CARRACK books is an imprint of TEGNER Publishing focused on the world of art. Our journey started in 2018 with Sonnets from Copenhagen, hoping to discover new ideas and ways of expressing feelings, looking for unknown colours and shapes.
Poetry is our main sail. Sail with us. Sail on words.
A tribute to Copenhagen.
Illustrated with photos by Viktor Tegner, which reveal some of the city’s fascinating sides.
Pierre Sotér and Viktor Tegner
Series
Discover the Classics
A series of selected poetry from the most talented writers of all time.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
Sonnets from the Portuguese
WALT WHITMAN
Song of Myself
and other poems
Coming Soon
THOMAS HARDY
In Various Moods
selected poems
Coming Soon
Series
Descobrir os Clássicos
Poesia seleccionada dos maiores vultos da língua portuguesa e dos seus talentos menos divulgados.
No prelo: Gil Vicente, Sá de Miranda, Diogo Bernardes, Rodrigues Lobo, Violante Montesino, Manuel de Melo, Filinto Elísio, Nicolau Tolentino, Tomás Gonzaga, Bocage, Camilo Castelo Branco, João de Deus, Antero de Quental, Gomes Leal, Guerra Junqueiro, António Feijó, António Nobre, Camilo Pessanha, Fernando Pessoa, Mário de Sá-Carneiro, Florbela Espanca.
LUÍS DE CAMÕES
Amor é Fogo
poemas escolhidos
ALMEIDA GARRET
As Minhas Asas
e outros poemas
CESÁRIO VERDE
O Sentimento dum Ocidental
e outros poemas
Discover
Above a million stars above my head,
below the pile of stones below my feet,
there are a million ends of the same thread,
rise the calls of esses wanting to meet.
Inside a million beats inside my chest,
outside the shining blue outside this ship,
there are a million grails for the same quest,
there is a sea of words – a writing trip.
Along a million waves towards the Moon
and winds filling white sails that fly as birds,
across a million dreams, a single tune,
this ship goes everywhere – sailing on words.
Above a million stars above my head,
there is something . . . above what can be said.
Causeless, boundless, are the laws life discovers
while recombining all the elements,
their timeless dimensions and filaments
that connect, indifferently, foes and lovers.
The universal essences are here;
we feel their amazing manifestations
and with symbols and logic ruminations
reach far beyond what our minds can steer.
Imagine an i squared is minus one,
take Euler’s number and the ancient π,
and the most exquisite law ever known,
to our astonishment, will apply:
eiπ + 1 = 0.
If this much you understand, you’re a hero!
Read, but not just the words of human make.
Here, the ones I wrote may rhyme or not,
and many words will soothe while others shake;
they can be burning cold and some too hot.
Read! Let us try to read what is out there,
written around us or far-off in space,
inside our minds, beyond time, somewhere;
let’s read with open soul and find words’ place.
The place of dreams, the beating of a heart
that beats in every beast, any green spot.
Let us read through the dark what light will part;
let us learn how to read with what we’ve got.
Read this world of ours – but do it right –
and then, with human words, let’s try to write.
Seta disparada, libertada,
que o alvo buscaste e atingiste,
ainda és parte, estás agarrada
ao arco tenso de que partiste?
Seta tão esbelta, o que sentiste
quando te puseste a toda a brida
e subitamente penetraste
tão débil esperança, desprotegida?
E tu, de Cupido, rejeitada,
que já te cravaste em tanto nada,
desencantada, seta perdida
a que terra foste dar, a que vida?
Setas, não digam nada. Não quero olhar
quando se estiverem a aproximar.
In that part of the day that briefly follows night
before the turning finds the steady lying line,
from where the biggest star will mount and spread its light,
I turn my inside out and start to lift my spine.
For that part where the day does break there are no words,
and the mystique of primal mist floats through the air;
the pace, it feels divine; the sounds are from the birds
while I open my arms, to life my dreams declare.
For each day is a chance to take another breath,
to follow the gentle swaying of nature’s being,
its rhythms, rises and falls, the aim of birth and death,
the game that we must play but with the rules of living.
And should I miss one day the magic of the Dawn,
in dusk I would tread long before the Sun had gone.
Not a single flower can bloom one day
nor will the day release the shortest hour;
the stars shall lose their tracks and not obey
galactic rules, and nights will be too sour.
No pair of wings might dare to fly one day
while every form of life will turn to caves
and to the sea’s depths. Everyone will pray;
the dead won’t rest until they leave their graves.
The ash tree’s arms shall shake strongly one day
while fountains dry and tidal streams are blocked;
the guardian serpent will not bite its tail;
the date nobody knows: it’s Ragnarök.
But there is still the possibility
that such a day is past – mythology.
What is it my mind knows that I don’t know?
What is it my soul’s trying to teach me?
What are the secrecies of what I see,
have often seen before and think I know?
How much am I a product of my will?
How much is in the randomness of numbers
or in the deeds of ghosts and all their members,
which have never showed up but exist still?
Why am I not just enjoying the Sun?
Why spread I all these clouds over my head?
Why don’t I change the words and ride instead
through the unconquered kingdoms of my brain?
I’d like to have some sort of confirmation
that life’s not the result of mad creation!
Are stars tiny things left to shine through emptiness
or the entry of space tunnels – illuminated?
And are they part of the chaotic steadiness
that will never stop until all is separated?
Are emotions sparks gone astray in thoughtlessness?
Something concrete in some unseen reality?
What if they are a part of the unknown process
that started life, though not so well – sufficiently?
What are we supposed to do on this spinning ball
that may keep us wandering for a few billion years?
And what high forces will our descendants call
when Time will come to claim their small unsalted tears?
As it looks now, it’s still early for any fears.
The problem is: an instant is a billion years.
Escondeu-se, traída, a confiança;
espinhou-se na alma, que a fé entala;
só a nobre coragem quis amá-la,
calada, apoiada na esperança.
E esperou, paciente, encontrá-la,
que sem ela não se luta nem se dança:
baixa-se o escudo e quebra-se a lança,
e vive-se a vida só a sonhá-la.
Pobre é a justiça – o que se alcança –
e escasseia o tempo que nos embala;
nem poderia, ela só, salvá-la:
sobe a prosápia e vai-se a confiança.
Mas ficará viva a sua semente.
O que a traição deixou passou somente.
Banhadas de luar, duras encostas
elevaram-se até mui altos cumes
onde saltavam raios, escapavam lumes,
e as forças da Terra eram expostas.
E sobre elas desceram rubras lavas
– lentas, poderosas, indiferentes –
e subiram aceleradas brisas
como ondas cujas cristas seguem cavas.
Mas do fundo, das entranhas do mundo
até à sua crosta de mistérios,
partida por acasos e impérios,
emanava um destino mais rotundo.
Das alturas olhava-se o passado
e o futuro que mal tinha começado.
Above a million stars above my head,
below the pile of stones below my feet,
there are a million ends of the same thread,
rise the calls of esses wanting to meet.
Inside a million beats inside my chest,
outside the shining blue outside this ship,
there are a million grails for the same quest,
there is a sea of words – a writing trip.
Along a million waves towards the Moon
and winds filling white sails that fly as birds,
across a million dreams, a single tune,
this ship goes everywhere – sailing on words.
Above a million stars above my head,
there is something . . . above what can be said.
Seta disparada, libertada,
que o alvo buscaste e atingiste,
ainda és parte, estás agarrada
ao arco tenso de que partiste?
Seta tão esbelta, o que sentiste
quando te puseste a toda a brida
e subitamente penetraste
tão débil esperança, desprotegida?
E tu, de Cupido, rejeitada,
que já te cravaste em tanto nada,
desencantada, seta perdida
a que terra foste dar, a que vida?
Setas, não digam nada. Não quero olhar
quando se estiverem a aproximar.
Causeless, boundless, are the laws life discovers
while recombining all the elements,
their timeless dimensions and filaments
that connect, indifferently, foes and lovers.
The universal essences are here;
we feel their amazing manifestations
and with symbols and logic ruminations
reach far beyond what our minds can steer.
Imagine an i squared is minus one,
take Euler’s number and the ancient π,
and the most exquisite law ever known,
to our astonishment, will apply:
eiπ + 1 = 0.
If this much you understand, you’re a hero!
Read, but not just the words of human make.
Here, the ones I wrote may rhyme or not,
and many words will soothe while others shake;
they can be burning cold and some too hot.
Read! Let us try to read what is out there,
written around us or far-off in space,
inside our minds, beyond time, somewhere;
let’s read with open soul and find words’ place.
The place of dreams, the beating of a heart
that beats in every beast, any green spot.
Let us read through the dark what light will part;
let us learn how to read with what we’ve got.
Read this world of ours – but do it right –
and then, with human words, let’s try to write.
In that part of the day that briefly follows night
before the turning finds the steady lying line,
from where the biggest star will mount and spread its light,
I turn my inside out and start to lift my spine.
For that part where the day does break there are no words,
and the mystique of primal mist floats through the air;
the pace, it feels divine; the sounds are from the birds
while I open my arms, to life my dreams declare.
For each day is a chance to take another breath,
to follow the gentle swaying of nature’s being,
its rhythms, rises and falls, the aim of birth and death,
the game that we must play but with the rules of living.
And should I miss one day the magic of the Dawn,
in dusk I would tread long before the Sun had gone.
Not a single flower can bloom one day
nor will the day release the shortest hour;
the stars shall lose their tracks and not obey
galactic rules, and nights will be too sour.
No pair of wings might dare to fly one day
while every form of life will turn to caves
and to the sea’s depths. Everyone will pray;
the dead won’t rest until they leave their graves.
The ash tree’s arms shall shake strongly one day
while fountains dry and tidal streams are blocked;
the guardian serpent will not bite its tail;
the date nobody knows: it’s Ragnarök.
But there is still the possibility
that such a day is past – mythology.
What is it my mind knows that I don’t know?
What is it my soul’s trying to teach me?
What are the secrecies of what I see,
have often seen before and think I know?
How much am I a product of my will?
How much is in the randomness of numbers
or in the deeds of ghosts and all their members,
which have never showed up but exist still?
Why am I not just enjoying the Sun?
Why spread I all these clouds over my head?
Why don’t I change the words and ride instead
through the unconquered kingdoms of my brain?
I’d like to have some sort of confirmation
that life’s not the result of mad creation!
Are stars tiny things left to shine through emptiness
or the entry of space tunnels – illuminated?
And are they part of the chaotic steadiness
that will never stop until all is separated?
Are emotions sparks gone astray in thoughtlessness?
Something concrete in some unseen reality?
What if they are a part of the unknown process
that started life, though not so well – sufficiently?
What are we supposed to do on this spinning ball
that may keep us wandering for a few billion years?
And what high forces will our descendants call
when Time will come to claim their small unsalted tears?
As it looks now, it’s still early for any fears.
The problem is: an instant is a billion years.
Escondeu-se, traída, a confiança;
espinhou-se na alma, que a fé entala;
só a nobre coragem quis amá-la,
calada, apoiada na esperança.
E esperou, paciente, encontrá-la,
que sem ela não se luta nem se dança:
baixa-se o escudo e quebra-se a lança,
e vive-se a vida só a sonhá-la.
Pobre é a justiça – o que se alcança –
e escasseia o tempo que nos embala;
nem poderia, ela só, salvá-la:
sobe a prosápia e vai-se a confiança.
Mas ficará viva a sua semente.
O que a traição deixou passou somente.
Banhadas de luar, duras encostas
elevaram-se até mui altos cumes
onde saltavam raios, escapavam lumes,
e as forças da Terra eram expostas.
E sobre elas desceram rubras lavas
– lentas, poderosas, indiferentes –
e subiram aceleradas brisas
como ondas cujas cristas seguem cavas.
Mas do fundo, das entranhas do mundo
até à sua crosta de mistérios,
partida por acasos e impérios,
emanava um destino mais rotundo.
Das alturas olhava-se o passado
e o futuro que mal tinha começado.
