Not going nuclear is a plus...
30 novembro, 2021
29 novembro, 2021
27 novembro, 2021
26 novembro, 2021
25 novembro, 2021
Palavras lidas #496
Brendel Playing Schubert
by Lisel Mueller
We bring our hands together
in applause, that absurd noise,
when we want to be silent. We might as well
be banging pots and pans,
it is that jarring, a violation
of the music we’ve listened to
without moving, almost holding our breath.
The pianist in his blindingly
white summer jacket bows
and disappears and returns
and bows again. We keep up
the clatter, so cacophonous
that it should signal revenge
instead of the gratitude we feel
for the two hours we’ve spent
out of our bodies and away
from our guardian selves
in the nowhere where the enchanted live.
by Lisel Mueller
We bring our hands together
in applause, that absurd noise,
when we want to be silent. We might as well
be banging pots and pans,
it is that jarring, a violation
of the music we’ve listened to
without moving, almost holding our breath.
The pianist in his blindingly
white summer jacket bows
and disappears and returns
and bows again. We keep up
the clatter, so cacophonous
that it should signal revenge
instead of the gratitude we feel
for the two hours we’ve spent
out of our bodies and away
from our guardian selves
in the nowhere where the enchanted live.
24 novembro, 2021
23 novembro, 2021
22 novembro, 2021
21 novembro, 2021
Palavras lidas #495
Kindness
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white
poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing
inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense
anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white
poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing
inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense
anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
20 novembro, 2021
19 novembro, 2021
18 novembro, 2021
17 novembro, 2021
Parece que estou a ouvir #349
Phill Collins
All of my life, I've been searching
For the words to say how I feel
I'd spend my time thinking too much
And leave too little to say what I mean
But I've tried to understand the best I can all of my life
All of my life, I've been saying sorry
For the things I know I should've done
All the things I could've said come back to me
Sometimes I wish that it had just begun
Seems I'm always that little too late, all of my life
For the things I know I should've done
All the things I could've said come back to me
Sometimes I wish that it had just begun
Seems I'm always that little too late, all of my life
Set 'em up, I'll take a drink with you
Pull up a chair, I think I'll stay
Set 'em up, 'cos I'm going nowhere
There's too much I need to remember
And there's too much I need to say
Pull up a chair, I think I'll stay
Set 'em up, 'cos I'm going nowhere
There's too much I need to remember
And there's too much I need to say
All of my life, I've been looking
Looking
But it's hard to find the way
Just reaching past the goal in front of me
While what's important just slips away
And it doesn't come back but I'll be looking, all of my life
Looking
But it's hard to find the way
Just reaching past the goal in front of me
While what's important just slips away
And it doesn't come back but I'll be looking, all of my life
Set 'em up, I'll take a drink with you
Pull up a chair, I think I'll stay
Set 'em up, 'cos I'm going nowhere...
There's too much I need to remember
And there's too much I need to say, oh yeah
Pull up a chair, I think I'll stay
Set 'em up, 'cos I'm going nowhere...
There's too much I need to remember
And there's too much I need to say, oh yeah
All of my life there have been regrets
That I didn't do all I could
Playing records upstairs while he watched TV
I didn't spend the time I should
And it's a memory I will live with all of my life
That I didn't do all I could
Playing records upstairs while he watched TV
I didn't spend the time I should
And it's a memory I will live with all of my life
16 novembro, 2021
15 novembro, 2021
Palavras lidas #494
A Slip of Paper
by Louise Glück
Today I went to the doctor—
the doctor said I was dying,
not in those words, but when I said it
she didn’t deny it—
What have you done to your body, her silence says.
We gave it to you and look what you did to it,
how you abused it.
I’m not talking only of cigarettes, she says,
but also of poor diet, of drink.
She’s a young woman; the stiff white coat disguises her body.
Her hair’s pulled back, the little female wisps
suppressed by a dark band. She’s not at ease here,
behind her desk, with her diploma over her head,
reading a list of numbers in columns,
some flagged for her attention.
Her spine’s straight also, showing no feeling.
No one taught me how to care for my body.
You grow up watched by your mother or grandmother.
Once you’re free of them, your wife takes over, but she’s nervous,
she doesn’t go too far. So this body I have,
that the doctor blames me for—it’s always been supervised by women,
and let me tell you, they left a lot out.
The doctor looks at me—
between us, a stack of books and folders.
Except for us, the clinic’s empty.
There’s a trap-door here, and through that door,
the country of the dead. And the living push you through,
they want you there first, ahead of them.
The doctor knows this. She has her books,
I have my cigarettes. Finally
she writes something on a slip of paper.
This will help your blood pressure, she says.
And I pocket it, a sign to go.
And once I’m outside, I tear it up, like a ticket to the other world.
She was crazy to come here,
a place where she knows no one.
She’s alone; she has no wedding ring.
She goes home alone, to her place outside the village.
And she has her one glass of wine a day,
her dinner that isn’t a dinner.
And she takes off that white coat
between that coat and her body,
there’s just a thin layer of cotton.
And at some point, that comes off too.
To get born, your body makes a pact with death,
and from that moment, all it tries to do is cheat—
You get into bed alone. Maybe you sleep, maybe you never wake up.
But for a long time you hear every sound.
It’s a night like any summer night; the dark never comes.
by Louise Glück
Today I went to the doctor—
the doctor said I was dying,
not in those words, but when I said it
she didn’t deny it—
What have you done to your body, her silence says.
We gave it to you and look what you did to it,
how you abused it.
I’m not talking only of cigarettes, she says,
but also of poor diet, of drink.
She’s a young woman; the stiff white coat disguises her body.
Her hair’s pulled back, the little female wisps
suppressed by a dark band. She’s not at ease here,
behind her desk, with her diploma over her head,
reading a list of numbers in columns,
some flagged for her attention.
Her spine’s straight also, showing no feeling.
No one taught me how to care for my body.
You grow up watched by your mother or grandmother.
Once you’re free of them, your wife takes over, but she’s nervous,
she doesn’t go too far. So this body I have,
that the doctor blames me for—it’s always been supervised by women,
and let me tell you, they left a lot out.
The doctor looks at me—
between us, a stack of books and folders.
Except for us, the clinic’s empty.
There’s a trap-door here, and through that door,
the country of the dead. And the living push you through,
they want you there first, ahead of them.
The doctor knows this. She has her books,
I have my cigarettes. Finally
she writes something on a slip of paper.
This will help your blood pressure, she says.
And I pocket it, a sign to go.
And once I’m outside, I tear it up, like a ticket to the other world.
She was crazy to come here,
a place where she knows no one.
She’s alone; she has no wedding ring.
She goes home alone, to her place outside the village.
And she has her one glass of wine a day,
her dinner that isn’t a dinner.
And she takes off that white coat
between that coat and her body,
there’s just a thin layer of cotton.
And at some point, that comes off too.
To get born, your body makes a pact with death,
and from that moment, all it tries to do is cheat—
You get into bed alone. Maybe you sleep, maybe you never wake up.
But for a long time you hear every sound.
It’s a night like any summer night; the dark never comes.
14 novembro, 2021
Numa sala perto de mim #434
6 Days (2017) tells the story of the hostage situation of the Iranian embassy in London in 30 April - 5 May 1980, when a group of armed men from Arabistan (a region of Iran) took control fo the embassy demanding the liberation of prisoners from that region by the Iranian regime. The hard line taken by the British government of having terrorists subject to the law of the land, and storming the embassy when hostages had been harmed proved to be correct. For the many defects of controversial Maggie Thatcher, she knew how to hold her own. This episode coincided with the hostage crisis at the American embassy in Tehran from November 1979 to January 1981.
13 novembro, 2021
12 novembro, 2021
11 novembro, 2021
Palavras lidas #493
First Love
by John Clare
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start —
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter’s choice?
Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start —
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter’s choice?
Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more
10 novembro, 2021
Ditto #494
True love is like the appearance of ghosts; everyone talks about it but few have seen it.
09 novembro, 2021
08 novembro, 2021
Caprichos #656
(o flan d') O boca doce é bom é bom éééé
diz o avô e diz o bebé-é-é-é-é
O boca doce é bom é bom éééé!
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