A review by oblomov
35 Sonnets by Fernando Pessoa

2.0

Year of New Authors

'Thank God That's Over'
A Short, Severely Shite Poem Review by Oblomov McTwonk III

I try, I try so very hard with poetry,
Though my goodwill is oft met with futility.
And as valiant as my trying is,
Tis' little here but solipstic ennui and lovelessness.

These sonnets supposedly bear the note of brilliance,
But of this written misery, my eyes saw nought but pants.
Pessoa's lines of tongue twisters felt irritatingly absurd,
But true annoyance lay within his endlessly reusing words.

Methinks the author decided why use but one word, one time,
Why force a more beautiful and complex rhyme,
If in lyrical plagerisim you can cheat,
And fill your wordcount with constant repeats.

To give but one such example of many I thought obscene:

‘‘Recalling not past joy's thought, but its mien.
Yet joy was joy when it enjoyed was
And after-enjoyed when as joy recalled’

See what I bloody mean?

And yet, through moody, darkened verses,
I recognise there a genuine wounded soul he nurses,
Some rare, catching beauty did let itself appear,
And for one of only two sonnets I enjoyed, look here:

XVII
My love, and not I, is the egoist.
My love for thee loves itself more than thee;
Ay, more than me, in whom it doth exist,
And makes me live that it may feed on me.
In the country of bridges the bridge is
More real than the shores it doth unsever;
So in our world, all of Relation, this
Is true— that truer is Love than either lover.
This thought therefore comes lightly to Doubt's door—
If we, seeing substance of this world, are not
Mere Intervals, God's Absence and no more,
Hollows in real Consciousness and Thought.
And if 'tis possible to Thought to bear this fruit,
Why should it not be possible to Truth?

But with language sad, my soul unmoved,
Most songs just left me most bemused.
And with so lacking a thesaurus he,
How did these songs achieve posterity?

To defend these sonnets of which I longed for an ending,
(Fuck knows my patience was quickly spending),
I believe I've found the real traitor,
And lay much blame on the naff translator.

Though you may try a more artful edition,
I doubt t'would truly save this work from perdition.
Should thee attempt these sonnets what did my head in?
I'd stick to Poe, Lermontov or Wilfred Owen.