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Portuguese Poems

A list of poems using the phrase Portuguese. Portuguese Poetry.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Negar

Angolan Shipyard
Portuguese Courtyard
Slaves
Indentured servants of
Black seed

Sadist sovereignty 
Dutch property
Animals
Herded into a treasure chest
Of disease

Shackled humanity
Shipwrecked Christianity
Excess 
Baptized on the bottom
Of the sea

Altered Destiny 
English colony 
1619
Stock on a manifest
Of greed

Work your land
Savage not man
Bartered
A pound of flesh for
A crown overseas

Sold by brethren
Held by heathens
Caimile
Your daddy was 
Born free

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

I weep for WORDS

I can't bear to think of the things we can't say
   If colors were words I'd be left holding gray
Please loan me some Portuguese,Prussian and Sioux
and tie them all up with a noun from Peru
I want amarillo, y rojo, azul
to color my poems and make them sound cool
In Russian it's chorney that's black as the night
   or if we write behleh we color it white
The loss in translation just drives me to tears
just what did they mean reading back thru the years?
The translators try but the nuances tremble
to be heard as a word
they dont even resemble
   We want all the colors, we want all the ways
to love or berate or chastise or praise
   Still the words of the world and their colors
have found us
   Hurray that olde Shakespeare
       Wrote Rainbows around us .

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Musee Imaginarie

Portuguese-man-of-war,
knocking on the ocean's door.
Making the moon shine in the mist,
of this and that, and that and this.

The seacow and the seaweed meet,
and brush the sand off their feet.
Then sit and watch the waves roll in,
and kiss and kiss the beach's chin.

The sandbar tickles the seacow's toes,
and the white-caps dance on the seaweed's nose.
With too wildly wounded moments-
that close and open, and open and close.

Ave atque vale!
Ave atque vale!
The rest is missing,
with-in the walls.

The first-lady-in-waiting,
eternally feminine, eternally fading.
Felt his voice and nothing more,
in the desperate dunes of nevermore.

Where new fragile blues break into grays,
and the tap, tap, tapping tapestry waves.
To the faces that the wind is making,
behind the dressed-up-girl part par-taking.

Dance into this or that, or that or this,
the dripping drops, drop, and miss-
doe-see-doe here and doe-see-doe there,
spill your tears and let loose your hair.

So she cried:
tears for things,
things in dreams,
little by little,
the meaningless means.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

The Ill-Fated Lighthouse

Author’s Introduction - A word about Minot’s Ledge Lighthouse: 

The Minot’s Ledge lighthouse, built 1850, lying off the southeastern chop of 
Boston Bay, was the first lighthouse built in the U. S. that was not protected by 
exposure to the fury of ocean storms. It was, then unfinished, in the shape of an 
egg-shell painted red and supported by iron pillars. The first keeper, Isaac 
Dunham, quit after 10 months citing how unsafe the structure was (swaying 2 
feet in each direction in a storm). His fears were well founded, for in April 1851, a 
colossal storm struck the New England coast. The lighthouse was toppled and 
swept away, and the two attendants, Joseph Antoine and Joseph Wilson, were 
killed. 

The following day only a few bent pilings were found on the rock. This tragedy set 
the standard for the construction of more solid structures using granite blocks for 
greater support and a new light was built by June, 1860. 

To this day, legend has it, that in dark and stormy weather, sailors hear a voice 
coming from Minot’s Light crying in Portuguese (the nationality of one of the 
deceased keepers – Joseph Antoine) – “Stay away!” 


The Ill-Fated Lighthouse 

The towering light that threw 
Its friendly beams afar 
Over the foaming waves, 
The sailor’s guiding star, 
Is quench’d – and darkness glooms 
Where late it bless’d his sight, 
As homeward bound he came 
In the dark hour of night. 

The thundering surges swept 
Over the rocky bed, 
From which the lighthouse rear’d 
Aloft its flaming head. 
And lo! They bore away 
In that mad fearful hour, 
The work that man had made – 
The tempest’s rightful dower 

And yet a richer freight 
The heaving billows bore, 
Than wreck of perished Light! 
For tossing to the shore 
The drench’d and lifeless forms 
Of youthful dead there were, 
Two brave and manly hearts 
That sadly perish’d there! 

Farewell ye faithful ones! 
Your memory shall live, 
While feeling hearts remain, 
Pity’s sweet drops to give, 
Or any to recount 
The terrors of that night, 
When the drear sea engulf’d 
The hapless beacon light. 

And you, ye rushing waves! 
Sweep – foaming, sweep along, 
And ever as ye go, 
Lift high your noisy song; 
For thou, remorseless sea! 
Maketh all things thine own! 
Then send aloft your tune, 
And madly thunder on. 

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Alliteration 7702

YO I JUST WANNA MAKE LOVE TO YOU
IN A VILLA IN CENTRAL PERU
KISSING' YOU LIKE A SCHOOLGIRL WHO CAN'T CONTROL HERSELF
CAN'T IMAGINE MAKING' LOVE IN THE WEST KEY ABORIGINES
MAKING LOVE LIKE THE PORTUGUESE AMORE
TABLE TOPS TO RUG BURN ON THE BACKSIDE
 THE MYSTIC LOOK OF TEARS WELLING' UP IN YA EYES
THE PENETRATION YOU MAKE BETWEEN MY VIBE
CATASTROPHIC, EVOLVING, EVOLUTIONS AS EMOTIONS ERUPT 
ENDING ENDLESS ETERNAL EXOTIC ECSTASIES 
A BEAUTY BOWING, BOASTING BROADCASTING BENEVOLENTLY 
BONDING BODIES BY BUBONIC BONDS
PROTONS POSITIVELY POTENT POISON PENSIVE PASSION
POLLUTING PURE PUSCY WITH PURE PENIS
COMMANDING CONTROL AND COMPASSION
COMPARING COMBINATIONS OF CUM EJACULATIONS
CONSEQUENCE IS CONCEIVING A MYSTERY NOT A MISTAKE 
A MAN'S CHILD NOT A LOVE CHILD 
MUGGY MORNING MEETINGS FOR MONOGAMOUS MANAJ'TRES OR  
MANAJ’TRES IN MONOGAMY
MIND MASTURBATING MENTAL MEMORIES IN THE MIDNIGHT MOON
LIKE EVE IN EDEN THAT ONE LAST BITE KILLED YOUR CURIOSITY 
GROOVING IN THE WATERS OF THE WEST INDIES
 DANCE WITH ME
FOREVER FIENDING FOR FLOWING FOREPLAY
FAVORITE FLAVOR FUDGE
INTRUDING INTRINSIC INTUITIONS INTO IMPOSSIBLE INTERVENTIONS 
INTRIGUING IMPULSES INVITING INVASION IMPROVISING INCISIONS 
PRECISELY PLACING PELVIS TO PELVIS
PRIVATE TO PRIVATE 
THE PERFORMANCE IN PROCESS PRODUCES PENNY PEOPLE WITH NO 
PENSION 
O DID I FORGET TO MENTION ALL THAT MUSHY SHH ABOUT:
YOUR FINGERS IN MY HAIR?
MY EYES GAZING INTO YOURS?
MY HEART BEATS FASTER WITH EVERY TOUCH?
 YOU KNOW, ALL THAT JAZZ AND SUCH-HOLLA.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Hearts and Minds Mutter-The Spirits then Matter

’Tis a strange matter yet a familiar breeze, 
The passing glance and a heart’s appease, 
And two lonely hearts silently un-crease, 
Both see tomorrow with flavorful increase, 
  
O! How uncertainty makes them squeeze, 
A Dream of ending the lonely heart’s lease, 
Shall it be with the two that it all shall cease, 
Or is this a moment aimed to please? 
  
Beware their spirits are still on freeze, 
Unawakened during this growing abyss, 
Only the mind and body play this piece, 
O! What pleasure, yet peril to peace. 
  
Spirit awakens, but all the way in Belize, 
Cognition and sensation move in with ease, 
One or both become weak in the knees, 
Mutual intentions they begin to release. 
  
The words that spew, O! Jeez! 
Who knew signor could speak Portuguese! 
Now watch the two become like geese, 
And send on each other passion infested fleas. 
  
Spirits finally come flying in with a whiz, 
Shall they declare a cease and decease, 
As if they were the remedy to a disease, 
Or provide cover like a warm coat of fleece? 
  
Remaining unshaken like dear Queen Liz 
Sifting through the Reason database in their PCs 
Spirits ponder on whether to pay the lovers’ fees, 
Or appraise their desire to the value of two peas. 
  
Spirits decide that they must quiz 
Are the two genuinely up in the trees, 
Or is this a matter of the birds and the bees? 
Does someone intend to go on their knees? 
  
Interrogation is long; spirits want to catch ZZZ’s, 
Platonic relationships; the minds’ are forced to think on these, 
The hearts compelled to learn to appease, 
May be tomorrow they’ll sail in agape seas. 

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

BREAKFAST WITH ELIZABETH AND JOE E BROWN

It's seven AM and we're in the kitchen. 
Elizabeth, 8, and Kirby, 9, her Portuguese Water
Water Dog who's never been to Portugal-- 
doesn't know he's Joe E. Brown, 40s' famous 
film star reincarnated in a curly, black dog 
suit, wearing Joe's celebrated, ear-to-ear grin 

Elizabeth's in the pantry, 5 shelves up, 
searching for a snack. The good stuff's on top, 
except for 1 peanut butter Chocolate Chewy, 
divisible by 2. The TV's on, bringing Big Red 
Dogs (not black ones), along with "George 
Shrinks,"a super down-sized hero for 

Viewers Like Us.  Kirby begs for treats 
with teasing little barks. Elizabeth's Sprite 
has lost its fight like her Nana in the morning 
who needs stronger than that. She's 
Granny Shrinks who needs 40 more winks 
before peanut butter Chewies, Day-Glo 
cartoons, and Joe E. Brown hi-jinks.

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

Feb.2010

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

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

To Your Majesty, One Big....

...Hoender - Afrikaans, Pulë - Albanian, ???? - Arabic, ?????? - Belarusian, ???? - Bulgarian, 
Pollastre - Catalan, ? - Chinese (Simplified), ? - Chinese (Traditional), Piletina - Croatian, 
Kurecí - Czech, Kylling - Danish, Kip - Dutch, Kanaliha - Estonian, Manok - Filipino, 
Kana - Finnish, Galiña - Galician, ??t?p???? - Greek, ??? - Hebrew, ???? - Hindi, Csirke - 
Hungarian, Kjúklingur - Icelandic, Ayam - Indonesian, Sicín - Irish, ?? - Japanese, 
??? - Korean, Calis - Latvian, Vištiena - Lithuanian, ??????? - Macedonian, 
Ayam - Malay, Kylling - Norwegian, ???? - Persian, Kurczak - Polish, Pui - Romanian, 
?????? - Russian, ???????? -  Serbian, Kuracie - Slovak, Kuku - Swahili, Kyckling - Swedish, 
??? - Thai, Tavuk - Turkish, ????? - Ukrainian, Gà - Vietnamese, Cyw Iâr - Welsh, 
????? - Yiddish, Huhn - German, Frango - Portuguese, Poulet - French, Pollo - Italian, 
Pollo - Spanish, Chicken - Maltese, Chicken - Slovenian, Chicken - English.,...-=.....-=..-=..-
=..............-=...-=....-=....-=...-=.............-=...-,...-=.....-=..-=..-=..............-=...-=....-
=....-=...-=.............-=...-,...-=.....-=..-=..-=..............-=...-=....-=....-=...-=.............-
=...-,...-=.....-=..-=..-=..............-=...-=....-=....-=...-=.............-=...-,...-=.....-=..-=..-
=......HA! HA! HA!...for old times sake...lol...Your Kidster, Your Majesty.

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. 


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.

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

At the VFW Post in Buang, Phillipines


At the VFW Post in Buang, Philippines they know Macarthur
Staggering off then
Swaggering back onto
These Philippines Islands and the
 Wail of Hirohito
Drowning in chorus with the headsman’s gush of 
Bloodstained tears
Upon the occasion
Of Bataan
Remembered.

Then in repose off old Mactan, there still smiles
 Lapu Lapu in his 
Billion particles
Drifting a sea to the 
Portuguese dance of
Forgotten melodies while 
Sugarcane hills
Rise in symphony for Jose Rizal and the 
Three hundred and some odd year smoldering hue of
 Senior Legazpi 
Clutching the 
 Sunrise brilliant over 
Manila
Gleaming.


For the sand still whispers to the 
 Prodigal bow of 
Yamashita’s gunboat and the  
 Mindanao lair of two old samurai 
Forever glistening in the jungle deep as
 God’s Perfection crescendos to the 
Indefatigable,
Invincible,
Infinitely indelible thought that 
Battle,
Broken in all man can make,
Fades
Forever.  

So when does Empire reek
It’s savage 
On the splendid meek
In lands long gotten over
 Purchased souls as the 
Old boys
 Master around 
Three dollar specials and the 
Endless clink of San Miguels join
Hank Williams in an aging jukebox
Carefully laid for one night,
When all the glories of a thousand years are
Wonderfully recited in an 
Afternoon when a 
Sunglass wearing, 
Corn-cob pipe-smoking,
“Look at me now” presence of a 
Gangly man
Dashed ashore in the 
 Post mortem swelter of a
 Gallant soldier’s 
Passing?

September 2009 Jeff Troyer


Details | Portuguese Poem | |

Lucila

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

Details | Portuguese Poem | |

BACCALIEU EPISODE

BACCALIEU   EPISODE

Portuguese  named  it when they found
Bacalhau  -  meaning  codfish island.  They knew
Its  essence  -  the  French called it Baccalieu, *
This dangerously rich fishing ground. 

Coming home to  St. John’s from Labrador,
Autumn  storm  swooped on us, undermanned,
As  we made west past the bare black island
Into Conception Bay,  two  miles from shore.

The boat pitched like a rocking horse -
Crashing down into every trough after  every crest.
The sleet  cut you in two from the west;
With our main boom nearly  in two with the force.

The boat - a toy,  the combers heeled her over  
And thrust the lee rail two foot under.
Baccalieu to port crashed  like overhead thunder:
No place to be in  late October.

The Baccalieu rocks -  lurking, lethal,  reaching
For the keel ,   and the sheer black cliffs wait                           
Above.   We claw her from the rocks of hate     
With clouds of storm-petrels  screeching.

Now she plunges deeper in the dark
Trying to steady herself, to  end  the ordeal,
As we struggle, four hands on the wheel,
To end the  threat  to our heavy-laden ark.

Bringing her head round into Conception Bay
We ease our  grips on the wheel,
Deeper  water under  the keel  -
Now we breathe. We’ll  be home by end of day.


.................................................................

     * Note:   For pronunciation experts,   regardless of 
                    the  French spelling,  this dangerous
                    island is called "Bakaloo" in Canadian English.

                  
      * Geographical note:  Baccalieu is a few miles north 
         of the port of St. John's,  Newfoundland,   Canada.