Para a série São José, fica mais uma foto
do antigo colégio dos Jesuitas em dia de Santo Inácio de Loyola
31 julho, 2016
Palavras lidas #289
Cinderella’s Diary
by Ron Koertge
I miss my stepmother. What a thing to say,
but it’s true. The prince is so boring: four
hours to dress and then the cheering throngs.
Again. The page who holds the door is cute
enough to eat. Where is he once Mr. Charming
kisses my forehead goodnight?
Every morning I gaze out a casement window
at the hunters, dark men with blood on their
boots who joke and mount, their black trousers
straining, rough beards, calloused hands, selfish,
abrupt…
Oh, dear diary—I am lost in ever after:
those insufferable birds, someone in every
room with a lute, the queen calling me to look
at another painting of her son, this time
holding the transparent slipper I wish
I’d never seen.
by Ron Koertge
I miss my stepmother. What a thing to say,
but it’s true. The prince is so boring: four
hours to dress and then the cheering throngs.
Again. The page who holds the door is cute
enough to eat. Where is he once Mr. Charming
kisses my forehead goodnight?
Every morning I gaze out a casement window
at the hunters, dark men with blood on their
boots who joke and mount, their black trousers
straining, rough beards, calloused hands, selfish,
abrupt…
Oh, dear diary—I am lost in ever after:
those insufferable birds, someone in every
room with a lute, the queen calling me to look
at another painting of her son, this time
holding the transparent slipper I wish
I’d never seen.
29 julho, 2016
Coisas que não mudam #363
Hoje, 29 de Julho é dia de Santa Marta... aquela que andava preocupada com muitas coisas, mas só uma era necessária. Foi também Marta que, após a morte de Lázaro, seu irmão, saiu ao encontro de Jesus e lhe disse se tivesses estado aqui o meu irmão não tinha morrido. Fica o evangelho do dia e os versículos que se lhe seguem.
_________
Evangelho segundo S. João 11,19-27
Muitos judeus tinham vindo a Marta e a Maria, para lhes apresentar condolências pela morte de seu irmão. Mal soube Marta da vinda de Jesus, saiu-lhe ao encontro. Maria, porém, estava sentada em casa. Marta disse a Jesus: Senhor, se tivesses estado aqui, meu irmão não teria morrido! Mas sei também, agora, que tudo o que pedires a Deus, Deus to concederá. Disse-lhe Jesus: Teu irmão ressurgirá. Respondeu-lhe Marta: Sei que há de ressurgir na ressurreição no último dia. Disse-lhe Jesus: Eu sou a ressurreição e a vida. Aquele que crê em mim, ainda que esteja morto, viverá. E todo aquele que vive e crê em mim, jamais morrerá. Crês nisto? Respondeu ela: Sim, Senhor. Eu creio que tu és o Cristo, o Filho de Deus, aquele que devia vir ao mundo.
28-44
A essas palavras, ela foi chamar sua irmã Maria, dizendo-lhe baixinho: O Mestre está aí e te chama. Apenas ela o ouviu, levantou-se imediatamente e foi ao encontro dele. (Pois Jesus não tinha chegado à aldeia, mas estava ainda naquele lugar onde Marta o tinha encontrado.) Os judeus que estavam com ela em casa, em visita de pêsames, ao verem Maria levantar-se depressa e sair, seguiram-na, crendo que ela ia ao sepulcro para ali chorar. Quando, porém, Maria chegou onde Jesus estava e o viu, lançou-se aos seus pés e disse-lhe: Senhor, se tivesses estado aqui, meu irmão não teria morrido! Ao vê-la chorar assim, como também todos os judeus que a acompanhavam, Jesus ficou intensamente comovido em espírito. E, sob o impulso de profunda emoção, perguntou: Onde o pusestes? Responderam-lhe: Senhor, vinde ver. Jesus pôs-se a chorar. Observaram por isso os judeus: Vede como ele o amava! Mas alguns deles disseram: Não podia ele, que abriu os olhos do cego de nascença, fazer com que este não morresse? Tomado, novamente, de profunda emoção, Jesus foi ao sepulcro. Era uma gruta, coberta por uma pedra. Jesus ordenou: Tirai a pedra. Disse-lhe Marta, irmã do morto: Senhor, já cheira mal, pois há quatro dias que ele está aí... Respondeu-lhe Jesus: Não te disse eu: Se creres, verás a glória de Deus? Tiraram, pois, a pedra. Levantando Jesus os olhos ao alto, disse: Pai, rendo-te graças, porque me ouviste. Eu bem sei que sempre me ouves, mas falo assim por causa do povo que está em roda, para que creiam que tu me enviaste. Depois destas palavras, exclamou em alta voz: Lázaro, vem para fora! E o morto saiu, tendo os pés e as mãos ligados com faixas, e o rosto coberto por um sudário. Ordenou então Jesus: Desligai-o e deixai-o ir.
(São João 11 completo, aqui)
Palavras lidas #288
Halley's Comet
by Stanley Kunitz
Miss Murphy in first grade
wrote its name in chalk
across the board and told us
it was roaring down the stormtracks
of the Milky Way at frightful speed
and if it wandered off its course
and smashed into the earth
there'd be no school tomorrow.
A red-bearded preacher from the hills
with a wild look in his eyes
stood in the public square
at the playground's edge
proclaiming he was sent by God
to save every one of us,
even the little children.
"Repent, ye sinners!" he shouted,
waving his hand-lettered sign.
At supper I felt sad to think
that it was probably
the last meal I'd share
with my mother and my sisters;
but I felt excited too
and scarcely touched my plate.
So mother scolded me
and sent me early to my room.
The whole family's asleep
except for me. They never heard me steal
into the stairwell hall and climb
the ladder to the fresh night air.
Look for me, Father, on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street --
that's where we live, you know, on the top floor.
I'm the boy in the white flannel gown
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed
searching the starry sky,
waiting for the world to end.
Miss Murphy in first grade
wrote its name in chalk
across the board and told us
it was roaring down the stormtracks
of the Milky Way at frightful speed
and if it wandered off its course
and smashed into the earth
there'd be no school tomorrow.
A red-bearded preacher from the hills
with a wild look in his eyes
stood in the public square
at the playground's edge
proclaiming he was sent by God
to save every one of us,
even the little children.
"Repent, ye sinners!" he shouted,
waving his hand-lettered sign.
At supper I felt sad to think
that it was probably
the last meal I'd share
with my mother and my sisters;
but I felt excited too
and scarcely touched my plate.
So mother scolded me
and sent me early to my room.
The whole family's asleep
except for me. They never heard me steal
into the stairwell hall and climb
the ladder to the fresh night air.
Look for me, Father, on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street --
that's where we live, you know, on the top floor.
I'm the boy in the white flannel gown
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed
searching the starry sky,
waiting for the world to end.
28 julho, 2016
27 julho, 2016
26 julho, 2016
Sem título #67
Tardes tórridas em pastelarias de Lisboa... onde se passa o tempo que leva mais tempo a passar.
25 julho, 2016
Foi neste dia #293 (1139)
Há 877 anos Afonso Henriques vencia retumbantemente a Batalha de Ourique, em dia de São Tiago (o matamouros). Afonso Henriques foi aclamado rei logo após o sucesso da batalha e assinou como tal todos os documentos desde então. O reconhecimento do Condado Portucalense como entidade independente do Reino de Leão veio com a assinatura do Tratado de Zamora em 1143 entre D. Afonso Henriques e o seu primo D. Afonso VII de Leão.
Coisas que não mudam #362
25 de Julho é dia de São Tiago, filho de Zebedeu, também conhecido como São Tiago maior, que se distingue de São Tiago menor (ou como se diz em português mais novo), filho de Alfeu e cuja festa se celebra a 3 de Maio. Ambos foram apóstolos.
24 julho, 2016
Palavras lidas #287
His elderly father as a young man
by Leo Dangel
This happened before I met your mother:
I took Jennie Johanson to a summer dance,
and she sent me a letter, a love letter,
I guess, even if the word love wasn’t in it.
She wrote that she had a good time
and didn’t want the night to end.
At home, she lay down on her bed
but stayed awake, listening to the songs
of morning birds outside her window.
I read that letter a hundred times
and kept it in a cigar box
with useless things I had saved:
a pocket knife with an imitation pearl handle
and a broken blade,
a harmonica I never learned to play,
one cuff link, an empty rifle shell.
When your mother and I got married,
I threw the letter away—
if I had kept it, she might wonder.
But I wanted to keep it
and even thought about hiding places,
maybe in the barn or the tool shed;
but what if it were ever found?
I knew of no way to explain why
I would keep such letter, much less
why I would take the trouble to hide it.
Jennie had gone to California
not long after that dance.
I pretty much got over
wanting to see her just once more,
but I wish I could have kept the letter,
even though I know it by heart.
This happened before I met your mother:
I took Jennie Johanson to a summer dance,
and she sent me a letter, a love letter,
I guess, even if the word love wasn’t in it.
She wrote that she had a good time
and didn’t want the night to end.
At home, she lay down on her bed
but stayed awake, listening to the songs
of morning birds outside her window.
I read that letter a hundred times
and kept it in a cigar box
with useless things I had saved:
a pocket knife with an imitation pearl handle
and a broken blade,
a harmonica I never learned to play,
one cuff link, an empty rifle shell.
When your mother and I got married,
I threw the letter away—
if I had kept it, she might wonder.
But I wanted to keep it
and even thought about hiding places,
maybe in the barn or the tool shed;
but what if it were ever found?
I knew of no way to explain why
I would keep such letter, much less
why I would take the trouble to hide it.
Jennie had gone to California
not long after that dance.
I pretty much got over
wanting to see her just once more,
but I wish I could have kept the letter,
even though I know it by heart.
23 julho, 2016
21 julho, 2016
20 julho, 2016
Foi neste dia #292 (1956)
Há 60 anos nascia em Portugal a Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, exactamente um ano depois da morte do Sr. 5% em Lisboa.
19 julho, 2016
Palavras lidas #286
Pior que não Cantar
por Mário Dionísio
Pior que não cantar
é cantar sem saber o que se canta
Pior que não gritar
é gritar só porque um grito algures se levanta
Pior que não andar
é ir andando atrás de alguém que manda
Sem amor e sem raiva as bandeiras são pano
que só vento electriza
em ruidosa confusão
de engano
A Revolução
não se burocratiza
por Mário Dionísio
Pior que não cantar
é cantar sem saber o que se canta
Pior que não gritar
é gritar só porque um grito algures se levanta
Pior que não andar
é ir andando atrás de alguém que manda
Sem amor e sem raiva as bandeiras são pano
que só vento electriza
em ruidosa confusão
de engano
A Revolução
não se burocratiza
16 julho, 2016
15 julho, 2016
Ditto #333
--Tina Fey, in response to people who claim that women are not funny
14 julho, 2016
13 julho, 2016
Sem título #63
O tempo não páraaaaaaaa...
Mais duas fotos para a série Capuchos,
onde se encontra um dos mais antigos relógios de sol em Portugal... a marcar o tempo desde 1586.
Palavras lidas #285
One Summer Day on the Number One Train
by Anne Whitehouse
When the doors of the express opened at 72 Street,
the local was waiting. She entered with me,
tall and angular as a crane, her expression alert,
violin poised against her clavicle like a wing.
The train was half-empty, the passengers dozing
or absorbed in their smartphones.
She stood at one end of the car, her gaze
swiftly appraising us, while the doors slid shut.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her bow
and dipped her chin, and into that pause
went all the years of preparation
that had brought her to this moment.
The train accelerated in a rush of cacophony,
her music welled up, and I recognized
a Bach concerto blossoming to fullness
like an ever-opening rose. Suddenly
I was crying for no reason and every reason,
in front of strangers. I thought of the courtroom
where, an hour ago, I’d sat listening to testimony
with fellow jurors, charged to determine the facts
and follow the law. But no matter how we tried,
we couldn’t reverse damage or undo wrong.
The music was contrast and balm, like sunlight
in subterranean air. The tears wet on my cheeks,
I broke into applause, joined by fellow passengers.
We’d become an audience, her audience,
just before the doors opened and we scattered.
Making my offering, I exited, too shy to catch her eye.
But she’d seen the effect her music had wrought.
Its echo resounded in my memory, following me
into the glory of the summer afternoon.
It is with me still.
by Anne Whitehouse
When the doors of the express opened at 72 Street,
the local was waiting. She entered with me,
tall and angular as a crane, her expression alert,
violin poised against her clavicle like a wing.
The train was half-empty, the passengers dozing
or absorbed in their smartphones.
She stood at one end of the car, her gaze
swiftly appraising us, while the doors slid shut.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her bow
and dipped her chin, and into that pause
went all the years of preparation
that had brought her to this moment.
The train accelerated in a rush of cacophony,
her music welled up, and I recognized
a Bach concerto blossoming to fullness
like an ever-opening rose. Suddenly
I was crying for no reason and every reason,
in front of strangers. I thought of the courtroom
where, an hour ago, I’d sat listening to testimony
with fellow jurors, charged to determine the facts
and follow the law. But no matter how we tried,
we couldn’t reverse damage or undo wrong.
The music was contrast and balm, like sunlight
in subterranean air. The tears wet on my cheeks,
I broke into applause, joined by fellow passengers.
We’d become an audience, her audience,
just before the doors opened and we scattered.
Making my offering, I exited, too shy to catch her eye.
But she’d seen the effect her music had wrought.
Its echo resounded in my memory, following me
into the glory of the summer afternoon.
It is with me still.
12 julho, 2016
Coisas que não mudam #361
Depois da euforia do caneco anteontem e da apoteótica recepção da selecção ontem em Lisboa, fica nota da capacidade (tão portuguesa) de fazer graça desta vez com a graça, em vez da desgraça como nos é mais habitual. Bruno Alves, Quaresma, Ronaldo, e claro, Éder, foram os mais visados.
11 julho, 2016
09 julho, 2016
Palavras lidas #284
All persons born or naturalized in the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.
14th Amendment of the Constitution of the United States, ratified on July 9, 1868
08 julho, 2016
07 julho, 2016
06 julho, 2016
05 julho, 2016
Palavras lidas #283
Preface to Leaves of Grass
by Walt Whitman
This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.
04 julho, 2016
Foi neste dia #291 (1336)
Há 680 anos morreu em Estremoz a Rainha Santa Isabel, fazendo de 4 de Julho o feriado municipal de Coimbra, onde, depois da morte do seu marido D. Dinis se recolheu no mosteiro de Santa Clara-a-Velha. Deslocou-se a Estremoz para evitar a guerra entre Afonso IV de Portugal seu filho, e Afonso XI de Leão e Castela seu neto, ficando também conhecida como Rainha da Paz.
03 julho, 2016
Palavras lidas #282
The East Berliner, 1989
by Ginger Murchison
They didn’t come for the bananas,
but everyone who came through
that hole in the wall wanted one,
the West ready with its Welkommen!
mountains of yellow.
After twenty-eight years of concrete-cold
days and only those few flowers
defiant in the cracks of denial,
imagine the yellow-fresh sight,
that spike on the tongue,
the fireworks and flares
shot through the half-language
of heavy machines shattering
the cold Baltic chill, the half-song,
half-wail of horns, sirens and shouts
and behind it all, Beethoven’s 9th,
then that East Berliner, shuffling out,
hatless and dazed in a worm-eaten brown coat
to see it, and not believe it—
the bright yellow word he’ll take home
to his wife, tight in his fist.
by Ginger Murchison
They didn’t come for the bananas,
but everyone who came through
that hole in the wall wanted one,
the West ready with its Welkommen!
mountains of yellow.
After twenty-eight years of concrete-cold
days and only those few flowers
defiant in the cracks of denial,
imagine the yellow-fresh sight,
that spike on the tongue,
the fireworks and flares
shot through the half-language
of heavy machines shattering
the cold Baltic chill, the half-song,
half-wail of horns, sirens and shouts
and behind it all, Beethoven’s 9th,
then that East Berliner, shuffling out,
hatless and dazed in a worm-eaten brown coat
to see it, and not believe it—
the bright yellow word he’ll take home
to his wife, tight in his fist.
02 julho, 2016
Ditto #332
1986 Nobel Peace Prize, Elie Wiesel
30.08.1928 (Sighetu Marmatiei, Romania) - 02.07.2016 (New York City, USA)
01 julho, 2016
Ditto #331
--Ludwig Wittgenstein
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