Heteronym
06-23-2011, 07:45 PM
Portuguese poet of Irish descent (1924-1986), and one of the founders of the Portuguese surrealist movement. O'Neill had contacts with the members of French surrealism and although the movement quickly ended in Portugal, surrealism continued to play an important role in his poetry, which is playful, ironic and experimental in nature. He was also arrested several times by the secret police and under surveillance; this may be in the origin of one of his best poems:
An Unoriginal Poem About Fear
Fear will have everything
legs
ambulances
and the armored luxury
of a few cars
It will have eyes no one sees
cautious little hands
almost innocent schemes
ears not only in the walls
but also in the floor
in the ceiling
in the gurgle of drainpipes
and perhaps even (caution!)
ears in your ears
Fear will have everything
phantoms at the opera
ongoing séances
miracles
processions
courageous words
model daughters
honest pawnshops
naughty brothels
various conferences
numerous congresses
excellent jobs
original poems
and poems like this one
utterly sordid projects
heroes
(fear will have heroes!)
real and unreal dressmakers
factory workers
(more or less)
office clerks
(lots)
intellectuals
(what you’d expect)
perhaps your voice
perhaps mine
undoubtedly theirs
It will have capitals
countries
suspicions like everybody
countless friends
kisses
green sweethearts
silent
passionate
anguished lovers
Yes fear will have everything
everything
(I think about what fear will have
and I’m afraid
that’s exactly
what fear wants)
*
Fear will have everything
almost everything
and all of us in our different ways
are bound to come
almost all of us
to rats
Yes
to rats
Some of his other poems:
Cat
What are you doing there, cat?
What ambiguity have you come to look at?
Master of yourself, cautious, you wend
your way, testy and always in disguise,
hiding what, in fact, you haven’t got and I must lend
to you, oh cat, nightmare slow and quick,
soft, puffy fur, ice cold eyes.
Of what obscure force are you the dwelling place?
What crime have you witnessed and in what spot?
What god gave you your sudden claw
that signs in red this hand, that face?
Oh cat, accomplice to a fearful law
still without words, without a plot,
who are we, your owners or your slaves?
Simply Expressive
Make your verse flawed,
but do it for a reason:
with flaws that aren’t mistakes,
in the fight against what’s pretty.
Seize for me those perfectly
round rhymes that are
the sweet rolls of fools
and break their necks,
as someone else demanded
that we do to eloquence.
And if there’s an Excellency
who screams “This isn’t poetry!”,
tell him that no, it isn’t –
it’s a stumbling, it’s sandpaper,
the act of sawing, crushed glass,
shredded paper or a stone roll-
ing against a stone . . .
But you can also make use
of neat, regular rhyme,
for the rule is there’s no rule
except for your own rule,
with your rhyme and rhythm,
to make it not simply pretty
but simply expressive . . .
Standing at Fearful Attention
Standing at fearful attention, we’re grateful
to fear, which keeps us from going mad.
Decision and courage are bad
for our health; life without living is safer.
Adventurers whose adventures are history,
standing in fear we struggle against
ironic ghosts in our ongoing quest
for what we never were and won’t be.
Standing in fear with no voice of our own,
our heart ground up by our teeth, we are
the madmen, we’re our own ghosts.
A flock of sheep pursued by fear,
we live so together and so alone
that life’s meaning has disappeared.
An Unoriginal Poem About Fear
Fear will have everything
legs
ambulances
and the armored luxury
of a few cars
It will have eyes no one sees
cautious little hands
almost innocent schemes
ears not only in the walls
but also in the floor
in the ceiling
in the gurgle of drainpipes
and perhaps even (caution!)
ears in your ears
Fear will have everything
phantoms at the opera
ongoing séances
miracles
processions
courageous words
model daughters
honest pawnshops
naughty brothels
various conferences
numerous congresses
excellent jobs
original poems
and poems like this one
utterly sordid projects
heroes
(fear will have heroes!)
real and unreal dressmakers
factory workers
(more or less)
office clerks
(lots)
intellectuals
(what you’d expect)
perhaps your voice
perhaps mine
undoubtedly theirs
It will have capitals
countries
suspicions like everybody
countless friends
kisses
green sweethearts
silent
passionate
anguished lovers
Yes fear will have everything
everything
(I think about what fear will have
and I’m afraid
that’s exactly
what fear wants)
*
Fear will have everything
almost everything
and all of us in our different ways
are bound to come
almost all of us
to rats
Yes
to rats
Some of his other poems:
Cat
What are you doing there, cat?
What ambiguity have you come to look at?
Master of yourself, cautious, you wend
your way, testy and always in disguise,
hiding what, in fact, you haven’t got and I must lend
to you, oh cat, nightmare slow and quick,
soft, puffy fur, ice cold eyes.
Of what obscure force are you the dwelling place?
What crime have you witnessed and in what spot?
What god gave you your sudden claw
that signs in red this hand, that face?
Oh cat, accomplice to a fearful law
still without words, without a plot,
who are we, your owners or your slaves?
Simply Expressive
Make your verse flawed,
but do it for a reason:
with flaws that aren’t mistakes,
in the fight against what’s pretty.
Seize for me those perfectly
round rhymes that are
the sweet rolls of fools
and break their necks,
as someone else demanded
that we do to eloquence.
And if there’s an Excellency
who screams “This isn’t poetry!”,
tell him that no, it isn’t –
it’s a stumbling, it’s sandpaper,
the act of sawing, crushed glass,
shredded paper or a stone roll-
ing against a stone . . .
But you can also make use
of neat, regular rhyme,
for the rule is there’s no rule
except for your own rule,
with your rhyme and rhythm,
to make it not simply pretty
but simply expressive . . .
Standing at Fearful Attention
Standing at fearful attention, we’re grateful
to fear, which keeps us from going mad.
Decision and courage are bad
for our health; life without living is safer.
Adventurers whose adventures are history,
standing in fear we struggle against
ironic ghosts in our ongoing quest
for what we never were and won’t be.
Standing in fear with no voice of our own,
our heart ground up by our teeth, we are
the madmen, we’re our own ghosts.
A flock of sheep pursued by fear,
we live so together and so alone
that life’s meaning has disappeared.