Sounds Like Lisbon - Sally Ashton

I wake up to the sound of clattering dishes coming through the open window of the room where I’m staying, the hostel’s kitchen crew getting ready for the morning rush of hungry travelers, some in for a night or two, many, like myself, part of the Disquiet program and staying for 2 weeks. The motors of morning—birds, blowers, a shower running, the air conditioner’s hum, a church bell tracking time—all familiar by now, even the filtered light that manages to slide between buildings to begin the day.

What I’ve had the most difficulty becoming familiar with is the Portuguese language, one by sound frequently compared to Russian. Having studied Spanish many years, I expected to find a familiar latinate I’ve encountered in Italian and French, languages I can roughly navigate via phrasebook, careful listening, and the kindness of native speakers. However, Portugal’s early global dominance allowed the language to develop with exotic influence from Moors, Africa, Brazil, China, Japan. Vowels bend and disappear, r’s hover somewhere between palate and throat, and the unpredictable s slides and unexpectedly shifts to my best-phonetic-attempt-while-sipping-beer-at a street café might be pronounced “zgh.” (maybe “shz?”). But, I’ve managed the basics, ordering coffee and pasteis de nata, Lisbon’s national, irresistible pastry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But back to sounds. Besides leading a workshop, I’m here to discover as much as I can about one of Portugal’s voices, its literature, especially its poetry. Can you quickly name a famous Portuguese poet besides Fernando Pessoa? I would like to introduce you to another national treasure, the revered poet, Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen….simply called Sophia. Yes, Portugal is a country which embraces poetry and poets. Read more about Sophia here, including more poems. Here’s one I’m fond of. 

FURIES

Banished from sin and the sacred
Now they inhabit the humble intimacy
Of daily life. They are
The leaky faucet the late bus
The soup that boils over
The lost pen the vacuum that doesn’t vacuum
The taxi that doesn’t come the mislaid receipt
Shoving pushing waiting
Bureaucratic madness

Without shouting or staring
Without bristly serpent hair
With the meticulous hands of the day-to-day
They undo us

They’re the peculiar wonder of the modern world
Faceless and maskless
Nameless and breathless
The thousand-headed hydras of efficiency gone haywire

They no longer pursue desecrators and parricides
They prefer innocent victims
Who did nothing to provoke them
Thanks to them the day loses its smooth expanses
Its juice of ripe fruits
Its fragrance of flowers
Its high-sea passion
And time is transformed
Into toil and the rush
Against time

~Sophia

I have been saddened to discover that much of Portuguese literature remains untranslated, and I will continue to introduce you to a few more poets that I discover over the next days.

Okay? A bit more music to go out on. The sounds of fado, another national treasure, the music of Lisbon played in streets and cafés as well as on professional stages. Here is Ana Moura, a popular performer.

 

Tonight, I’ll attend a tribute another poet who has had exposure in the US, including a recent tribute held in NYC at Poet’s House, Alberto de Lacerda. Wait for it….

 Bom dia!

Comments

[Lisa]

Hi Sally,
It sounds to me like you are in heaven. The music, the language, the clattering of morning dishes, the poetry...and, as long you have more or less mastered the ordering of coffee and pastry, (especially ones that look like that, I want to say, mutherf***er, but I will say glorious creation!) you are all set. Wow. Have fun and keep sending us music. It is so incredibly heart-pulling. How do they DO that?? Thanks! Lisa
p.s. the Sophia poem is fantastic. Thanks for that too!

[Sally]

Thanks for listening, Lisa! I'm trying hard to keep paying attention to all I can. ~sally

[Stacey]

Sally, I love the Portuguese "s" and I think you've mastered it! I have so many vivid memories of that country. When I was there, people still went to the town squares at night to walk around (just as in Guadalajara, in Ashbery's "The Instruction Manual"). The men wore wonderful bright colored sweaters. And those pastries!
Thanks for bringing this all to life. And thanks for poetry.

[Pushpa]

"...the day loses its smooth expanses...
And time is transformed
Into toil and the rush
Against time..."

So true. I can totally relate to this.
Sally, I'm grateful to your blog for keeping the rest of us, who are not in Portugal, in the loop. Thank you.

[Sally]

I wish you were all here to marvel in the light, the night, the flavors and sounds...

[The Best American Poetry]

I, too, love the fado, and Portuguese food, and my imagination of Lisbon (based on Pessoa's poems, the sound of the name, its function in "Casablanca," the Tagus River, and what Stacey says about the place). Never been there, but my dream vacation is Lisbon and the beaches of the Algarve.
Thank you for introducing us to Sophia. Lovely poem. Who translated it?
DL

[Sally]

Sorry for the tardy response. Richard Zenith translated this piece.

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Nice, Sally! -Paula Neves-that's pronounced Neve"zgsh". Lol