Palavras lidas #445

The Meeting
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

After so long an absence
At last we meet again:
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the Prophet’s two or three berries
In the top of the uttermost bough.

We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not say it,
How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas
And many a Happy New Year
But each in his heart is thinking
Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish
Between the ghosts and the guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
Steals over our merriest jests.

Caprichos #572

Em Roma,

uma montra só de luxemburgerli

Coisas que não mudam #534

Em Roma,

qual a pietà de MichelAngelo?

Coisas que não mudam #533

Em Roma,

para além do presépio, as igrejas têm frequentemente em exposição o menino Jesus sozinho (sem pai nem mãe) no altar. Gostei particularmente do da Igreja de Santo António dos Portugueses, aqui na última fotografia.

Caprichos #571

GIFs, or motion pictures

Palavras lidas #444

The Christmas Story
by Robin Richstone

We know by heart these stories
of a cold world, unwelcoming inn,
the murderous tyrant,
Mary on a donkey, escape,
how cruel, how long ago, how far
from what we mean to sing,
O Come, O Come,
to the weary, the terrified,
Mary’s heart beating fast,
her grip on the baby,
the strains of it fill the shops,
the streets, flow down rivers,
cross seas, cross borders,
the refugee mother kneels
to change her infant in
an open field, the shepherds gone,
the angels quiet,
her safety now
completely up to us.

Parece que estou a ouvir #306

The First Noel
Traditional English Christmas Carol

The First Noel, the Angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep
On a cold winter's night that was so deep

Refrain

Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel
Born is the King of Israel!

They looked up and saw a star
Shining in the East beyond them far
And to the earth it gave great light
And so it continued both day and night:
Refrain

And by the light of that same star,
Three Wise Men came from country far;
To seek for a King was their intent,
And to follow the star whersoever it went:Refrain

This star drew nigh to the north-west;
O'er Bethlehem it took its rest;
And there it did both stop and stay
Right over the place where Jesus lay:Refrain

Then entered in those Wise Men three,
Full reverently upon their knee,
And offered there in his presence,
Their gold and myrrh and frankincense:Refrain

Then let us all with one accord
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord
That hath made heaven and earth of nought,
And with his blood mankind hath bought:
Refrain

Caprichos #570

Que bela manhã de nevoeiro que ontem esteve...

e final de tarde também!

Coisas que não mudam #532

Flores lindas

Palavras lidas #443

Local Obits
by Thomas Lynch

It was the Alzheimer’s made Maurice sweet
those last ten years in contrast with the six
decades and then some of huffing and puffing
his way through three marriages, a couple of
unsuccessful runs for public office,
his business and the love of his children.
“God’s Will” is what his only daughter called it,
to see that awful, angry man gone soft,
gone simple and benevolent at last.
“You take the good with the bad,” she reckoned.
“He didn’t know me at the end, but he approved.”

Parece que estou a ouvir #305

I was born under a wandrin' star
Lee Marvin

music & lyrics by Alan Jay Lerner / Frederick Loewe

I was born under a wandrin' star
I was born under a wandrin' star
Wheels are made for rollin'
Mules are made to pack
I've never seen a sight that didn't look better looking back

I was born under a wandrin' star
Mud can make you prisoner, and the plains can bake you dry
Snow can burn your eyes, but only people make you cry
Home is made for comin' from, for dreams of goin' to
Which with any luck will never come true
I was born under a wandrin' star
I was born under a wandrin' star

Do I know where hell is?
Hell is in hello
Heaven is goodbye for ever, it's time for me to go
I was born under a wandrin' star
A wandrin' wandrin' star

When I get to heaven tie me to a tree
Or I'll begin to roam, and soon you know where I will be
I was born under a wandrin' star
A wandrin' wandrin' star

Ditto #426

If we are not regularly deeply embarrassed by who we are, the journey to self-knowledge hasn’t begun.

--Alain de Botton

Foi neste dia #350 (1999)

Há vinte anos em Macau

Caprichos #569

De cima da tempestade vê-se o algodão doce!

Coisas que não mudam #531

Que estranho deve ser viver num país

com um buraco a ocidente!

Espantos #599

As estranhas tradições de Natal na Catalunha

Numa sala perto de mim #421

Knives Out (2019) a classic whodunit story full of twists and turns on top of twists and turns. As usual, Daniel Craig, never disappoints, not even in a heavy Kentucky accent. Nice note on the final credits... the Rolling Stones on a lovely (and rare) country style record.

Inverno #61

Ontem, em Turim

Yesterday, in Turin

Caprichos #568

A pleasure to return to Mako, in Barcelona

Numa sala perto de mim #420

The Irishman (2019) the 3h20m long mafia movie from the perspective of old age. I am not a big fan of mafia movies in general, or of Scorcese in particular, but it's well done and prone to leave you thinking about life choices and historical events, which I can't quite appreciate as I don't know much about the time period.

Palavras lidas #442

Personal Effects
by Raymond Burns

The lawyer told him to write a letter
to accompany the will, to prevent
potential discord over artifacts
valued only for their sentiment.

His wife treasures a watercolor by
her father; grandmama's spoon stirs
their oatmeal every morning. Some
days, he wears his father's favorite tie.

He tries to think of things that
could be tokens of his days:
binoculars that transport
bluebirds through his cataracts

a frayed fishing vest with
pockets full of feathers brightly
tied, the little fly rod he can still
manipulate in forest thickets,

a sharp-tined garden fork,
heft and handle fit for him,
a springy spruce kayak paddle,
a retired leather satchel.

He writes his awkward note,
trying to dispense with grace
some well-worn clutter easily
discarded in another generation.

But what he wishes to bequeath
are items never owned: a Chopin
etude wafting from his wife's piano
on the scent of morning coffee

seedling peas poking into April,
monarch caterpillars infesting
milkweed leaves, a light brown
doe alert in purple asters

a full moon rising in October,
hunting-hat orange in ebony sky,
sunlit autumn afternoons that flutter
through the heart like falling leaves.

Espantos #598

Hoje em Barcelona, momentos depois do pôr-do-sol

que coloriu o céu de laranja e rosa...

a diferença que faz o ajuste das definições da máquina fotográfica!

Numa sala perto de mim #419

High Noon (1952) tells the story of a sheriff in a remote town in the west that is threatened by the impending arrival on the noon train, of a band of criminals that terrorized it not long ago. On his wedding day the sheriff is abandoned by his wife, friends, deputies, and other figures of authority such as the judge and the priest. Also notable in the movie, the memorable song, Grace Kelly at 21 years old, the age disparity with Gary Cooper at 50.

Ditto #425

What is essential is invisible to the eye.

--Antoine de Saint Exupéry

Espantos #597

This weekend in London... curious to know whether

there was a spike after the referendum and in which direction.

Cores de Outono #68

Surprisingly, there are still fall colors in London

Caprichos #567

Tina. From Nutbush TN to the world.

Caprichos #566

Color coordinated breakfasts

Caprichos #565

Castanhas assadas... ainda que frias!

Ditto #424

Ever since we discovered that Earth is round and turns like a mad spinning-top, we have understood that reality is not as it appears to us: every time we glimpse a new aspect of it, it is a deeply emotional experience.

--Carlo Rovelli

Palavras lidas #441

December 1st
by Billy Collins

Today is my mother’s birthday,
but she’s not here to celebrate
by opening a flowery card
or looking calmly out a window.

If my mother were alive,
she’d be 114 years old,
and I am guessing neither of us
would be enjoying her birthday very much.

Mother, I would love to see you again
to take you shopping or to sit
in your sunny apartment with a pot of tea,
but it wouldn’t be the same at 114.

And I’m no prize either,
almost 20 years older than the last time
you saw me sitting by your deathbed.
Some days, I look worse than yesterday’s oatmeal.

Happy Birthday, anyway. Happy Birthday to you.
Here I am in a wallpapered room
raising a glass of birthday whiskey
and picturing your face, the brooch on your collar.

It must have been frigid that morning
in the hour just before dawn
on your first December 1st
at the family farm a hundred miles north of Toronto.

I imagine they had you wrapped up tight,
and there was your tiny pink face
sticking out of the bunting,
and all those McIsaacs getting used to saying your name.