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23. 11. 1930
Born in Funchal (Madeira). He attended the Faculty of Arts in Lisbon. Contributed to various poetry reviews. Translator, poet and writer. Undoubtedly, one of the great Portuguese poets, with an extraordinary control over the language. |
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| The boats cry upon the waters. I breathe in the keels. Cross love, breathing. As if thought had rent with the brute stars. I lean my face against the sweet boats. Solid boats that moan at the points of the water. I lean against the general roughness. Against the suffering, the general idea of the boats. I lean my face to cross love. I do everything just like someone who wants to sing, Placed in the words. Breathing the hull of words. Its colliding trace. With the face turned to the air in drops, in stars. Placed on the painful creaking of the oars, of the helms of words. It is the so-called river tagus into love within. I see the dripping bridges. I hear the bells of darkness. The taught strings of fish that violin the water. It is in boats that the world is crossed. The boats strike, shout. My life crosses blindness, arrives anywhere. Lofty boat, demented night, love in half. Love absolutely in half. I breathe in the keels. It is strong the smell of the river tagus. As if the boats were crossing fields, the rumination of blind flowers. As if the tagus was nettles. Cows sleeping. Mad puddles. As if the tagus was air. As if the tagus was the interior of the land. The interior of the existence of a man. Tagus hot. Tagus very cold. With the face leaning against the yellow water of the flowers. Against the pebbles in the morning. Breathing. Crossing love. With the face in suffering. With the will to sing in the order of the night. If my hand falls, the foot. Attention in the water. I think: the world is damp. I do not know what that means. To cross the love of the tagus is something like knowing nothing. It is being pure, existing at the heights. To cross everything in a sheer night. In the sheer word crossing the structure of water, of the flesh. Like singing in the boats. To die, to revive in the boats. The bridges are not the river. The houses exist on the curdled banks. Now I think of the solitude of love. I think that it is the air, the voices almost non-existent in the air, which accompanies love. Love is accompanied by some subtle fish. (...) Poemacto |
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