The poem that you’ll find below bears no dedication, although it would never have been written, had I not been driven to learn more about Portugal last summer. My interest was sparkled by the work of Victor Gama that I came across during Futuresonic Festival in Manchester in July 2006. Rather naturally, I suppose, I got interested not only in his work, but also in Portugal and Angola. However, my knowledge and understanding of Europe is overall better than that of Africa, whereby I focused on Portugal, especially since I’ve never been there.

So, I was searching Google Images when I saw the picture that captivated my attention straight away. It was taken by a Portuguese photographer, Joao Leitao, and commemorates a fountain, which – to judge by many other images of it that I would find later – is a powerful tourist attraction in itself. To say that Leitao’s photograph is atmospheric is to say nothing, really. For a colour image, it is unique and is all the more impressive because it carries an air of an old oil painting.

In early October I suddenly managed to put my impressions about this picture into words, and so this poem came to life. The English text is a word-for-word translation, thus unfortunately it doesn’t give an idea of how this poem actually sounds in Russian. Anapaest is the main foot (i.e. two unstressed syllables+one stressed); odd lines contain six stressed syllables, followed by two unstressed; even lines contain five stressed syllables, followed by one unstressed.

If any poetry translator is reading this, and would like to try their hand at adapting the word-for-word translation, you’re very welcome to publish it right in the comment field or to email me. I’m sure all parties who were involved, directly or indirectly, in the making of this poem, will appreciate the effort.

Синтра. Пейзаж в тонах Веласкеса

Julie Delvaux/Жюли Дельво © 2006

The poem was first published here.

(Sintra. A Dimly Tinted Landscape)

At dawn an old huge sky, exhausted after a night of tears,
Has gone coarse and expires the pieces of white fog
On the houses and valleys of the once beloved papal daughter,
Who used to rampage the ancient calm of the oceans.

At this hour on Sunday a newsagent stands on the cone of a wet street,
Stooping, performing the sacrament of the media-mass, –
But his citizens are still sleep and don’t take interest
In the visions of a new prophet of the printing-press.

A streetlight carelessly holds on to brick wall by the hook
And swings in rhythm above the cobbles. The winds
Carry the winterly, ghostly cold to the town on the edge of mankind,
To the hills of Sintra. And in the dim gleams of sunrise

A lone fountain, overrun with the sky’s stippled reflection
That pours down its farthingale in streams,
Cries in silence, having noticed the motion of life for the first time,
And looks in esctasy over the plain of the roof-tiles).