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Rui Knopfli

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Self Portrait

From the Portuguese, I have a lyrical nostalgia
for all things past, a childhood
shrouded between crazy sunflowers and fun;
the Arab ardour of my eyes, the penchant
for extremes: from ready tear
to sudden incandescence of a cutting word,
from heady laughter to most bitter anguish.

From the Portuguese, a gruesome streak, a soul
encrusted with fado, resistant to all
ablations of a cultural kind, the sure knowledge
that red wine’s better than white
attesting in the brimful cup, the orthodoxy
of certain victuals of telluric taste and texture.

From the Portuguese, the knowing look, concupiscent
and multiracial, quick to take in breasts
half-glimpsed, a flash of leg, a hint of bum;
the apt reply ready on the tongue,
the heart-warming pleasure of malicious gossip.

From the Swiss, I have great grandfather’s inheritance:
an antique pocket watch and a peculiar, vagrant name.

Translated by Suzette Macedo

Page(s) 193

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