Variações de túlipas amarelas
26 abril, 2022
25 abril, 2022
Espantos #638
As túlipas são sensíveis a luz
ao sol abrem felizes,
mas quando cai a noite, voltam a fechar!
24 abril, 2022
23 abril, 2022
22 abril, 2022
21 abril, 2022
Coisas que mudaram #17
Vlodomyr Zelenskyy discursa no parlamento português sem a presença do PCP no hemiciclo.
Confesso que encontro um paralelismo nas atitudes de Zelenskyy e do PCP. Ambos defendem, contra tudo e contra todos, aquilo em que acreditam.
Zelenskyy acredita na independência da Ucrânia e nos valores democráticos do mundo ocidental que o apoia (até certo ponto) e escuta com atenção, revelando uma admiração tal que quase declara que se estivesse naquela situação não teria a mesma coragem.
O PCP acredita em tudo o que venha da Rússia, sem questionar. Há mais de 31 anos atrás eram os valores soviéticos do marxismo leninismo, com a nacionalização dos meios de produção, a supressão de classes sociais e das liberdades individuais. Hoje, o que da Rússia vem são valores de um regime de extrema direita, que aniquila qualquer tipo de oposição e onde corporações privadas poderosíssimas são controladas por oligarcas amigos do regime que estendem a sua influência em países mais ou menos distantes. O PCP não questiona hoje, nem leu o memo de 1991 que anunciava ao mundo a queda, com estrondo, da comunista União Soviética.
Palavras lidas #511
Suits
by David R. Slavitt
Each morning, as I confront my closet's array,
I have to admit again that the life I lead
is hardly good enough: I have not been named
ambassador to Malta; I am not on the board
of any college or large corporation; I shall not
receive a major prize today and pose
for photographers. Those suits, the shirts, the ties
are ready, but I am not, and the shoes are shined
as they wait for different occasions than I imagined
on the tailor's block, when I shopped for a dandified
future brighter than what I expect or deserve.
Even for weddings and funerals that require
a suit, I choose from the second best, reserving
that one for the dream into which I yet hope to awake.
by David R. Slavitt
Each morning, as I confront my closet's array,
I have to admit again that the life I lead
is hardly good enough: I have not been named
ambassador to Malta; I am not on the board
of any college or large corporation; I shall not
receive a major prize today and pose
for photographers. Those suits, the shirts, the ties
are ready, but I am not, and the shoes are shined
as they wait for different occasions than I imagined
on the tailor's block, when I shopped for a dandified
future brighter than what I expect or deserve.
Even for weddings and funerals that require
a suit, I choose from the second best, reserving
that one for the dream into which I yet hope to awake.
20 abril, 2022
19 abril, 2022
18 abril, 2022
17 abril, 2022
16 abril, 2022
15 abril, 2022
12 abril, 2022
11 abril, 2022
Palavras lidas #510
Letter Home
by Ellen Steinbaum
I love you forever
my father’s letter tells her
for forty-nine pages,
from the troopship crossing the Atlantic
before they’d ever heard of Anzio.
He misses her, the letter says,
counting out days of boredom, seasickness,
and changing weather,
poker games played for matches
when cash and cigarettes ran out,
a Red Cross package—soap,
cards, a mystery book he traded away
for The Rubaiyyat a bunkmate didn’t want.
He stood night watch and thought
of her. Don’t forget the payment
for insurance, he says.
My mother waits at home with me,
waits for the letter he writes day by day
moving farther across the ravenous ocean.
She will get it in three months and
her fingers will smooth the Army stationery
to suede.
He will come home, stand
beside her in the photograph, leaning
on crutches, holding
me against the rough wool
of his jacket. He will sit
alone and listen to Aïda
and they will pick up their
interrupted lives. Years later,
she will show her grandchildren
a yellow envelope with
forty-nine wilted pages telling her
of shimmering sequins on the water,
the moonlight catching sudden phosphorescence,
the churned wake that stretched a silver trail.
by Ellen Steinbaum
I love you forever
my father’s letter tells her
for forty-nine pages,
from the troopship crossing the Atlantic
before they’d ever heard of Anzio.
He misses her, the letter says,
counting out days of boredom, seasickness,
and changing weather,
poker games played for matches
when cash and cigarettes ran out,
a Red Cross package—soap,
cards, a mystery book he traded away
for The Rubaiyyat a bunkmate didn’t want.
He stood night watch and thought
of her. Don’t forget the payment
for insurance, he says.
My mother waits at home with me,
waits for the letter he writes day by day
moving farther across the ravenous ocean.
She will get it in three months and
her fingers will smooth the Army stationery
to suede.
He will come home, stand
beside her in the photograph, leaning
on crutches, holding
me against the rough wool
of his jacket. He will sit
alone and listen to Aïda
and they will pick up their
interrupted lives. Years later,
she will show her grandchildren
a yellow envelope with
forty-nine wilted pages telling her
of shimmering sequins on the water,
the moonlight catching sudden phosphorescence,
the churned wake that stretched a silver trail.
10 abril, 2022
Ditto #509
--Joan Didion
08 abril, 2022
Retirado do contexto #402
Borregar
1. Berrar como um borrego
2. Abortar a aterragem
3. (cavalo) recusar-se a efectuar o salto sobre um obstáculo
Não sou de berros, não gosto de borrego, nem ando a cavalo. Já em terra, depois do controlo de passaportes e no corredor que liga a sala das bagagens à sala das chegadas passei por uma mesa de atendimento para refugiados ucranianos onde estavam sentadas duas pessoas para dar apoio a refugiados recém chegados, se bem que quando passei não estavam a atender ninguém, apenas aguardavam em silêncio. Um homem ruivo, claramente britânico, e uma mulher de tez muito clara, olhos azuis, cabelo preto pintado, com uma cara que evidenciava tristeza, horror e desespero... claramente ucraniana. E percebi que ela estava a ter um dia muito pior que o meu. Uma aterragem abortada não é agradável mas passa-se.
06 abril, 2022
Coisas bonitas #102
Gosto de vislumbrar detalhes em fotos aéreas. Num voo para o Reino Unido com saída do Porto no sentido norte-sul (para depois rumar a norte, claro está) viu-se:
o Estádio do Bessa, a Casa da Música e o Dragão ao fundo;
o pavilhão Rosa Mota, as quatro pontes e as belas curvas do Douro;
a barra do Lima em Viana do Castelo;
Minho acima até...
... Valença,
com duas pontes e a reconhecível fortaleza virada a Tuy;
Baiona (a partir daqui tive de ver no mapa porque não reconhecia)
e Vigo. Depois vieram as nuvens e não se viu mais nada.
03 abril, 2022
02 abril, 2022
Palavras lidas #509
Riders
by Robert Frost
The surest thing there is is we are riders,
And though none too successful at it, guiders,
Through everything presented, land and tide
And now the very air, of what we ride.
What is this talked of mystery of birth
But being mounted bareback on the earth?
We can just see the infant up astride,
His small fist buried in the bushy hide.
There is our wildest mount, a headless horse.
But though it runs unbridled off its course,
And all our blandishments would seem defied,
We have ideas yet that we haven't tried.
by Robert Frost
The surest thing there is is we are riders,
And though none too successful at it, guiders,
Through everything presented, land and tide
And now the very air, of what we ride.
What is this talked of mystery of birth
But being mounted bareback on the earth?
We can just see the infant up astride,
His small fist buried in the bushy hide.
There is our wildest mount, a headless horse.
But though it runs unbridled off its course,
And all our blandishments would seem defied,
We have ideas yet that we haven't tried.
01 abril, 2022
Ditto #508
--Joan Didion
31 março, 2022
30 março, 2022
29 março, 2022
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