Parece que estou a ouvir #441

From 1970s-1980s Coventry

Friday Night, Saturday Morning
The Specials

Out of bed at eight am
Out my head by half past ten
Out with mates and dates and friends
That's what I do at weekends
I can't talk and I can't walk
But I know where I'm going to go
I'm going watch my money go
At the Locarno, no

When my feet go through the door
I know what my right arm is for
Buy a drink and pull a chair
Up to the edge of the dance floor
Bouncers bouncing through the night
Trying to stop or start a fight
I sit and watch the flashing lights
Moving legs in footless tights

I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning
I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning

I like to venture into town
I like to get a few drinks down
The floor gets packed the bar gets full
I don't like life when things get dull
The hen party have saved the night
And freed themselves from drunken stags
Having fun and dancing in
A circle round their leather bags

I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning
I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning

But two o'clock has come again
It's time to leave this paradise
Hope the chip shop isn't closed
Cos' their pies are really nice
I'll eat in the taxi queue
Standing in someone else's spew
Wish I had lipstick on my shirt
Instead of piss stains on my shoes

I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning
I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning
I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning
I go out on Friday night and I come home on Saturday morning

Primavera #183

Na primavera as ruas ficam mais simpáticas

Palavras lidas #584

Eu Sou Português Aqui
José Fanha

Eu sou português aqui
em terra e fome talhado
feito de barro e carvão
rasgado pelo vento norte
amante certo da morte
no silêncio da agressão.

Eu sou português
aqui
mas nascido deste lado
do lado de cá da vida
do lado do sofrimento
da miséria repetida
do pé descalço
do vento.

Nasci
deste lado da cidade
nesta margem
no meio da tempestade
durante o reino do medo.
Sempre a apostar na viagem
quando os frutos amargavam
e o luar sabia a azedo.

Eu sou português aqui
no teatro mentiroso
mas afinal verdadeiro
na finta fácil
no gozo
no sorriso doloroso
no gingar dum marinheiro.

Nasci
deste lado da ternura
do coração esfarrapado
eu sou filho da aventura
da anedota
do acaso
campeão do improviso,
trago as mão sujas do sangue
que em papa a terra que piso.

Eu sou português aqui
na brilhantina em que embrulho,
do alto da minha esquina
a conversa e a borrasca
eu sou filho do sarilho
do gesto desmesurado
nos cordéis do desenrasca.

Nasci aqui
no mês de Abril
quando esqueci toda a saudade
e comecei a inventar
em cada gesto
a liberdade.

Nasci aqui
ao pé do mar
duma garganta magoada no cantar.
Eu sou a festa
inacabada
quase ausente
eu sou a briga
a luta antiga
renovada
ainda urgente.


Eu sou português aqui
o português sem mestre
mas com jeito.
Eu sou português aqui
e trago o mês de Abril a voar
dentro do peito.

Parece que estou a ouvir #440

A primeira senha do 25 de Abril nas palavras de João Paulo Diniz há precisamente 50 anos:

Faltam cinco minutos para as 23 horas, convosco Paulo de Carvalho com o Eurofestival de 74: 'E Depois do Adeus'

E depois do Adeus

Paulo de Carvalho

Letra e música de José Calvário e José Niza

Quis saber quem sou
O que faço aqui
Quem me abandonou
De quem me esqueci
Perguntei por mim
Quis saber de nós
Mas o mar
Não me traz
Tua voz

Em silêncio, amor
Em tristeza enfim
Eu te sinto, em flor
Eu te sofro, em mim
Eu te lembro, assim
Partir é morrer
Como amar
É ganhar
E perder

Tu vieste em flor
Eu te desfolhei
Tu te deste em amor
Eu nada te dei
Em teu corpo, amor
Eu adormeci
Morri nele
E ao morrer
Renasci

E depois do amor
E depois de nós
O dizer adeus
O ficarmos sós
Teu lugar a mais
Tua ausência em mim
Tua paz
Que perdi
Minha dor que aprendi
De novo vieste em flor
Te desfolhei

E depois do amor
E depois de nós
O adeus
O ficamos sós

La la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la la la
La la la la la la

Sem título #366

Faithful dogs

Coisas que não mudam #661

Are you really seeing me, I can seat a little closer you know...

Primavera #182

Formas perfeitas de primavera

Palavras lidas #583

London
by William Blake

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

Ditto #582

An editor does not add to a book. At best he serves as a handmaiden to an author. […] An editor at most releases energy. He creates nothing.

--Maxwell Perkins

Sem título #365

Care

Parece que estou a ouvir #439

Take back thy gift
Andrea von Kampen

Take back thy gift
Restore me to the ground
Take back thy gift
Lay me deeply in the earth

Oh, the woods decay, so do they
Plow the fields, then lie beneath
I remember wild and sweet melodies
In April, hear those lips that kiss so sweet

Ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh

Woman of the dawn
She rises in the East
I beg her each morn'
Release me, please

Oh, the woods decay, so do they
Plow the fields, then lie beneath
I remember wild and sweet melodies
In April, hear those lips that kiss so sweet

Ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh

Take back thy gift
Restore me to the ground

Primavera #181

Macieira no caminho de todos os dias

Coisas que não mudam #660

Por estes dias de manhãnzinha, os gansos dormem no meio do caminho

Sair de casa meia hora mais tarde, dá para os ver a acordar e em exercício

Primavera #180

A primavera é a mesma

mas o sol faz toda a diferença

Coisas que não mudam #659

Relaxed cats in the Azores

Sem título #364

The sound of courage...

Palavras lidas #582

The courage that my mother had
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The courage that my mother had
Went with her, and is with her still:
Rock from New England quarried;
Now granite in a granite hill.

The golden brooch my mother wore
She left behind for me to wear;
I have no thing I treasure more:
Yet, it is something I could spare.

Oh, if instead she’d left to me
The thing she took into the grave!—
That courage like a rock, which she
Has no more need of, and I have.

Pormenores #182

Provavelmente a Sera da Estrela, a Covilhã e a A23

Ditto #581

Every good poet in the world has written only a few terrific poems.

--Donald Hall

Parece que estou a ouvir #438

No Other Love*

Jo Stafford (1953)

No other love can warm my heart
Now that I've known the comfort of your arms
No other love.

Oh the sweet contentment 

that I find with you every time
Every time.

No other lips could want you more
For I was born to glory in your kiss.
Forever yours

I was blessed with love to love you
Til the stars burn out above you
Til the moon is but a silver shell
No other love, let no other love
Know the wonder of your spell

* Actually derived from Chopin Op. 10, No. 3, which has also generated Tristesse by Tino Rossi in 1939... beautiful tune in whichever rendition.

Sem título #363

Oh so very important...

Coisas que não mudam #658

Cats and their nests

Palavras lidas #581

My Father Comes to the City
By Joyce Sutphen

Tonight his airplane comes in from the West,
and he rises from his seat, a suitcoat slung
over his arm. The flight attendant smiles
and says, "Have a nice visit," and he nods
as if he has done this all before,
as if his entire life hasn't been 170 acres
of corn and oats, as if a plow isn't dragging
behind him through the sand and clay,
as if his head isn't nestling in the warm
flank of a Holstein cow.

Only his hands tell the truth:
fingers thick as ropes, nails flat
and broken in the trough of endless chores.
He steps into the city warily, breathing
metal and exhaust, bewildered by the
stampede of humanity circling around him.
I want to ask him something familiar,
something about tractors and wagons,
but he is taken by the neon night,
crossing carefully against the light.

Ditto #580

If there weren't so many lies in the world, I wouldn't write at all. The human soul needs actual beauty more than bread.

--D.H. Lawrence

Coisas que mudaram #30

Páscoa fria a saber a Natal

Sem título #362

No guilt...

Retirado do contexto #425

Sexta-feira santa cítrica

Coisas que não mudam #657

Promessas de figos

das poucas árvores que dão fruto sem flor

Parece que estou a ouvir #437

The Story

Brandi Carlile

All of these lines across my face

Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true, I was made for you

I climbed across the mountain tops
Swam all across the ocean blue
I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules
But baby, I broke them all for you
Oh, because even when I was flat broke
You made me feel like a million bucks
You do, and I was made for you

You see the smile that's on my mouth
It's hiding the words that don't come out
And all of my friends who think that I'm blessed
They don't know my head is a mess
No, they don't know who I really am
And they don't know what I've been through like you do
And I was made for you

All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
Oh, but these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true, I was made for you

Oh, yeah, well it's true that I was made for you

Pedaços de Veneza #11

Longe do centro histórico

fica o bairro de Santa Elena numa das ilhas mais recentes de Veneza

apenas construídas nos anos 60 do século XX;

há roupa estendida, parque e marina,

como numa vulgar cidade à beira mar.

Sem título #361

Shameless...

Retirado do contexto #424

Domingo de Ramos com leitura da Paixão de São Marcos

em São Marcos

Coisas que não mudam #656

O fascínio dos gatos pelas flores

Pedaços de Veneza #10

Vistas do Canal Grande

Pedaços de Veneza #9

Decrépita, inóspita, mas magestosa,

Veneza lá vai...