Best Lisbon Poems
I walk my life, a subway station
Where dirt consorts
The air around.
It pounds my nape,
It flames my mind
With sights and fates
And sounds.
Above, a tram goes up the alley
Tinged with canary hue.
Below, my wit:
What void, what valley:
It sank, in Tagus mused.
I take a seat, doors screech behind.
O, what wondrous whiffs?
Of metal beams
Attriting loudly
Against metal wheels?
To a halt it cuts my chain of thought,
Rivals my dream, they brawl.
'Tis from the gallery
Of broken hope
The beggar man crawls.
Intemperate horns his entry announce,
Dysphoric scenes aground.
He comes detuned
Near clears his throat,
Lethargic voice resounds:
I beat my cane
In wrongful rhythm,
'Cause wrongful
Was my life.
My voice hurts from
All this singing:
'Twas morphed into
A sigh.
I longed, I longed
For all my sinning
Was ought to be repaid.
Deserved so much,
God took my
Will, my sight,
My love, my
Name.
So tell me, vagrant,
What did He take?
-Said I-
Who has loved you?
What is your will,
What name did you go by?
I used to be a man of soul
Whose heart beat strong and dign,
I used to write
And then I died
On the 10th before July.
He took my coins for all my service
At wars:
At land
At sea
-The waves still have her,
Laying there still,
Waiting away from me!-
Said he-
I will my love,
My fire, passion
-My young Natercia!-
Most darling of all nymphaea!
So God is just after all,
Replacing sin with grief.
No need for me
To pay the man:
God has done the deed.
The deadbeat coins of his cup
Turmoil ever so slightly.
I leave my dream,
Doors shrill again:
'Tis time to end my journey.
Empty streets I walk and walk
Aimed at the lonely riverside
There's nothing to think of, just stand there
Just stand there and quietly stare
At the water at my feet
Struggling to flow down my face
While my favorite music plays.
Empty streets I walked and walked
To the sound of a desolate trumpet
Played by a mask hidden puppet
Crying please drop a little stone
To take the sorrow off these bones!
And miles and miles I walked alone..
A stranger stopped me and said please,
Would you come for a cup of tea?
But fear and cold won over warmth;
I turned my back, made something up
And all alone I pursued to walk
Through empty streets in the twilight.
Who knows what could it be
Of the stranger who wanted tea?
Maybe a swindler or a thief,
Or maybe someone just needing company
Two blue eyes wanting to talk
And to maybe come along my walk,
And listen,
Listen to me,
Something I'll eternally need.
But I said no, and continued to walk
Through empty streets at the twilight.
I've seen love, I've seen hate
I've seen the world in this tiny place
By walking along the same old streets...
I've been smiled at, been ignored
But I've never stopped my walk
Through empty streets down and up
Alone with ghosts and dreams and thoughts
I see the people who I love
Appearing and fading in the air...
Drown in coffee and illusion,
I walk behind the fake profusion
Of a life in the other shore
I never doubted I would adore.
But for the first time I am scared;
Scared of not being myself
Something so easy to prevent,
Yet so hard to understand...
I live in illusion!
Like my sisters and my brothers.
And talking about the others,
Hand in hand I see two lovers:
Something I have never tasted
Because so far I've only waited,
Waited while my life's on pause.
But what's a pause without a dream?
It's a guitar without a string!
It's endless time without a clock,
It's the empty streets I walk.
But still, in the riverside's horizon
Empty as it is, or full as it may seem
A little boat remains there floating
For all of us still hoping
For a glimmer, for a light
There at the lonely riverside
Hope of one day walking back
The empty streets, no longer black.
Lisboa é boa*. Yeah, Lisbon is good
at very long distance of dreams.
The shivering traveler pulls up his hood:
it seems that the traveller misunderstood
what’s autumn in Portugal. Streams
of water run volubly down the steep streets,
the wind searches pockets and sleeve,
the sheets hung to dry do not differ from sheets
of rain… That’s what happens when fantasy meets
reality and both leave.
(port.) Lisbon is good.
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.
Night in Lisbon
Once, I went to a dance hall in Lisbon
an awful place full of desperate middle-aged women
hoping to catch a man, any man.
Ah, for the horrible colours looking putrid on the wall
Was the music supplied by a jukebox when
the accordion was too drunk to play
Scrawny women of the night sat around the dance
floor trying to look sophisticated smoking cigarettes
laughing loudly like ugly sisters
Ogling men’s mid-part while showing spindly legs
meant, I think, to look enticing but only succeeded
In appearing like stick insects
Once these women had been beauties, attracted
to men in suits; many divorces later and partying
time had taken a heavy toll.
Lonely women, chasing what once was, the youth
consorting with contemptible men who feared
being alone on a night when truth spoke piercingly
What a timeless charm Lisbon is
Meticulously set on the face
Of seven hills with eyes
That overlook the Tagus River.
The narrow, winding streets
Tell a story of a culture so distinct
Different in many ways but hung on a single straw
Like the pieces of every cobblestone on the floor.
The sweet sea wind, in every swing
Breathes life into Fado music
Songs of old, worn sailors
Longing for a halt to the complexities of life.
Lisbon City is indeed a charm
Adorned with vibrant street art
That blends modernity and historic depth
A solemn dance to every footstep.