Fernando Pessoa

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Odlaganje

Prekosutra, da samo prekosutra...
Sutra ću početi da mislim na prekosutra.
To je jedina mogućnost: danas nikako ne...
Ne, danas ništa; ne mogu danas.
Zamršena upornost moje objektivne subjektivnosti,
san moga stvarnog života, umetnut,
iznemoglost prerana i beskrajna,
iznemoglost svijeta da se uđe u tramvaj.
Ta vrsta duše...
Samo prekosutra...
Danas bih htio da se pripremim,
htio bih da se pripremim, kako bih sutra mogao misliti
na idući dan...

On je presudan.
Već imam nacrtan plan; ali ne, danas ne crtam planove,
Sutra je dan planova.
Sutra ću sjesti za stol da osvojim svijet;
ali svijet ću osvojiti tek prekosutra...
Imam želju da zaplačem,
imam želju da zaplačem naglo, iznutra...
Ne, ne pokušavajte saznati ništa više,
to je tajna i neću govoriti.

Samo prekosutra...
Kad sam bio dijete, cijeli tjedan sam se radovao nedjeljnom
cirkusu.
Danas me raduje samo nedjeljni cirkus od cijelog tjedna
mog djetinjstva.

Prekosutra bit ću drugi.
Moj život će triumfirati...
Sve moje sposobnosti inteligentna, odgojena i praktična čovjeka
bit će dekretom sabrane,
ali sutrašnjim dekretom.
Danas hoću da spavam, a sutra ću sve urediti...

Za danas, ima li kakva predstava, koja bi obnovila moje
djetinjstvo?
Pa čak da i sutra kupim ulaznicu,
jer tek prekosutra će biti dobra predstava...
Prije ne...
Prekosutra ću se latiti poslova, koje ću sutra proučiti.
Prekosutra ću konačno biti ono, što danas nikako ne mogu biti.
Samo prekosutra.
Pospan sam kao izgubljen pas na hladnoći.
Veoma sam pospan.
Sutra ću ti reći riječi, ili prekosutra,
Da, možda jedino prekosutra...

Budućnost...
Da, budućnost...

Dopuna: 12 Maj 2005 17:25

Da bi bio velik, budi potpun:
Nek kod tebe nista nije prekomerno, okrnjeno.
Budi sav u svakoj stvari.
Ulozi citavog sebe u najmanje sto cinis.
Tako u jezeru svakom ceo mesec blista jer zivi u visini.


******************


Sastavite izvan mene moj unutrasnji svet.

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Fernando Pessoa - Lidiji

ODA

Dođi, sjedni do mene, Lidija, na obali rijeke.
Mirno gledajmo kako teče i naučimo od nje.
da život prolazi, a mi se ne držimo za ruke
(Držimo se za ruke)

Onda ćemo misliti, velika djeca, da ovaj život
prolazi i ne staje,ništa ne ostavlja i ne vraća se,
odlazi prema dalekom moru, odlazi Sudbini,
dalje od bogova.

Opustimo ruke jer nije vrijedno da se umaramo.
Uživali, ne uživali, prolazimo kao rijeka.
No treba znati prolaziti sasvim spokojno
i bez velikih uzbuđenja.

Bez ljubavi, bez mržnje i strasti koje podižu glas,
bez zavisti koja previše uznemirava oči,
bez briga, jer i s njima rijeka će jednako teći
i uvijek će odlaziti prema moru.

Volimo se spokojno, misleći da možemo,
ako hoćemo, izmijeniti poljupce, zagrljaje, milošte,
ali bolje je da sjedimo jedno pored drugoga
i da gledamo kako rijeka teče.

Naberimo cvjetova, uroni u njih i ostavi ih
u svom krilu, nek njihov miris blaži ovaj trenutak-
ovaj trenutak kada smireni ne vjerujemo ni u šta,
nevini pogani propadanja.

Bar ćeš ako postanem sjena, sjetiti mene poslije,
a da te sjećanje na me neće opeći ni raniti,
jer nikad se ne držasmo za ruke niti se poljubismo,
niti bijasmo drugo osim djeca.

I ako prije mene poneses obol mračnom brodaru,
neću morati da patim kad te se budem sjećao.
Bit ćeš mi blaga u spomenu kad te se sjetim na obali,
tužna poganko s cvijećem u krilu.
_________________

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I am the escaped one

I am the escaped one,
After I was born
They locked me up inside me
But I left.
My soul seeks me,
Through hills and valley,
I hope my soul
Never finds me.


From "The Keeper of Sheep"

I never kept sheep,
But it is as I did watch over them.
My soul is like a shepherd,
Knows the wind and the sun,
And goes hand in hand with the Seasons
To follow and to listen.
All peace of Nature without people
Comes to sit by my side.
But I remain sad like a sunset
As our imagining shows it,
When a chill falls at the side of the valley
And you feel night has come in
Like a butterfly through a window.

But my sadness is calm
Because it is natural and right
And is what there should be in the soul
When it is thinking it exists
And the hands are picking flowers without noticing
which.

At a jangle of sheep-bells
Beyond the bend of the road,
My thoughts are contented.
Only, I am sorry I know they are contented,
Because, if I did not know it,
Instead of being contented and sad,
They would be cheerful and contented.
To think is uncomfortable like walking in the rain
When the wind is rising and it looks like raining more.

I have no ambitions or wants.
To be a poet is not ambition of mine.
It is way of staying alone.

(...)

There is ample metaphysics in not thinking at all.

What do I think about the world?
How should I know what I think about the world?
If I were ill I would think about it.

What idea have I about things?
What opinion do I have on causes and effects?
What meditations have I had upon God and the soul
And upon the creation of the World?
I don't know. For me, to think about that is to shut
me eyes.
And not think. It is to draw the curtains
Of my window (but it has no curtains).

The mystery of things? How should I know I know what
mystery is?
The only mystery is there being somebody who might
think about mystery.
A man who stands in the sun and shuts his eyes
Begins not to know what the sun is
And to think many things full of heat.

But he opens his eyes and sees the sun,
And now he cannot think of anything,
Because the light of the sun is worth more than the
thoughts
Of all the philosophers and all the poets.
The light of the sun does not know what it is doing
And so does stray and is common and good.

Metaphysics? What metaphysics do those trees have?
That of being green and having crowns and branches
And that of giving fruit at their hours, - which is not
what makes us think,
Us, who don't know to be aware of them.
But what better metaphysics than theirs,
Which is not knowing why they live
And not knowing they don't know?

(...)

One wildly clear day,
The kind when you wish you had done a pile of work
Not to have to do any that day,
I caught sight, like a road ahead among trees,
Of what may be the Great Secret,
That Great Mystery the false poets speak of.

I saw that in no Nature,
That Nature does not exist,
That there are mountains, valleys, plains,
That there are trees, flowers, grasses,
That there are steams and stones,
But that there's not a whole to which this belongs,
That any real and true connection
Is a disease of our ideas.
Nature is parts without a whole.
This perhaps is that mystery they speak of.

This was what without thought or even a pause
I realised must be the truth
Which all set out to find and do not find
And I alone, because I did not try to find it, found.

I take myself indoors and shut the window.
They bring the lamp and give me goodnight,
And my contented voice gives them goodnight.
O that my life may always be this:
The day full of sun, or soft with rain,
Or stormy as if the word were coming to an end,
The evening soft and the groups of people passing
Watched with interest from the window,
The last friendly look given the calm of the trees,
And then, the window shut, the lamp lit,
Not reading anything, nor thinking of anything, not sleeping,
To feel life flowing over me like a stream over its bed,
And out there a great silence like a god asleep.


If, After I Die

If, after I die, they should want to write my biography,
There's nothing simpler.
I've just two dates - of my birth, and of my death.
In between the one thing and the other all the days are
mine.

I am easy to describe.
I lived like mad.
I loved things without any sentimentality.
I never had a desire I could not fulfil, because
I never went blind.
Even hearing was to me never more than an
accompaniment of seeing.
I understood that things are real and all different from
each other;
I understood it with the eyes, never with thinking.
To understand it with thinking would be to find them
all equal.

One day I felt sleepy like a child.
I closed my eyes and slept.
And by the way, I was only Nature poet.


I Am Tired

I am tired, that is clear,
Because, at certain stage, people have to be tired.
Of what I am tired, I don't know:
It would not serve me at all to know
Since the tiredness stays just the same.
The wound hurts as it hurts
And not in function of the cause that produced it.
Yes, I am tired,
And ever so slightly smiling
At the tiredness being only this -
In the body a wish for sleep,
In the soul a desire for not thinking
And, to crown all, a luminous transparency
Of the retrospective understanding ...
And the one luxury of not now having hopes?
I am intelligent: that's all.
I have seen much and understood much of what I
have seen.
And there is a certain pleasure even in tiredness
this brings us,
That in the end the head does still serve for
something.


I study myself but I can't perceive

I study myself but I can't perceive.
I'm so addicted to feeling that
I lose myself if I'm distracted
From the sensasions I receive.

This liquor I drink, the air I breathe,
Belong to the very way I exist:
I've never discovered how to resist
These hapless sensations I conceive.

Nor have I ever ascertained
If I really feel what I feel.
Am I what I seem to myselfe - the same?

Is the I I feel the I that's real?
Even with feelings I'm a bit of an atheist.
I don't even know if it's I who feels.


From "The Tobacco Shop"

I'm nothing.
I'll allways be nothing.
I can't even wish to be something.
Aside from that, I've got all the world's dream inside me.

Windows of my room,
The room of just one of the millions in the world nobody
knows
(And what would they know, if they knew that?),
You open on the mistery of a street people are constantly
crossing,
A street blocked off to all though,
A street that's real, impossibly real, and right,
unconsciously right,
With the mistery of things lying under live beings and
stones,
With death spreading darkness on walls and white hair on
heads,
With fate driving the cart of everything down nothingness
road.

Today I'm bowled over, as though hit by the truth.
Today I'm clearheaded, as though I were going to die,
Having no more brotherly feeling for things
Than to say good-bye, turning this house and this side of
the street
Into a line of coaches in a long train with its whistle
shrieking good-bye
From inside my head,
And a nerve-wracking, bone-razbijacing jerk as it moves off.

Today I'm mixed up, like someone who thought
something and grasped it, then lost it.
Today I'm torn between the allegiance I owe
Something real outside me - The Tobacco Shop across
the street,
And something real inside me - the feeling that it's all a
dream.

I failed in everything.
Since I was up to nothing, maybe it was all really
nothing.
From learning and training for anything useful I escaped
By slipping off to the country with great plans,
By found only grass and threes there,
And when there were people, they were just like any
others.
I leave the window, sit down in a chair. What should I
think about?

(...)

(Eat your chocolates, little girl!
Eat your chocolates!
Look, there's no metaphysics on earth but chocolates.
Look, all religions on earth have nothing more to teach
us than a candy store does.
Eat, dirty little girl, eat them up!
If I could gobble down those chocolates as trustily
as you do!
But I think, peeling off the silver wrapper, it's only
tinfoil,
And toss it in the floor, just as I've tossed away my life.)

But at least, out of my bitterness at what I'll never be,
There's the quick calligraphy of these lines,
The broken archway to the Impossible.
And at least I reserve for myself this dry-eyed contempt-
Noble, at least, in the great gesture I make
Flinging out the dirty clothes I am, with no laundry list,
into the drift of things,
And stay at home, shirtless.

(...)

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Meantime

Far away, far away,
Far away from here...
There is no worry after joy
Or away from fear
Far away from here.

Her lips were not very red,
Not her hair quite gold.
Her hands played with rings.
She did not let me hold
Her hands playing with gold.

She is something past,
Far away from pain.
Joy can touch her not, nor hope
Enter her domain,
Neither love in vain.

Perhaps at some day beyond
Shadows and light
She will think of me and make
All me a delight
All away from sight.

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Autopsihografija

Hinitelj je pjesnik pravi.
Hini tako cjelovito,
da bol hineć predpostavi,
bol što ćuti stanovito.

Čitatelji neprestano
ćute kroz bol dok čitaju,
ne to dvoje njemu dano,
neg tek ono što nemaju.

Sred tračnice tako kružne,
zabavljajuć razum time,
vrti mal se vlak na uže,
a njemu je srce ime.

Ovo

Kažu mi da sve što pišem
hinim, lažem. Ne, nikako.
Maštom ćutim, ništa više.
Isključivo njom, dakako.
Ne služim se srcem tako.

Sve što vidim ili sanjam,
što mi manjka il se svrši
ko balkon je nekog zdanja
što nad nečim drugim strši
koje lijepo baš sadrži.

Stoga pišem sred središta
onog što uopće nije.
Oslobođen okoliša,
o stvarnom ozbiljnije.
Osjetit? Osjetit će tko me štije.

Smrt dolazi

Smrt dolazi uvijek rano,
svaki život malo traje.
Trenutak je precrt samo
stvari koja iščezla je.

Ljubav tek smo započeli,
ideal se ne dostiže,
netko nešto postigne li,
taj i ne zna što postiže.

Jerbo smrt sve briše, nema
stvari neke postojane,
u knjižnici sudbine nam
da otvoren Bog ostane.

Neki što je čuo

Neki što je čuo moje stihove veli mi: «Pa što u njima ima nova?
Svatko znade da je cvijet cvijet, a stablo stablo.»
Odvratih mu: «Svatko? Zaista...
Drugi vole cvijeće stoga što je lijepo, ja se razlikujem.
Drugi vole drveće stoga što je zeleno i sjenovito, ja ne.
Volim cvijeće jer je cvijeće, izravno.
Volim drveće jer je drveće, bez primisli.»

Želim cvijet što si

Želim cvijet što si, ne onaj što daješ.
Jerbo mi odbijaš ono što ne ištem.
Bit će časa da odbiješ
poslije nego budeš dala.
Cvijete, budi mi cvijet! Ubere li te
kobne sfinge ruka lakoma, vječna ćeš
sjeno, lutati besmislena
tražeć' ono što ne dade.

Da budeš velik

Da budeš velik, budi cio: ništa svoje
ne pretjeruj, ne isključi.
Budi sav u svakoj stvari. Stavi ono što si
i u najmanje što činiš.
Tako nad svakim jezerom sav mjesec sjaje,
jerbo visoko živi.

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As long as I feel the full breeze in my hair

As long as I feel the full breeze in my hair
And see the sun shining bright on the leaves,
I will not ask for more.
What better thing could destiny give me
Than the sensual passing of life in moments
Of ignorance like this?
Wise is the one who does not seek.
The seeker will find in all things
The abys, and doubt in himself.

~ ~ ~

Dok god osjecam povjetarac u svojoj kosi
I dok vidim sunce koje sija po liscu
Ja necu traziti vise.
Sta jos sudbina moze da mi da
Do zivota koji se zivi u trenutku
Kakvo neznanje?
Mudar je onaj koji ne trazi.
Lutalica ce naci u svim stvarima
Ponor i sumnju u sebe.

Dopuna: 15 Feb 2007 4:29

Fate frightens me Lydia

Fate frightens me Lydia.
.............. Nothing is certain.
At any moment something could happen
To change all that we are.

When we leave what is known, the very step
We take is strange.
............ Grave numens guard
The customary boundaries.

We are no gods; ........ blind we fear,
And prefer the meager life we know
To novelty, ........... the abys.

Dopuna: 23 Apr 2007 16:07

From Keeper of the Sheep

18.

I'd rather be the dust of the road
And be trampled on by the feet of the poor ...

I'd rather be the rivers that flow
And have washerwomen along my shore ...

I'd rather be the poplars next to the river
With only the sky above and the water below ...

I'd rather be the miller's donkey
And have him beat me and care for me ...

Rather this than to go through life
Always looking back and feeling regret ...

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Napisano: 30 Nov 2011 23:05

NESANICA

Ne spavam, i ne nadam se snu.
Čak i u smrti ne nadam se snu.

Predstoji mi nesanica duga kao Mlečni put
I jedan zaludan zev koji će nadživeti svet.

Ne spavam; ne mogu da čitam kad se probudim noću.
Ne mogu da pišem kad se probudim noću,
Ne mogu da mislim kad se probudim noću –
Bože moj, ni da sanjam ne mogu kad se probudim noću!

Ah, kako me opija žudnja da budem bilo ko drugi!

Ne spavam, ležim, usplahiren, probuđeni leš,
A sve što osećam samo je prazna misao.

Pohode me, izobličene, stvari koje su mi se desile –
Sve one zbog kojih se stidim i kajem –;
Pohode me, izobličene, stvari koje mi se nisu desile –
Sve one zbog kojih se stidim i kajem –;
Pohode me, izobličene, stvari koje nisu ništa,
I čak se i zbog njih stidim, i kajem, i ne mogu da spavam.

Nisam u stanju da smognem snage i pripalim cigaretu.
Zurim u zid isped sebe kao da promatram svemir.
Napolju je tišina gluva za sve što se zbiva.
Neizmerna tišina koja bi u nekoj drugoj prilici bila strašna,
U svakoj drugoj prilici, kad bih samo mogao da osetim strah.

Ispisujem stihove zaista dopadljive –
Stihove da bih saopštio kako nemam šta da kažem,
Stihove da bih uporno ponavljao to isto,
Stihove, stihove, stihove, stihove, stihove...
Bezbroj stihova...
A sva istina, i sav život ostaju izvan njih i izvan mene!

Pospan sam, ne spavam, osećam, a ne znam čime
Ja sam čisto osećanje, nezavisno od čula,
Jedna puka apstrakcija samosvesti bez ličnosti,
Izuzev nužnosti koja uslovljava svest,
Izuzev – otkud znam izuzev čega...

Ne spavam. Ne spavam. Ne spavam.
Kakva teška sanjivost u glavi, na očnim kapcima, u duši!
Kakva teška sanjivost svuda osim u mogućnosti sna!

O zoro, previše kasniš... Dođi...
Dođi, uzaludno,
Da mi doneseš novi dan istovetan sa ovim, koji će smeniti druga noć,
Istovetna sa ovom...
Jer si uvek radosna i uvek donosiš nadu,
Ako je verovati staroj sentimentalnoj literaturi.

Dođi, donesi nadu, dođi, donesi nadu.
Moj umor se zavlači u jastuk.
Bole me leđa jer ne ležim na boku.
Da ležim na boku, bolela bi me leđa što ležim na boku.
Dođi zoro, požuri!

Koliko je sati? Ne znam.
Nemam snage da pružim ruku i dohvatim sat.
Nizašta nemam snage, nizašta više...
Samo za ove stihove, napisane sledećeg dana.
Da, napisane sledećeg dana.
Svi stihovi su uvek napisani sledećeg dana.

Napolju mrkla noć, savršeni spokoj.
Mir u svekolikoj prirodi.
Čovečanstvo otpočiva i zaboravlja svoje gorčine.
Baš tako.
Čovečanstvo zaboravlja svoje radosti i gorčine.
Tako se obično kaže.
Čovečanstvo zaboravlja, da, Čovečanstvo zaboravlja,
Ali čak i kad je budno, Čovečanstvo zaboravlja.
Baš tako. Ali ja ne spavam.

http://goo.gl/pZSVg


***

Ova stara teskoba,
Ova teskoba koju vekovima u sebi nosim,
Izlila se iz krčaga,
U suze, u puste maštarije,
U snove nalik na košmare bez strave,
U silna i nagla uzbuđenja lišena svakog smisla.

Izlila se,
Jedva i znam kako treba da se vladam u životu
S ovom mrzovoljom od koje mi se duša mršti!
Kamo sreće da sam zaista sišao s uma!
A umesto toga: ovo ni tamo ni ovamo,
Ovo otprilike,
Ovo i može i ne mora...,
Ovo.

Zatočenik u ludnici je barem neko.
Ja sam zatočen u ludnici bez ludnice.
Ja sam hladnokrvno lud,
Sumanut i oštrouman,
Svemu sam tuđ i jednak svima:
Spavam budan sa snovima koji su ludost
Jer nisu snovi.
Takav sam...

Jadna stara kućo mog izgubljenog detinjstva!
Šta bi rekla kad bi znala kakav sam beskućnik danas!
Šta se to desilo s tvojim mališanom? Poludeo je.
Šta je s onim što je spokojno spavao
Pod tvojim palanačkim krovom?
Poludeo je.
Šta li je s onim što sam bio? Poludeo je.
To sam danas ja.

Kad bih makar mogao da verujem u bilo šta!
Recimo u onaj totem donesen iz Afrike
Koji smo u čuvali u kući.
Bio je grozan, bio je nakaradan,
Al ipak, imao je u sebi nečeg božanskog,
Kao i sve u šta se veruje.
Kad bih barem mogao da verujem u neki totem –
Jupitera, Jehovu, Čovečanstvo –
Svaki bi mi dobro došao,
Jer ništa na svetu i ne postoji
Izvan onog što mislim da postoji.

Prsni, srce od bojenog stakla!

http://goo.gl/m0RDp


*

Počinjem da upoznajem sebe. Ne postojim.
Ja sam rastojanje između onog što želim da budem
I onog što su drugi načinili od mene,
Ili polovina tog rastojanja, jer tu i života ima...
Uostalom, to sam ja...
Neka se ugasi svetlost, i vrata nek se zatvore
Neka se samo šum papuča iz hodnika čuje.
Nek ostanemo u sobi sami ja i moj beskrajni mir.

Jeftin je ovo svemir.

http://goo.gl/kSfiw

Dopuna: 26 Nov 2012 22:52

***

U visokim granama bujnog drveća
Vetar stvara hladan i dubok šum.
U ovoj šumi, u tom zvuku se gubim
I osamljen razmišljam.
Tako na svetu, nad onim što osećam,
Neki vetar život stvara, i ostavlja ga, i uzima,
I ništa nema smisla - čak ni ova duša
Kojom mislim, samotan.


***

Nebrojeni u nama žive,
Ako mislim il osećam, ne znam
Ko je taj što misli il oseća.
Ja sam samo mesto
Gde se misli il oseća.

Imam više od jedne duše.
U meni je više ja od ovog jednog mene.
Ipak postojim
Prema svima ravnodušan.
Sve ih ućutkam: govorim ja.

Unakrsni impulsi
Svega što osećam il ne osećam
Bore se u ovom meni koji sam.
Ali pažnju ne obraćam. Ne diktiraju ništa
Onom meni koga znam: pišem sam.


KAKVA JE DRUGA OSOBA IZNUTRA

Kakva je druga osoba iznutra
Ko bi to mogao i da sanja?
Tuđa je duša druga vasiona
S kojom je nemoguća svaka spona,
S kojom nema istinskog razumevanja.

Jedino sopstvena duša
Nije nam nepoznata.
Duše drugih su pogledi,
Pokreti, reči,
S pretpostavkom izvesne sličnosti
U dubini.


JOŠ TUŽNIJE OD ONOG ŠTO SE ZBIVA

Još tužnije od onog što se zbiva
Jeste ono što se nikad nije zbilo.
Moje srce, ko je rastužio?
Ko ga je mojim učinio?

S oblakom stiže tama da zamrači
Široko polje ispod neba.
Sećanja? Sve se zaboravlja.
Život je samo ono što se gubi.
Pa kako još čovek da ne poludi?
Jedan taj u meni koga zovem ja.


BOG

Ponekad sam Bog koga u sebi nosim
I tada sam Bog i vernik i molitva
I slika od slonovače
U kojoj su zaboravili tog Boga.

Ponekad sam samo nevernik
Tog ličnog Boga u koga se pretvaram u zanosu.
Posmatram u sebi celo jedno nebo
A to je samo nebo visoko i šuplje.


***

Na kraju svega - zaspati.
Na kraju čega?
Na kraju svega što prividno postoji...
Ovaj mali palanački svemir usred zvezda,
Ovo zabačeno seoce u prostoru,
I to ne samo u vidljivom prostoru,
Već i u prostoru svekolikom.

• 2Ovo se svidja korisnicima: jelkica7, Dusan
  
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Čitam već drugi put od jutros. hvala, jelkice...
A Ivan V. Lalić kaže:
" U nesanici drugog sna je koren:
Sposobnost da si drugacije budan..."