Best Fado Poems
Limerick: Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo
Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo
Tried to wiggle her way through Fado
Only thing she had on
Was a navel button:
(Now) Fado mambo-jambo Oporto.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Limerick: Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo
Once a Belly-Dancer in Cairo
Tried to wiggle her way through Fado
Only thing she had on
Was a navel button:
Now she wiggles in jelly limbo.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
fado, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
Fado
What do we do with Fado, this guitar sound and
guttural Portuguese voice that has a twang of
Arabia in its heart and is pure poesy.
Life, loss longing and the finality of death, is in
songs that celebrate love’s unbearable sweetness,
our tragedy and the unobtainable.
Yes, sing me a Fado, let me hear the guitar and
I will close my eyes float in a sea of melancholy
and remember you.
Categories:
fado, music, longing, me,
Form:
Ballad
Antelope.
A springbok runs fast on the savanna avoiding
lions and other predators, but ultimately it is
destined to become food for slayers and thus
useful. Going back two and a half million years,
my African ancestors too hunted them.
In Portugal the African heritage is quite strong,
their Fado tells us of a past forever lost.
Our life span is short, mere dust in the eye of
eternity, and people have bought bicycles in
the hope of living longer, we all hope to live to
be hundred years old even if we are overcome
by senility and lose track of time.
On a dairy farm, you will see a pastoral scene
brown& white cows, with full udders, eating
juicy grass, but they do give birth and if it is
a male calf it get killed after two weeks, cause
It is not useful, and destroyed.
There is no money to be made of milk-calves
few eat them and it cost more money sending
them to an abattoir, they are not even worthy
to end up as hamburger meat; and I find this
waste a colossal disgrace a sin against nature.
Lucky is the springbok
Categories:
fado, life, hope, money,
Form:
Blank verse
The Mass
On Palm Sunday, she will go to church, not driven but walk on
old feet that hurt for every step, I will sit at home, wait by
the phone in case she cannot make it up the hill to the church.
A modern church paid for by a German industrialist who was
then allowed to built his villa at a nature reservation and thus
is the life of commerce. The benefactor has got his name on
the wall when he dies will become a seraph nothing less will do ,
a chief angel or nothing
The sermon is long I fiddle with car radio and get some soul
riveting Fado. I see my wife walking slowly down the hill and for
a moment I think of driving her down, but desist I will never get
away with it and I don’t know how to manage without her.
We are both obnoxious people a bond that keeps us united now
that we are both near the hole in the ground where lies are told.
Categories:
fado, appreciation, assonance, blessing, dream,
Form:
Sonnet
Behind the Façade
Behind the Holyday Inn near the bus station used by
we the masses and immigrants, there are streets of houses
kept in the gloomy mode of semi-poverty and cheap wine.
I walked these streets windows shuttered, here and there
a small grocery shop run by Asians how they make a living
Is a wonder, cafes too I saw nearly went into one but it
looked so filthy I changed my mind, but did buy a can of
coke in the Asian`s shop
We had been to the giant old hospital call -Ca Curry- and it
was old and decrepit, yet doctors and nurses struggle on
no money is spent on National Health now that we are in
the grip of neoliberalism.
She has bad hips and the wait for our bus was three hours
hence my excursion into the streets of boredom a part of
Lisbon no tourist would wish to see, no anyone famous had
lived here and “Fado” was flaking walls and peeling doors.
Back at the bus station I found in a corner a second-hand
book shop bought a book of a prose poetry and got one for
free, I sat beside her, tried to read Portuguese and thought
it takes an Indian person to try selling poetry in Iberia.
Categories:
fado, absence, abuse, age, analogy,
Form:
Bio
The Paratrooper
I was falling through the air couldn’t see a thing, opened up
my big black umbrella and descended in an orderly fashion.
A scythe of a moon gave enough light so I could see the coastline
and the dark, menacing sea just waiting to fill my lung with water.
By manipulating the umbrella`s ribs, I landed safely on the beach,
folded the collapsible and got away as foam and horrid sea tried to
drag me under. To get home I had to walk through a monocultural
nightmare of pop music, endless Fado, and orange trees the bore
nothing, but yellow fruit no one bothers to pick up as the land
is drowning in sticky juice and no gin. Anyway, supermarkets sold
virtual orangeade. I was walking uphill now, downhill too, but
mostly uphill. From a hilltop, I could see my cottage; noticed the yard
light was still on and hear the desultory din of an aeroplane circling
looking for a lost passenger
Categories:
fado, adventure, boat,
Form:
Blank verse
Sometimes writing poetry is my mistake,
Better to embark on a large cargo ship,
Which will take you to Tahiti or Honolulu,
Better give candy to a blue-eyed schoolgirl,
Sometimes writing poetry is my mistake,
Better to cook a chicken with lime,
Better to read the confessions of Saint Augustine
Or spend the afternoon at the movies with people,
Sometimes writing poetry is a strange mistake,
Especially never think that we have talent, genius,
Better to visit Lisbon or Patagonia,
Listen to fado with the Big Dipper.
Parfois, écrire de la poésie est une erreur,
Mieux vaut embarquer sur un grand cargo,
Qui vous conduira jusqu’à Tahiti ou Honolulu,
Mieux vaut offrir des bonbons à une écolière aux yeux bleus,
Parfois écrire de la poésie est une erreur,
Mieux vaut cuisiner un poulet au citron vert,
Mieux vaut lire les confessions de Saint Augustin
Ou passer son après-midi au cinéma avec des gens,
Parfois écrire de la poésie est une erreur bizarre,,
Surtout ne jamais penser que l’on a du talent, du génie,
Mieux vaut visiter Lisbonne ou la Patagonie,
Écouter du fado en compagnie de la Grande Ourse.
Categories:
fado, appreciation, missing, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
How beautiful and discreet, this port, at night,
When you listen to fado, come that voice, Misia
It becomes deep and mysterious, sonorous,
Its numerous lights are warm as wool.
How enchanting this port, at night, o night
Between the sea and the starry sky that sleeps,
Its illiterate cranes are so stupid, yes,
Yet they really know the pain of the world,
How beautiful, so quiet on the horizon, this port,
When listening to fado, O Misia, my queen,
We want to love you like Lisbon or Porto, now
I understand Rimbaud abandoning poetry.
Qu’il est beau et discret, ce port, la nuit,
Quand vous écoutez du fado, cette voix, Misia
Il devient profond et mystérieux, sonore,
Ses lumières sont chaudes comme la laine.
Qu’il est enchanteur ce port, la nuit, O nuit
Entre la mer et le ciel étoilé qui dort,
Ses grues analphabètes sont si bêtes, oui,
Elles savent pourtant la douleur du monde,
Qu’il est beau, si calme sur l’horizon, ce port,
Quand on écoute du fado, O Misia, ma reine,
On veut t’aimer comme Lisbonne ou Porto, Enfin,
Je comprends Rimbaud qui abandonne la poésie.
Categories:
fado, appreciation, city, stars,
Form:
Free verse
Chicken and Fado
They eat a lot of roasted chicken with chips
in Portugal, once it was a rare food now it is eaten
with gusto most days, it is cheap and filling.
What sets Portugal apart is Fado,
I know of no other country with music that grabs
your heartstrings and makes you cry evokes
memories of yore, bitter and sweet.
I don`t know the origin of Fado but to my ears
it has a mysterious Arabic undertone.
On TV there is a “Festa” from one of the many villages
in the interior of Portugal, the faces are dark brown
from the outdoor work, accordion music
is played, quick tunes the women sways and the menfolk
stay in the background drinking wine.
Here the old and the young mingle there is no drunkenness
only good humour from the land of harmony.
Categories:
fado, africa, angst, anti bullying,
Form:
Blank verse
Weekend in Cascais
On Cascais glittering Saturday bay, slowly rides a rust stripped
bulk-carrier, sailors on the deck look at the town and think it
is Paradise, from the soot hallooed green stacks, whispering
smoke dissolves their dream of ever going home.
Tourists, fishermen and drunks, the eager and the weary and
the sad eyed mills about.
A blind woman sits on a folding chair sings Fado, Portugal`s blues.
her voice is cracked, but full of soul, she keeps score with
a tiny triangle the little plink a feint echo above the crowd.
When footsteps fade its faint sound becomes cymbals
clasped together by men of steel, her voice a storm which
cleanse streets clean.
Every morning Cascais is reborn, a wet pearl arisen from
the green seas, before sandaled feet descend and drown
the day in a cacophony of disharmony.
Categories:
fado, angst, anxiety, art,
Form:
Blank verse
like a wind that burns your chest
we did it again
we did it the same
again
soul made from the mother's milk soul, hold me
cover me
wrap me in your clay
like a lost child weeping in the streets
without villages, cities
without a country
or a mother
born in war
warm me in your nest under the eaves
you know? sometimes you can't be found anywhere
and even i know we are not from here
and all is fado, - meat in the ditch
grave in the sea
i'm still looking for you everywhere
then
i return to our house in the air
in the air
Categories:
fado, absence, allah, analogy, angel,
Form:
Free verse
A Warped Tree
Today, when not arguing with Walter the Jew on Facebook
the ambiance in the house was surprisingly calm since
I got a key to my study in peace to read my latest collection
and found, at times, the poems had an internal rhyme and
were little stories
The pity is that I have to write without a publisher
can't afford to hire one; those I dare to ask run a thousand miles
one of them, a poor man, is a lecturer at Udevalla
Last year, I visited a crooked tree so shy its roots curled
in bashfulness, and its leaves took an autumnal color
I wanted to know if there was a way for me to help get
her more gracious and straight
She took offense and said she was 105.
I felt like pointing out the tree by the drive into our village -
an olive tree is so old there is a possibility
Jesus sat under it, writing protest notes to the priests
in the service of the Roman church
One day the came, the uncouth people from the traffic division
chopped down ancient history and threw the remains
down a drain
Angrily, I protested to my doctor about the vandals
with my fist hit the table so hard a stethoscope fell to the floor
then the porter came, and I was made to leave.
When I came to Portugal, the natural thing was to study
and learn the language, but at the time, I was wrapped up
learning English
The Portuguese language is superbly fitted to Fado, but as a "lingo" for conversation, I failed,
I knew enough to get married.
The Norwegian vocality sounds like a Dane trying to talk Swedish
and is like wet cement being poured down a ditch dug by Lusitanos
spitting tobacco.
Ach, mein lieber Gott, I have lost many friends in the last sixty years.
Categories:
fado, adventure, age, angst, anxiety,
Form:
Free verse
The Catering life
It is sunny and warm on the terrace.
I sit with my face facing the sun. It is supposed to be healthy
vitamin D, and so on.
I`m not so sure, I have had skin cancer twice.
Once, I was a chef at a restaurant, and it was in the days when food was a simple affair,
a set menu and so on.
The restaurant on the first floor of the building (Pandemic closed)
they sell solid Portuguese food, not expensive, and suitable for the Fado
I like this place as it has big tables.
We don’t make food anymore. We ring and get it delivered
from a small café run by a Palestine couple, they also serve vegetarian food.
I tried it once but preferred meat with vegetables.
I sit indoors and think that all cooks are ghostly pale because
they are indoors and slave over steaming pots and pans.
I ended my career as a cook. It was boring and hot and badly paid.
Categories:
fado, appreciation, chicago, color, corruption,
Form:
Blank verse
The wild beast
On the savanna runs the spring-bock not easy to catch by lions,
but as it gets older and slower, it loses out and becomes a meal
for the predators.
A million years ago my ancestors hunted them too, the killer
instinct is in our blood.
Portugal remembers the past in Fado the sadness of time lost.
On a farm with brown and white milking cows, one of them
gives birth to a male calf, it is slaughtered after a fortnight
there is no point feeding it.
The male spring-bock is luckier it gets to copulate and run
free for many years.
We struggle to live long some people buy bikes in the hope
to live to a hundred and four, if sounds long it is not
only blink by a star.
Categories:
fado, allusion, anger, anti bullying,
Form:
Blank verse
Estrela
Diretora,
no palco
do sábado
estrelado,
a dança das
decisões
é o teu fado:
as estrelas guiam
com sua luz divina,
e sábia, tu segues
e guia
a rota que
se destina
para fazer
do pouco,
mais e mais.
Categories:
fado, business,
Form:
Free verse