The Startling Reality of Things

The startling reality of things

Is my discovery every single day
Everything is what it is,
And it’s hard to explain to anyone how much this delights me
And suffices me.

To be whole, it is enough simply to exist.

I’ve written a good many poems.
I shall write many more, naturally.
Each of my poems speaks of this,
And yet all my poems are different,
Because each thing that exists is one way of saying this.

Sometimes I start looking at stone.
I don’t start thinking, Does it have feeling?
I don’t fuss about calling it my sister.
But I get pleasure out of its being a stone,
Enjoying because it feels nothing,
Enjoying it because it’s not at all related to me.

Occasionally I hear the wind blow,
And find that just hearing the wind blow makes it worth having been born.

I don’t know what others reading this will think;
But I find it must be good since it’s what I think without effort,
With no idea what other people are listening to me think;
Because I think it without thoughts,
Because I say it as words say it.

I was once called a materialist poet
And I was surprised, because I didn’t imagine
I could be called anything at all.
I was once called a materialist poet: I see.
If what I write has any merit, it’s not in me;
The merit is there, in my verses.
All this is absolutely independent of my will.

Fernando Pessoa (Portugal – 1888-1935)