Pessoa's trunk

"Autopsicografia"

O poeta é um fingidor.
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.

E os que lêem o que escreve,
Na dor lida sentem bem,
Não as duas que ele teve,
Mas só que éles não têm.

E assim nas calhas de roda
Gira, a entreter a razão
Ésse comboio de corda
Que se chama o coração

—Fernando Pessoa

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"Self-Analysis"

The poet is a forger who
Forges so completely that
He forges even the feeling
He feels truly as pain

And those who read his poems
Feel absolutely, not his two
Separate pains, but only the
Pain that they do not feel

And thus, diverting the
Understanding, the wind-up
Train we call the heart
Runs along its track.

—George Monteiro

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"Autopsychograph"

Poets are liars.
They lie so completely
That they make up pain
Even when they're hurting.

Readers of poetry
Can know this pain,
Not the real ones of course,
But the imagined ones.

And on the train rails
Huffing, fooling the head
This little toy engine
We call the heart.

—James Parr

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"Autopsychography"

Poets pretend
They pretend so well
They even pretend
They suffer what they suffer.

But their readers feel
Nor the pain that pretends
Nor the pain that is
But only their own that isn't real.

And so upon toy rails
Circling reason like an art
Runs round the model train
That's known by the name of heart.

—Martin Seymour-Smith