Gladys woke with you beside the sea,
The dawn was whispering silently,
The mountains glowed with a golden flame,
And called the morning by your name.
The tide was breathing soft and slow,
Its silver secrets each only know,
The palms bent low as if they heard
The hush between each tender word.
The light unwrapped the sky in gold,
More precious than the pearls of old,
No jewel could match this moment’s grace,
Nor treasure shine like your dear face.
The sunrise burned, the world grew wide,
But all its splendor stayed inside,
Where love was brighter than the swirls,
Of sea and dawn, beyond the pearls.
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.
Porto
I have lived in Algarve for many years, yes plenty of sunshine
but its people have an African conception of time,
whether this is caused by arrogance or lack of knowledge
I will not speculate to know anything about.
Last year I went for a week, holiday in Porto and fund to
my surprise people who looked at their wrist watch
to be able keeping an appointment.
This is not a holiday town built to accommodate tourists,
like Vilamoura a place that has no past and little future
except a marina, where expensive boats are being anchored
to show someone’s wealth and I will speculate from where
the wealth originated.
Porto is you and me, going for a walk having a meal and a glass
of red; once I met a “guardian” reporter with his wife having
a good time.
The difference between a wife and a mistress is that the
man is kinder to his mistress
Darkness she’s bridling my thoughts.
Nightmare she is heaving the ropes.
My passions they are going astray.
Breaching the moral banks.
Whose currents I cannot steer.
Without the guidance of sense.
But the tides are so strong .
They can surely drag you along.
Towards shallow and murky waters.
Where rocks and reefs can damage,
your hull of human spirit.
And once the hull is ruptured.
It’s a matter of time, for your ship,
called ‘confidence’, to slowly sink.
I cannot, but try to navigate myself.
Through raging winds and heavy swell.
Brave, the tropical storms, and gale force winds.
Face the weather of life’s tribulations.
When, I can no longer bear anymore.
My body withered and mind barren.
I will, finally steer to a harbour.
Anchor in the safe waters.
In the arms of eternity.
And for ever dream peacefully,
Dreams that eluded my sleep.
In the confines of my cabin
Stretched on the wooden bunk.
With just a bottle of rum by my side.
And my poems to keep company.
From door to door until the light,
players cruise the Porto night.
Endless streams of cat dance haze,
private like their secret stays.
Loose and warm and smooth and sweet,
magic merges into body heat.
Oxana dances on her private stage,
Daniella lures them into her cage.
The Porto river pulls out to sea,
and drains the anger out of me.
The music flows into my ears,
and calms the storm that rages here.
Through these doors I am revealed,
my twisted heart is washed and healed.
Catholic Mass in Porto
Sunday evening in Porto my wife went to mass while I sat in
the park opposite admiring the grand architecture built in
honour of a God. Got restless and walked into the church to
see what was going on. It was a titanic church with a roof
that stretched all the way to heaven and possible beyond.
Although the congregation was of three hundred people
it seemed almost empty. Benches made of hard wood and
behind each bench a wooden cross- bar to lean ones knees
on, and since the worshippers were doing that I went down
on my knees too and for a moment felt quite humble.
There is in the Christian Religion much written about agony
it seems to be a part of the faith since Jesus died a slow death
on the cross; nevertheless I was glad when the parishioners
arose, and uplifted we all walked into the summer evening.
Leaving Porto
It is six o´clock in the morning a woman is cleaning
the pavement outside a bank, and the café across
my hotel has just opened. I drink strong coffee and
eat a toast there. Only few people about except for
middle aged women on their way to a cleaning job
in an office or bank, work that has to be done so
before opening time. Not many cars about, they drive
drive with headlight on, which they must at all time
if they are new, but not needed if the car is old, which
a think is a rather eccentric law.
It is a beautiful morning, just warm enough to sit
outside and I inhale the heavenly aroma of cakes.
Soon I will take the bus home, but as for now I bear
witness to the birth of a new day in Porto.
Bias, one of the Seven, take up neither (when the Persians arrived) an arm
such glorious like the Seven for Thebes,
nor a book full of wisdom of now.
No.
There is a talk he said, “Omnia mea mecum porto”,
as every beggar says and left (in
hidden)
the burning and in ruins turned town.
There is a talk he bought (I wonder what with) the lasses,
who (maybe) the Spartans had taken for their slaves. And he sent them back as daughters.
I even don’t want to think. Omnia mea mecum porto.
The future is theirs with their fathers in
disgrace.
Yes.
He had died before the court passed sentence
(so just) on the chest of the child.
And he says, “For all good thank the
gods”.
*All that's mine I carry with me – Latin
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