Almanac
by Lois Parker Edstrom
My grandparents owned the land,
worked the land, bound
to the earth by seasons of planting
and harvest.
They watched the sky, the habits
of birds, hues of sunset,
the moods of moon and clouds,
the disposition of air.
They inhaled the coming season,
let it brighten their blood
for the work ahead.
Soil sifted through their fingers
imbedded beneath their nails
and this is what they knew;
this rhythm circling the years.
They never left their land;
each in their own time
settled deeper.
31 agosto, 2016
Coisas que não mudam #365
Recentemente sobre o Atlântico,
a sobrevoar (não Guimarães, mas) o grupo central.
Quem as conhece sabe bem quais são!
30 agosto, 2016
Palavras lidas #297
Winter, Spring
by Jim Harrison
Winter is black and beige down here
from drought. Suddenly in March
there’s a good rain and in a couple
of weeks we are enveloped in green.
Green everywhere in the mesquites, oaks,
cottonwoods, the bowers of thick
willow bushes the warblers love
for reasons of food or the branches,
the tiny aphids they eat with relish.
Each year it is a surprise
that the world can turn green again.
It is the grandest surprise in life,
the birds coming back from the south to my open
arms, which they fly past, aiming at the feeders.
by Jim Harrison
Winter is black and beige down here
from drought. Suddenly in March
there’s a good rain and in a couple
of weeks we are enveloped in green.
Green everywhere in the mesquites, oaks,
cottonwoods, the bowers of thick
willow bushes the warblers love
for reasons of food or the branches,
the tiny aphids they eat with relish.
Each year it is a surprise
that the world can turn green again.
It is the grandest surprise in life,
the birds coming back from the south to my open
arms, which they fly past, aiming at the feeders.
29 agosto, 2016
Palavras lidas #296
The Last Rose of Summer
by Thomas Moore
Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither’d,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
by Thomas Moore
Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither’d,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
No Times de hoje #167
An excerpt from today's New York Times' article Why We Never Die by Gabriel Rockhill associate professor of philosophy at Villanova University.
(...) Our existence has numerous dimensions, and they each live according to different times. The biological stratum, which I naïvely took to mean life in general, is in certain ways a long process of demise — we are all dying all the time, just at different rhythms. Far from being an ultimate horizon beyond the bend, death is a constitutive feature of the unfolding of biological life. In other words, I am confronting my death each day that I live.
Moreover, the physical dimension of existence clearly persists beyond any biological threshold, as the material components of our bodies mix and mingle in different ways with the cosmos. The artifacts that we have produced also persevere, which can range from our physical imprint on the world to objects we have made or writings like this one. There is, as well, a psychosocial dimension that survives our biological withdrawal, which is visible in the impact that we have had — for better or worse — on all of the people around us. In living, we trace a wake in the world.
(...)
Authentic existence is perhaps less about boldly confronting the inevitable reality of our own finitude than about recognizing and cultivating the multiple dimensions of our lives. Some of these can never truly die because they do not belong only to us. They carry on in the physical world, in the material and cultural vestiges we leave, as well as in the psychological and social effects we have on those around us. (...)
28 agosto, 2016
Sem título #79
E outra...
ORAÇÃO DE SANTO AGOSTINHO
A morte não é nada.
Apenas passei ao outro mundo.
Eu sou eu, Tu és tu.
O que fomos um para o outro ainda somos,
dá-me o nome que sempre me deste.
Fala-me como sempre me falaste.
Não mudes o tom a um triste ou solene.
Continua rindo com aquilo que nos fazia rir juntos.
Reza, sorri, pensa em mim, reza comigo.
Que meu nome se pronuncie em casa,
como sempre se pronunciou.
Sem nenhuma ênfase, sem rosto de sombra.
A vida continua significando o que significou.
Continua sendo o que era,
o cordão da união não se quebrou.
Por que eu estaria fora dos teus pensamentos,
apenas porque estou fora da tua vista?
Não estou longe, somente estou do outro lado do
caminho. Já verás, tudo está bem...
Redescobrirás meu coração, e nele redescobrirás a
ternura mais pura. Seca as tuas lágrimas e, se me
amas, não chores mais.
Sem título #78
Oração a Santo Agostinho, no dia do próprio...
Do céu onde agora vivo
Este horizonte sem fim,
Esta luz, que tudo reveste e penetra,
Não chorarias se me amas!
Estou já absorvido no encanto de Deus,
Na sua beleza sem fim...
Lembra-te dos bons momentos que vivemos juntos
E verás que a saudade também é presença.
Quando estiveres triste, infeliz, chama-me
E eu irei ajudar-te e consolar-te
E verás como é bom ter um amigo do outro lado.
E quando chegar também a tua vez,
Não chorem os que ficam,
Porque não será um adeus,
Mas simplesmente um até à vista,
E eu estarei lá para te receber...
27 agosto, 2016
Coisas que não mudam #364
Hoje a Igreja celebra o dia de Santa Mónica, mãe de Santo Agostinho cujo dia se celebra amanhã. Após a conversão do seu filho ao cristianismo ao fim de 17 anos de resistência, Santa Mónica viveu seis meses em paz. A morte da mãe no mesmo ano do baptismo de Santo Agostinho, inspirou as mais belas páginas das suas Confissões.
No Times de Hoje #166
This week marked the 100th anniversary of National Park system in the United States. This weekend, the travel section of the New York Times brings a selection of recent (and not so recent) articles on the said parks with stunning images.
26 agosto, 2016
Palavras lidas #295
Sexta-feira da 21ª semana do Tempo Comum
Evangelho segundo S. Mateus 25,1-13.
Naquele tempo, disse Jesus aos seus discípulos a seguinte parábola: «O reino dos Céus pode comparar-se a dez virgens, que, tomando as suas lâmpadas, foram ao encontro do esposo. Cinco eram insensatas e cinco eram prudentes. As insensatas, ao tomarem as suas lâmpadas, não levaram azeite consigo, enquanto as prudentes, com as lâmpadas, levaram azeite nas almotolias.
Como o esposo se demorava, começaram todas a dormitar e adormeceram. No meio da noite ouviu-se um brado: ‘Aí vem o esposo; ide ao seu encontro’. Então, as virgens levantaram-se todas e começaram a preparar as lâmpadas. As insensatas disseram às prudentes: ‘Dai-nos do vosso azeite, que as nossas lâmpadas estão a apagar-se’. Mas as prudentes responderam: ‘Talvez não chegue para nós e para vós. Ide antes comprá-lo aos vendedores’. Mas, enquanto foram comprá-lo, chegou o esposo: as que estavam preparadas entraram com ele para o banquete nupcial; e a porta fechou-se.
Mais tarde, chegaram também as outras virgens e disseram: ‘Senhor, senhor, abre-nos a porta’. Mas ele respondeu: ‘Em verdade vos digo: Não vos conheço’. Portanto, vigiai, porque não sabeis o dia nem a hora».
__________
Comentário do dia: São Teodoro Estudita (759-826), monge de Constantinopla
Pequenas Catequeses, n.º 130
Irmãos, há um tempo para semear e um tempo para recolher, um tempo para a paz e um tempo para a guerra, um tempo para o trabalho e um tempo para o descanso (cf Qo 3). Para a salvação da alma, porém, todos os momentos são propícios e todos os dias são favoráveis, se assim quisermos. (...)
Palavras lidas #294
Sewing
by Sue Ellen Thompson
The night before my older sister’s wedding,
my mother and I sat up late
hand-stitching a little cloud of netting
to the brim of each bridesmaid’s hat
To be alone with her was so rare
I couldn’t think of what I had to say.
We worked in silence beneath the chandelier
until it was almost daybreak.
Soon I’d have a room of my own
and she would only be cooking for six.
We drifted among the wreaths we had sewn,
nursing quietly on our fingertips.
That she still had me was a comfort,
I think. And I still had her.
by Sue Ellen Thompson
The night before my older sister’s wedding,
my mother and I sat up late
hand-stitching a little cloud of netting
to the brim of each bridesmaid’s hat
To be alone with her was so rare
I couldn’t think of what I had to say.
We worked in silence beneath the chandelier
until it was almost daybreak.
Soon I’d have a room of my own
and she would only be cooking for six.
We drifted among the wreaths we had sewn,
nursing quietly on our fingertips.
That she still had me was a comfort,
I think. And I still had her.
24 agosto, 2016
Palavras lidas #293
The Sunday News
by Dana Gioia
Looking for something in the Sunday paper,
I flipped by accident to Local Weddings,
Yet missed the photograph until I saw
Your name among the headings.
And there you were, looking almost unchanged,
Your hair still long, though now long out of style,
And you still wore that stiff, ironic look
That was your smile.
I felt as though we sat there face to face.
My stomach tightened. I read the item through.
It said too much about both families,
Too little about you.
Finished at last, I put the paper down,
Stung by jealousy, my mind aflame—
Hating this man, this stranger whom you loved,
This printed name.
And yet I clipped it out to put away
Inside a book like something I might use,
A scrap I knew I wouldn’t read again
But couldn’t bear to lose.
by Dana Gioia
Looking for something in the Sunday paper,
I flipped by accident to Local Weddings,
Yet missed the photograph until I saw
Your name among the headings.
And there you were, looking almost unchanged,
Your hair still long, though now long out of style,
And you still wore that stiff, ironic look
That was your smile.
I felt as though we sat there face to face.
My stomach tightened. I read the item through.
It said too much about both families,
Too little about you.
Finished at last, I put the paper down,
Stung by jealousy, my mind aflame—
Hating this man, this stranger whom you loved,
This printed name.
And yet I clipped it out to put away
Inside a book like something I might use,
A scrap I knew I wouldn’t read again
But couldn’t bear to lose.
23 agosto, 2016
Palavras lidas #292
At the Church Door
by Loius Simpson
I didn’t stay for the closing
hymns and prayers. I felt
out of sorts, so I left.
Someone was before me
at the door: a child, gazing
at a spot on her wrist.
She said, “Can you help me?”
“What is it?”
“A ladybug,” she said.
So I opened the door,
and she said, “It jumped off.”
We stood looking around.
“It’ll be all right,” I said.
She went in, and I left,
taking care where I stepped.
I didn’t stay for the closing
hymns and prayers. I felt
out of sorts, so I left.
Someone was before me
at the door: a child, gazing
at a spot on her wrist.
She said, “Can you help me?”
“What is it?”
“A ladybug,” she said.
So I opened the door,
and she said, “It jumped off.”
We stood looking around.
“It’ll be all right,” I said.
She went in, and I left,
taking care where I stepped.
19 agosto, 2016
Ditto #335
It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.
--Mark Twain
17 agosto, 2016
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