright © Gert W. Knop

Details | Portuguese Poem | |


Dark as a demon, but with the soul of
an angel, he's a Portuguese Water 
Dog who's never been to sea, but, as 
he oughta, he loves water, and highly
proprietary when you're watching 
TV, downtime is shared, so it's his paw
on your foot, or else it's his head. 
Morning ablutions, one leg in the air, 
he waters a thicket, which wakes up a 
cricket who begins to sing. The world 
is his lavatory. Noblesse Obligatory. 
It's a Water Dog thing.

                   for my granddog...

Copyright © Nola Perez

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Cristiano Ronaldo

Came to Manchester United as an 18 year old
With a lot of potential and talent to use
Back then you were just a cocky showboat
But you practised everyday and had the right attitude

Your determination, passion and desire
To keep improving has to be admired
Sir Alex Ferguson said you’re the most talented player he’s ever had 
And you said he was like your football dad

You amaze us all with your skills and tricks
You get frustrated at yourself for any shot you miss
In my eyes you will be the greatest ever
Thank you for all the memories you gave us in Manchester

You never hid the fact it was your goal to be the best
Well you’ve achieved that
I remember when I cried when you left
Us for Madrid, hopefully one day you will be back

People call you “arrogant” because of your desire to be the greatest
But you’re humble as you do a lot for charity and people who need it
You even paid 50k out of your own money for a child’s cancer treatment
You wanted to be the best and you’ve achieved it

Each year you just keep getting better
And continue to amaze me
Most football fans consider you one of the greatest ever
Thank you for all the inspiration you have gave me

As a kid you hit a teacher with a chair because she made fun of your Portuguese accent
You were constantly told you wouldn’t make it as a footballer
Now it’s you who’s laughing
Anytime people told you, you couldn’t, you stood taller

Last night you won your third ballon D’or
Giving us football fans a lot of moments of heaven
In almost every match you score
You will always be the best Cristiano Ronaldo 7 

Copyright © Alex Duffy

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

The Tale of the China Poblana

Jarabe tapatío in the Plaza Castillo
Girls dance in the Mexican night
The floral bouquets of their dresses ablaze
A rainbow of colors so bright

But it wasn't so, such a long time ago
When dances had little such drama
So stay for a spell and you'll hear the tale 
Of the lovely China Poblana

This Rajputi princess delighted the senses
So flawless in every way
In sari and shawl, just thirteen and small
She strolled by the seaside one day

Her biggest regret, she could never forget
That morning when she was taken
By pirates abducted, escaped but corrupted
And then by her betrothed forsaken 

Sad and contrite, Meera fled in the night
Where a mission took her in care
With dear Father Xavier, she accepted our Savior
And passed all her evenings in prayer

But it was for naught, for again she was caught
By the Portuguese pirates once more
And despite being brave was sold as a slave
In Manila to serve as a whore

No one could foretell her of the fate that befell her
Or know that her tears were in vain
As the captain who bought her, saw in Meera a daughter
For his childless friends in New Spain

On the trip she was clad disguised as a lad
To hide from the sailors' desire
But when she arrived, her silks were revived
And she was dressed in her finest attire

In sari and shawl, this exotic doll
Made a stir in Puebla that day
Women were gawking, and couldn't stop talking
Of her Indian garments so gay

She started a fashion, to this day still a passion
Of Mexican feasts and folklore
For the dresses they wear to dance on the square
Are based on the garments she wore

And the name of the dress, you won't have to guess
And you won't have to wait till mañana
'Tis the self-same as her little nickname
They call it the China Poblana

They'll tell you forthwith of mysteries and myth
And the pious beautiful maiden
In holy nirvana she saw Christ and Madonna
'Twas the burden with which she was laden

The charros are dashing, the sequins are flashing
In Puebla they dance on the square
In each tap and each twirl, trips a Rajputi girl
But of this they are scarcely aware

And nearby in the temple, serene, white, and simple
In the sacristy, near a Madonna
Flowers are laid for the Indian maid
At the tomb of the China Poblana

N.B - In colonial Mexico a "chino or china" was any person from the orient.
Click "About this poem" above the title to see the notes.

Copyright © Roy Jerden

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Winds of the World

Pampero you rush across the pampa's of Argentina
blowing fast and strong bending all before you.
Mighty and powerful you make your presence known
as you travel o'er the pampas in triumphant passage.

Ah Simoom you shift around the sand dunes
sucking up all moisture as you journey the Sahara,
creating vast clouds of blinding sand. Stinging
sands that cut like knives tearing at clothes.  

Tramontane you blow so cold as you traverse
the Alps bringing with you freezing ice and snow.
And flick over to the Pyrenees where you dance
in delight as you blow hard and strong whipping up snow.

Wreckhouse you blow down the slopes of the Range mountains
of Newfoundland. Cleansing and refreshing as you bring
life giving rains to their slopes. Vibrant greens left by your path
as you go on to who knows quite where

Fremantle Doctor you are an afternoon sea breeze
coming in from the Indian Ocean you bring
welcome coolness across Perth with a salty tang,
but only in the summer months do you work your charms.

Plough winds breezing along in straight furrows
preceding thunderstorms forming clusters of rain.
No deviation in your path straight as a arrow 
you bring lightning flashes that lit the skies.

Calima the dread of housewives as you bring
dust laden clouds to the shores of the Canary Islands,
coming south to southeasterly carried by the
Saharan air layer. The sooner gone the better.  

Abrosolhos  with your frequent squalls that traverse
in the months of May through to August known in
Portuguese as open eyes you flow between
Cabo de San Tome and Cabo Frio causing chaos.

written 2014
contest Wind sponsor Skat

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

One Country, One World

Which nation of the world
Do I belong?
I belong to the nation 
Of unity,
No transgression,
And freedom for all.

I belong to the nation 
Of  Equalities-
Equality between 
Proletariat and aristocracy
Disabled and abled
Woman and man
Young and old
Black and colored
People and nation
Right and rule...

I belong to the nation of peace
Across the land, the sea and the sky.
And peaceful stretch to the arboreal.
And Peace of souls,
Of bodies
And minds.

My belonging
Is my strength-
The rhythm that keeps me growing.
Though I was born a Nigerian.
Not I neglects being call
American, Ghanaian, Portuguese
Chinese, Korean, Indian...
Though I'm by virtue 
Of land mass
An African      
Not do I dismiss 
In unison unit 
That type me Asian,
North American,
South American,
And Antarctica.

I belong to
A nation,
A voice...
One country,
One world.

Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole

Details | Portuguese Poem | |


All Porto geese 
speak Portuguese.

Volodymyr Knyr

Copyright © Volodymyr Knyr

Details | Portuguese Poem | |


After all this time
Dare we go there?
Eventually we have no choice
Unknowingly the decision was made for us  
So although I am a little sad this is adieu; until we meet again

*Gerald (suggestion of the word in Portuguese)  & Jack (his persistency :)
Hope you are not disappointed* 


Copyright © Wilma Neels

Details | Portuguese Poem | |


Wander in my poem,
As if on the beaches of Copacabana.
Lay down on every one of its words,
as if on the warm, hazelnut sand.
Let the sun color your skin
and rest upon your back.
Forget who you are,
as I have been trying to do for so long.
For I have smelled you in my Santos coffee
And heard you laugh in the MPB accordions;
And my sight has never seen a shade of green and yellow
without your ambling silhouette.
Eu te vejo na cada esquina da rua.
What is to be done
when one is so happily wretched?
I write for there is more solace in writing
than  in my unsettling contemplation;
For you dwell even in my logic,
Disturbing my every sense,
Disquieting my every silence,
leaving there no logic whatsoever;
My mind like São Paulo in rush hour;
My body in a state that no simile
can ever contain.
As you approach, like Sunday morning tropical rain,
No umbrella to hide under today,
no worthless poetry to write, no imploring words to say;
For my Arab tongue stutters
with Portuguese dismay,
as if censored in another
Freudian dream theory;
For after all,
no one dares to speak of arbitrary passion.
Wander in my poem,
as if on the beaches of Copacabana.
Let my verses melt in desire like moss on a stone.
Let me laugh at myself as I read through them
until this desire ceases to be my own.

Copyright © farah chamma

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Why Now

The alley is like ink
Dark and fluid
I keep close to the walls
As I can see nothing
Everything is dank and dark
Except the moaning 
I hear in the darkness
Someone is hurt
I heard a gunshot
A clear pop in the night
I am not a Good Samaritan
But help is needed
And I am the first responder
I soon stumble over a woman 
Lying in a puddle of water
Bleeding from the chest
A sucking chest wound
The worst kind
I kneel down beside here
She tries to speak
But I cannot understand 
What sounds like Portuguese
Please is all I can make out
I tear her clothing
And try to stop the bleeding
She’s not going to make it
Too much blood
And not enough time
I try and perform last rights
And I see desperation in her eyes
Why now they scream
Why here they cry
I hold her hand 
And close my ears
For the sound of death is deafening. 

Copyright © Stephen Kilmer

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Shakuni, the word-seller-H

(The scene from Movie Ulzhan, Drama/German screened at 2007 Festival de Cannes)

( English Style)

I met, Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
He travelled a lot and the words he sold.
I met, Shakuni,  in a foreign land.
Sold words like “Moksha” an Indian word
Meaning a peaceful death without bad deeds
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words.

I met Shakuni,in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
In words“O.K., Ciao,” not interested 
I met Shakuni,  in a foreign land.
He liked “saudade”, the Portuguese word
Meaning melancholy, longing andlove 
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words.

I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
Sold “Dharma” duty and law combined
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
Sold“Tarof” an Iranian word,
Meaning to refuse something of wishes
I met Shakuni,  in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words

Honorable Mention
Contest : The Troilet Movie scene of Andrea Dietrich
*Shakuni is a character in the Movie Ulzhan. Une Coproduction Franco-Germano-Kazakh.

*Shakuni is a villainous character in the Hindu Epic Mahabharata. Shakuni, a Sanskrit 
word means a cheat, very skilled in playing dice. 

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Shakespeare's monkey

William had a monkey
brought by the Portuguese
from deepest Africa.

It died just after
he’d come to love it.
He cut out its heart 
and ate  it raw,
then skinned it
and stuffed it
displaying it 
in a corner 
of the Globe
before the fire.

Words, thoughts  
poured from his pen
and he had his prick
of the delectable young men
who flashed across the stage.
Yet in the corner, 
a blood stain

William too died early
before my next birthday
leaving only his words.

Copyright © Dave Will

Details | Portuguese Poem | |


(a feeling of missing someone or something, even deeper – Portuguese & Galacian)

In hope
I search for you
Deep down within my soul
My life engulfed with your absence…
Lives in
Realms of muse
Beyond a sad song’s verse
Embracing the darkest of pains…

Written by Ronald Zammit
Dated: 22.12.2014
Traditional Style Cinquain – Syllable Count 2/4/6/8/2

Copyright © Ronald Zammit

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Absently Present

Absently Present

Enigmatic, inexplicable,
Feeding the inspiration
A presence filled absence

Craving, aching,
Firing the imagination
Vehement yet resigned desire

Written by: Ronald Zammit
Dated: 22.12.2014
Modern Style Cinquain: Word Count 1/2/3/4/1
Contest: Cinquain (theme: Longing)
Sponsor: Dr Ram Mehta
Placed: 3rd

Note: Suadade – a close meaning would be a feeling of missing someone or something but even deeper (Portuguese & Galician)

Copyright © Ronald Zammit

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

the pleasure of old age

The pleasure of old age 
This is good morning only been up twice in the night and not 
Stumbled over furniture, his wife kept filling the house with 
Unwanted things. When he protest she says he lacks artistic sense. 
A good morning because he was able to empty his bladder 
Without sounding like a cat on a hot tin roof - yes I know-

Whoever when young thought of the simple Act of evacuation? 
The pleasure it is to do so without using 
A suppository, the simple enjoyment of the thriving completed. 
There is, especially when old, a certain sexual pleasure of 
A body that functions, it can so easily go wrong, that extra 
Glass of whisky, a glass of wine one should have left
Untouched on the table, with a cloth clean as a cerulean sky. 

Today he would only have soup for Lunch and no red wine. 
Better be on the safe and alive. But there are moments he 
Thinks “what does it matters you are dying anyway; silly man.”
 God didn’t give you extra time to read slimming magazines 
But to be a connoisseur of Portuguese red wine, that is mild as 
Spring and dreamy as a horse chewing hay in his stable when 
It rains and the farmer has gone to Sunday mass.  

Copyright © jan oskar hansen

Details | Portuguese Poem | |


Ms Jo Hanley-Dunne, Ms Jo Hanley-Dunne, varnished and tarnished by Val d’Isere sun. The sway of your hips, the power to stun brings promise of love and nights filled with fun. Oh dazzle me, Goddess, you Queen of the Slopes; a Mistress of Moguls, oh show me the ropes. You’re someone who’s keen and someone who copes; you fill me with lust, you stimulate hopes. I know that you cook with consummate ease; I know that you dive, alone, if you please. Your place in the sun is large, Portuguese, and far from your yacht, you wind-surf the breeze. So join me, dear Venus, off piste, on a run, then tell me, my love, your heart, have I won? Oh! Rapturous joy. My courtship is done. I’m going to live with Ms Jo Hanley-Dunne. ~ For John Heck's Competition.

Copyright © Charles Clive

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

''My sweetheart dwells on the coasts of Brazil--''

My sweetheart dwells on the coasts of Brazil,--
in clear, sweet notes her lips speak Portuguese;
her beauty makes the earth and sun stand still--
what a tragedy if she were a tease!
Beholding her fair face is what I miss;
surrounding her in a loving embrace
and kneeling down to give her a soft kiss:--
all these would make my quickening heart race!
The distance between us, like a thick mist,
keeps us apart;--but I by heaven swear
that someday we'll have our clandestine tryst,
place after place in the same hemisphere. 
     And if she's not 'gainst tarrying for me,
     I'd give all to marry her by the sea.

Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

The Little Portuguese Princess

A Portuguese princess there on the stairs
Knee high and smiling of wish filled cares
A grin of a sprite and a handful of pickings
A thought to feelings and a feel to thinkings
Till pointed announcement, "For you and for you."
A secret left caught in her spirited dart to
Another pressing matter of love and games
A month passed and pity's provocation aims
To knocking on my girl's hollow door
Sounding a nothing echo for the evermore
Wistful angel synced to clocks not mine 
So disadvantageous did thine flowers consign
Why not to honouring when I had a lover
Who did not gloat to beauty put asunder
By modern wants and riverless walks
and treeless skies and dreamless talks
Give me back your moment of bestowing
That glinted charm that beckons love's sowing
With a woman I needed and wish as you
To see lover's love letting blue be blue
And fire warmth and winters just waitings
Till red ribbons make kites tailings
Under summer suns, above greenery breathing
Come back again to the stairs and stepping
up to shake my shirt and turn my head
With a handful of love and repeat what you said
"For you and for you" and spirit into my memory
as the omen that begun and beget a true love's story

Copyright © Mathieu de Casanove

Details | Portuguese Poem | |



Germinate the seed for ten weeks inside
Petunia grows in the ground with minerals
Pink petals and a stem
I say it is not a flower
It is Gregory
Petunia came from South America
A different culture cultivating plants
I don’t speak their language; Spanish, Portuguese 
So Gregory it is
My Master’s degree is in botany
I have a PHD in flower
There is no petunia in religion or philosophy
None in the world according to me
According to my political affiliation and relations
There is Gregory
I water it and give it sun and take it for a walk
It continues with pink petals and a stem
One day it will grow into a fine young man
A president
Exactly as I planned 
It will not just run a country
But a vegetative state
Exactly as I said

Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Long Winter grass

The academy of long winter grass,
an education in the backyard.
I always thought I was better
than the sparrows,
thought nothing
of that black cat
looking for his lucky break
on our porch,
the neighbors’ bastard dog
at the fence playing puppy.
One day our cousins visited us,
all dressed up in percale linen
and sailor suits,
little wealthy angels
gleaming in the sun.
“ Careful for the grass. It is wet,”
I said to them.
My uncle ordered fish and chips.
The cousins fed
the old changer cat
some of their fish,
the dog got some chips
and the sparrows the last crumbs
of Portuguese buns.
How long I lived on liverwurst
and happy bread,
how these stray animals
shared in a take away luxury.
I was no different from them.
I have been instructed on poverty.

Copyright © Martin Lochner

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

a statue man with umbrella

A Statue... Man with umbrella
It was May in Lisbon had been walking long sat down on a bench
near a statue of a great Portuguese navigator, resting sore feet. 
I had earlier that day bought an umbrella, it broke in high wind
so I put it beside on the bench. A child came sat on my lap and his 
mother took a photo, apparently they thought I was a statue too.
A man who was showing tourists around said I was a figure made
by the famous Gabriel Bard. I said nothing since I had lost ability 
to speak. In the morning cleaners came hosed me and the other 
statue down so we looked spotless and presentable for tourists.

After a month I took the night train home in the knowledge that
 my picture was taken a thousand times. In the news, next day
 a story of a disappeared statue, the police was on the case. 
Gabriel Bard was interviewed, poor man he was almost in tears
and demanded to be generously reimbursed for his great work.
Was the sculptor is a charlatan cashing in on my fame?  

Copyright © jan oskar hansen

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

not under a Banyan tree

Not under a Banyan tree 

I drink coffee under an elm tree, one of many in the avenue; filtered sunlight 
makes shifting pattern on the pavements, and the sun loses its cruel power. 
A willowy woman walks into the only café where one can smoke, she likes to 
drink coffee with her cigarette, her dog sits by the door looking in waiting. 
A woman in her sixties who wears a long flowering dress, plenty of bracelets 
and rings, too exotic to be Portuguese, is coming up the road. Married three 
times, first to an army officer, from an aristocratic family, then to a Swiss 
engineer, who built ski-lifts in the Alps. Her third husband is a poet and that 
makes her sigh (downhill all the way dear) She frets about her daughter, who 
is forty and not yet married. She had hoped her child would wed into 
lofty society, but now she wishes her only offspring will find a man with 
a steady job; not a cook or a waiter though, one must draw a line somewhere. 
She has a glass of beer shows me her latest bracelet, bought this morning; 
she smiles happy as a child as the sun goes on shining and leaves on elm trees 
are deep, cooling green.   

Copyright © jan oskar hansen