Heteronyms
"The poet is a pretender
who's so good at his act;
he even fakes the pain
of pain he really feels."
— Fernando Pessoa
Outside the Cathedral
of Santa Maria Maior
after the morning Mass,
I was that beggar
in old Sunday clothes,
sitting on the sidewalk
and talking to a sparrow
that probed my mouth
and the long silence
of its tongue.
I was that crying child
at Parque Principe Real
in the midafternoon
when the magnolias
were white and fragrant,
climbing the tree
and freeing my kite
from the thick branches
that held its paper tail
as if envious of its flight.
Weeknight at Casa de Fados,
the tables almost empty,
I was that soulful singer
whose throat was tired
of endless songs
while drinking rum
and whose lips knew well
the wordless woe
drowned by the strums
of my twelve-string guitar.
In all of Lisbon before dawn
when the streetlights
were bright and awake
as though on their last vigil
before a burial,
I was that poet
sitting on the metal bed,
his back against the wall
nursing myself
mute in different voices.
Reply With Quote