Poem
Ruy Belo
THE GAME OF QUOITS
In this square my childhood resurrectshere my life suddenly has a new wellspring
and surges with the force it had when it started
The time hasn’t passed only my consciousness
which I feel temporarily transported back a few years
only my familiar sensation of reflecting on that time
of being a spectator of the succession of succeeding days
of not just living of not living without even knowing I live
in a delimited space where things and people
evidently were because they simply were
only that consciousness and sensation make me suspect
that the time that never passed has passed
The churchyard in late afternoon the game of quoits
the clatter of the quoits the iron stakes
the sun setting on itself and round like a simple
quoit tossed by someone through the space of the day
and ready to fall into the sea as onto a stake
the extravagant and thoughtless act of tossing
the quoit as if in that act life itself were at stake
the stock-still profiles of those who look on
with caps on their heads and hands in their pockets
it all happened it happens here thirty-five years ago
as if here no one had gotten old
or suffered or died or endured
the enormous hunger needed to produce one rich man
as if no one here had gone in search of his country
in countries far far away from here
It’s the very same churchyard same afternoon same quoits
Even this café where I sit watching and watch with my thinking
is the same café where I split my first beer
with my father a beer that resisted
the heat of the summer day
in that wicker basket submerged in that well
It’s the same taste I’ve had in my mouth
for many years now chewing wine and bread and life
the taste of women the taste of girls
forever inaccessible like any absolute
forever impossible yet pursued as if possible
the taste of defeat or the taste of palpable
earth day by day running through my fingers
and one day bound to fill my mouth forever
I’ve aged I know and all I’ve gained
is what I lost. I’m a grown-up now.
Meanwhile night has engulfed everything the game is over
and across the sky of time there was a man who passed
or a certain quoit that by chance was hurled into life
and that lives in the precarious trajectory before the fall
© Translation: 2003, Richard Zenith
O Jogo do Chinquilho
O Jogo do Chinquilho
Renasce neste largo a minha infânciaa minha vida tem aqui nova nascente
e jorra de repente com o ímpeto do início
O tempo não passou ou só a consciência
que provisoriamente sinto de voltar alguns anos atrás
a sensação que sei de reflectir sobre esse tempo
de ser um espectador de sucessivos sucedidos dias
de não viver apenas não viver sem sequer saber que vivo
num espaço demarcado onde as coisas e os homens
eram tanto que eram simplesmente
só essa consciência e sensação me fazem suspeitar
de que passou o tempo que nunca passou
O adro o fim da tarde o jogo do chinquilho
o ruído das malhas os paulitos
o sol poente sobre si redondo como simples
malha atirada por alguém pelo espaço do dia
e prestes a cair no mar como nas tábuas
o gesto perdulário e impensado de jogar
a malha como quem num gesto joga a vida
as silhuetas hirtas dos que assistem
de boné ou barrete na cabeça e mãos nos bolsos
tudo se passa aqui ali há trinta e cinco anos
como se aqui ninguém houvesse envelhecido
nem sofrido ou morrido ou suportado
toda a imensa fome requerida para produzir um rico
como se aqui ninguém tivesse demandado
longe de aqui o seu país noutros países
Tudo é o mesmo adro a mesma tarde o mesmo jogo
Até este café onde sentado olho e penso por olhar
é afinal o mesmo onde bebi a meias com meu pai
a primeira cerveja uma cerveja vinda
através do calor do dia de verão
nesse cesto de vime nesse poço mergulhado
É o mesmo o sabor que sempre sinto nesta boca
há muitos anos já mordendo o vinho o pão a vida
o sabor das mulheres das raparigas
inacessíveis sempre como um absoluto
sempre impossível tido no entanto por possível
o sabor da derrota ou o sabor da terra
sensível dia a dia nos meus dedos
e um dia susceptível de me encher a boca para sempre
Envelheci eu sei e só ganhei
o que perdi. Sou de uma adulta idade
E entretanto tudo a noite rodeou e o jogo acabou
e pelo céu do tempo houve um homem que passou
ou uma certa malha arremessada por acaso à vida
e viva na precária trajectória antes de caída
© 1973, Ruy Belo
From: Todos os Poemas
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
From: Todos os Poemas
Publisher: Assírio & Alvim, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of Ruy Belo
Close
THE GAME OF QUOITS
In this square my childhood resurrectshere my life suddenly has a new wellspring
and surges with the force it had when it started
The time hasn’t passed only my consciousness
which I feel temporarily transported back a few years
only my familiar sensation of reflecting on that time
of being a spectator of the succession of succeeding days
of not just living of not living without even knowing I live
in a delimited space where things and people
evidently were because they simply were
only that consciousness and sensation make me suspect
that the time that never passed has passed
The churchyard in late afternoon the game of quoits
the clatter of the quoits the iron stakes
the sun setting on itself and round like a simple
quoit tossed by someone through the space of the day
and ready to fall into the sea as onto a stake
the extravagant and thoughtless act of tossing
the quoit as if in that act life itself were at stake
the stock-still profiles of those who look on
with caps on their heads and hands in their pockets
it all happened it happens here thirty-five years ago
as if here no one had gotten old
or suffered or died or endured
the enormous hunger needed to produce one rich man
as if no one here had gone in search of his country
in countries far far away from here
It’s the very same churchyard same afternoon same quoits
Even this café where I sit watching and watch with my thinking
is the same café where I split my first beer
with my father a beer that resisted
the heat of the summer day
in that wicker basket submerged in that well
It’s the same taste I’ve had in my mouth
for many years now chewing wine and bread and life
the taste of women the taste of girls
forever inaccessible like any absolute
forever impossible yet pursued as if possible
the taste of defeat or the taste of palpable
earth day by day running through my fingers
and one day bound to fill my mouth forever
I’ve aged I know and all I’ve gained
is what I lost. I’m a grown-up now.
Meanwhile night has engulfed everything the game is over
and across the sky of time there was a man who passed
or a certain quoit that by chance was hurled into life
and that lives in the precarious trajectory before the fall
© 2003, Richard Zenith
From: Todos os Poemas
From: Todos os Poemas
THE GAME OF QUOITS
In this square my childhood resurrectshere my life suddenly has a new wellspring
and surges with the force it had when it started
The time hasn’t passed only my consciousness
which I feel temporarily transported back a few years
only my familiar sensation of reflecting on that time
of being a spectator of the succession of succeeding days
of not just living of not living without even knowing I live
in a delimited space where things and people
evidently were because they simply were
only that consciousness and sensation make me suspect
that the time that never passed has passed
The churchyard in late afternoon the game of quoits
the clatter of the quoits the iron stakes
the sun setting on itself and round like a simple
quoit tossed by someone through the space of the day
and ready to fall into the sea as onto a stake
the extravagant and thoughtless act of tossing
the quoit as if in that act life itself were at stake
the stock-still profiles of those who look on
with caps on their heads and hands in their pockets
it all happened it happens here thirty-five years ago
as if here no one had gotten old
or suffered or died or endured
the enormous hunger needed to produce one rich man
as if no one here had gone in search of his country
in countries far far away from here
It’s the very same churchyard same afternoon same quoits
Even this café where I sit watching and watch with my thinking
is the same café where I split my first beer
with my father a beer that resisted
the heat of the summer day
in that wicker basket submerged in that well
It’s the same taste I’ve had in my mouth
for many years now chewing wine and bread and life
the taste of women the taste of girls
forever inaccessible like any absolute
forever impossible yet pursued as if possible
the taste of defeat or the taste of palpable
earth day by day running through my fingers
and one day bound to fill my mouth forever
I’ve aged I know and all I’ve gained
is what I lost. I’m a grown-up now.
Meanwhile night has engulfed everything the game is over
and across the sky of time there was a man who passed
or a certain quoit that by chance was hurled into life
and that lives in the precarious trajectory before the fall
© 2003, Richard Zenith
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