Discover more from The Long Scrawl

True stories about life in Palmela, Portugal (and beyond) from a writer who emigrated from the States.

Over 1,000 subscribers

The Best Poem He Ever Wrote

The bougainvillea alone is worth bragging about

LaDonna Witmer

May 25, 2023

Today I received word that Senhor Alexandre, the previous owner of our home, has died. The funeral was held yesterday and this afternoon his son stopped by to give me some photos of the property that he found among his father’s things.

If you’ve been following along here for a while, you might remember my story of how I fell in love with our home the moment I saw it, and how Senhor Alexandre and I bonded over our shared love of poetry and these few thousand meters of land.

Every day I think of him as I walk beneath the shade of the trees he planted, as our dogs sleep in the sun on the red tiles he laid, as I look out my window at the bright bougainvillea he was so proud of: “The best in the region, you must agree!” he said. Every day I think of him, and I’m grateful.

When I first visited this property in October of 2021, I fell head over heels. I staggered around on the tour, drunk with desire, and I’m sure Senhor Alexandre could see it. Maybe it was one of the reasons he chose us. He wanted to entrust his home to someone whose heart-eyes were as big as his.

Although his English was as bumbling as my Portuguese, we found a way to talk about the things we both adored about this quinta he named Oliveira do Paraíso.

It was obvious how much he loved this place, his home of more than 20 years. The yard, the orchard, the grounds, the buildings, they all bore the marks of devotion. It was obvious that selling it, leaving it all was heartbreaking, but Senhor Alexandre insisted it was what he must do.

“I am too old now,” he said, “I cannot care for her the way she should be cared for.”

The last time I saw him was February of 2022, the day after we closed the sale and got the keys. He spent three hours walking the house and the grounds with Marido and I, sharing the history of Oliveira do Paraiso as his son translated.

He told us all the important bits we needed to know—how the water filtration system works, where to turn on the propane, how to make sure the network of irrigation hoses do their job properly.

He told us, also, the names of all the trees. He told us why he planted this one (for the sweetest clementines) and that one (for the lovely shape of the shade). He told us that the beam used for the mantel above the fireplace and the lintel for the hallway door came from a castelo in Lisboa. He told us stories that he wants us to remember.

As he was leaving, he pulled me aside by the gate and brushed his worn hand over the tiles that bear the name of the property we both love.

“All my life,” he said in halting English, “I have written poems. But this one—Oliveira do Paraiso—this one is my best poem.”

Today when his son came by he gave me one more memento: a poem that Senhor Alexandre wrote last year. This poem was read at his funeral, and everyone there nodded and said, “Oh yes, of course, Oliveira do Paraiso.” It was no secret how much he loved this place.

I’m sharing his poem with you now to honor his memory. And I will continue to daily care for this place — his home and mine — with tenderness and joy, because I want to believe in paradise, too.

Oliveira do Paraíso
by Alexandre Gonçalves

Quero ainda falar das buganvílias,
antes que o tempo as cubra de silêncio.
Quero ainda escrever um chão de tíllas
entre aromas de cedro e incenso.

Quero abrir uma fenda de água pura
na cintura das serras circundantes:
uma leve corrente de frescura
que os amplos campos torne deslumbrantes.

Aqui, nesta paisagem escondida,
entre memórias tristes e desejos,
venho escrevendo a árvore da vida
sobre um painel ardente de azulejos.

O mar e o sol, a paz e o tempo liso,
sob o signo dos ramos de oliveira:
eu quero acreditar no paraíso
onde caiba p’ra sempre a terra inteira.

My best attempt at translation:

I still want to talk about the bougainvilleas
before time covers them with silence.
I still want to write a floor of tiles
among scents of cedar and incense.

I want to open a crack of pure water
in the belt of the surrounding mountains
a gentle current of freshness
that makes the wide fields dazzling.

Here, in this hidden landscape
between sad memories and desires,
I have been writing the tree of life
on a fiery panel of tiles.

The sea and the sun, peace and smooth weather,
under the sign of the olive branches:
I want to believe in paradise
where the whole earth can fit forever.