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A poet is a feigner

Autopsychography

by Fernando Pessoa, translated by Richard Zenith

The poet is a feigner                                                                                                                       who is so good at his act                                                                                                                   he even feigns the pain                                                                                                                   of pain he feels in fact.

And those who read his words                                                                                                         Will feel in his writing                                                                                                                       neither of the pains he has                                                                                                             but just the one they’re missing.

And so around its track                                                                                                                      this thing called the heart winds,                                                                                                   a little clockwork train                                                                                                                     to entertain our minds.

‘Autopsychography’ is Portuguese Fernando Pessoa’s (1888-1935) most translated poem. I think the reason why it has been repeatedly translated is the fact that so many authors finding an echo in Pessoa’s words. A poet fakes his pains, even when the pain he portrays is the pain he indeed feels, and it’s all in the name of the creative process. When I write about my own emotions and feelings, there is always a creative process that alters the pain as it is described. Below is my working translation. Any authors with any thoughts on this?

Autopsychigraphy

The poet is an actor.                                                                                                                     He acts so sincerely,                                                                                                                       he even pretends it is pain,                                                                                                             the pain he feels truly.

And those who read his works,                                                                                                   in reading his pains can feel,                                                                                                           not the poet’s fake and real pains,                                                                                            but only the ones they never felt.

And so, entertaining the reason                                                                                                     rides this little clockwork toy,                                                                                                         that we call the heart,                                                                                                                       round and round on its track.

Thanks for stopping by xoxo

 

 

Author:

I am a student of English and Creative Writing. I am Portuguese but I have lived in the UK since 2002. Words are my magical place. I am a mother, have a day time job and a partner who is the love of my life.

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