"tagus" poems
Niccolo di bernardo di Machiavelli
Ang taong may pera ngunit di makabili
Ng mga bagay para sa kanyang sarili
Inuuna parati ang bisyong pambababae
Ngunit kelan ba ang araw na nagkaroon ka ng *****
Akoy nagtataka dahil Pogi ka naman di lang halata
Nakikita kitang laging sawi, Ang sagot mo “sa susunod nalang babawi”
Paulit ulit at parati, di ka nagsasawa laging may pili
Niccolo, Niccolo, ang buhay mo man ay magulo
May makapagbagbagbagbag damdaming kwento
Tagus sa balat at sagad buto
Hanep ang yong liriko, liriko
Niccolo, Niccolo, ang isipan **** magulo
Sa larangang paborito Kakaibang istilo mo, Niccolò
Babangon Ilang beses man madapa,
Ang pangarap mo ay makukuwa
Pagkat ang sipag moy di matutumbasan
Apak apakan ka man ng sino man,
Walang kang pake alam, bastat deretso kalang
At sa iyong pananaw, prinsipyong di maagaw
Isip Di mababaw, pagkat ayaw mo ng hilaw
Dahil....
Niccolo, Niccolo, ang buhay mo man ay magulo
May makapagbagbagbagbag damdaming kwento
Tagus sa balat at sagad buto
Hanep ang yong liriko, liriko
Niccolo, Niccolo, ang isipan **** magulo
Sa larangang paborito Kakaibang istilo mo, Niccolò
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
The sun has long disappeared behind the stage
I'm inspired and sweaty and feeling my age
The amplifiers still ringing in my ears
The smell of the Tagus draws in and I take my tired frame up winding streets
The cafés are open. Piano music. Shoes on cobbles providing the beat
Sat silently listening to the late urban shuffle, people appear from narrow openings between tired, tiled buildings
Are the up late, are they up early?
It's been a long day. A day of fleeting smiles.
I think of you, and there's one more.
This one lasts.
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 8:06 PM UTC
I woke early
this morning in Lisbon
before the birds chirped
the traffic shattered
the silent room in the
Sao Bento Guesthouse
and the old tram
struggled, groaned up
the steep hill
She stirred beside me
even and measured breaths
I turned on the white light
and read Pessoa
and Florbella Espanca
poets of the past
of the hilled city
split poetic personalities
the one
she, the other,
a killer of
her self
"Abre os elhos e encara a vida!"*
advice not taken
today we'll walk those hills
ride those trams
and eat seafood along the Tagus
as we ignore
the passing
of our lives
*open your eyes and face your life
Dec 29, 2020
Dec 29, 2020 at 3:38 PM UTC
I walk my life, a subway station
Where dirt consorts
The air around.
It pounds my nape,
It flames my mind
With sights and fates
And sounds.
Above, a tram goes up the alley
Tinged with canary hue.
Below, my wit:
What void, what valley:
It sank, in Tagus mused.
I take a seat, doors screech behind.
O, what wondrous whiffs?
Of metal beams
Attriting loudly
Against metal wheels?
To a halt it cuts my chain of thought,
Rivals my dream, they brawl.
'Tis from the gallery
Of broken hope
The beggar man crawls.
Intemperate horns his entry announce,
Dysphoric scenes aground.
He comes detuned
Near clears his throat,
Lethargic voice resounds:
I beat my cane
In wrongful rhythm,
'Cause wrongful
Was my life.
My voice hurts from
All this singing:
'Twas morphed into
A sigh.
I longed, I longed
For all my sinning
Was ought to be repaid.
Deserved so much,
God took my
Will, my sight,
My love, my
Name.
So tell me, vagrant,
What did He take?
-Said I-
Who has loved you?
What is your will,
What name did you go by?
I used to be a man of soul
Whose heart beat strong and dign,
I used to write
And then I died
On the 10th before July.
He took my coins for all my service
At wars:
At land
At sea
-The waves still have her,
Laying there still,
Waiting away from me!-
Said he-
I will my love,
My fire, passion
-My young Natercia!-
Most darling of all nymphaea!
So God is just after all,
Replacing sin with grief.
No need for me
To pay the man:
God has done the deed.
The deadbeat coins of his cup
Turmoil ever so slightly.
I leave my dream,
Doors shrill again:
'Tis time to end my journey.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 9:28 PM UTC
Winter in Lisbon
Up rua Garret I walked and it is steep in baixa, the old heart of
this grand city, past shops that sell lottery ticket, besides a shop that sells
religious artefacts, and a shop that sells Cartier watches.
If you win there is money enough to decorate your mother's grave
and to buy a posh watch.
At the top of the street of the street a café Brasilia, it used to be
Fernando Pessoa's drinking den, now it is upmarket, suit and short
hair place who drinks tea and eat pastry; their forefathers used to
look down their noses at Fernando, now they are proud of him.
Irreverent poets can go somewhere else to drink.
The master poet is a statue outside his café in the rain, and tourists
take picture of him, one wonders what he thinks of it all.
There is also a statue of Antonio Ribero Chiado, a poet who lived
in the sixteen hundred, the largo is called after him, he was bald
and dressed like a monk.
I could see the river Tagus where tug-boats ply their in grey waters,
and remembered when I used to be a ******
The church across the street “Incarnacao”, where Antonio used to pray
is beautifully restored, but his God had left by the back door
the front door was too heavy but saw a woman weeping in front
of a statue of Christos, ***** for the masses? Why not?
It is getting dark the Portuguese suits are swallowed by the metro,
and men with cardboard boxes look for a doorway to sleep in.
Over this scene hovers Amalia Rodrigues the great Fado singer,
born in poverty, she hums a song for the wretched.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC