Primavera #183

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

Primavera #182

Gansos e malmequeres

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...

Caprichos #440

A bela feijoada

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