Cuerpo Presente

Photo by MV

(...) No.
Quero quiero verla!
No.
Yo no quiero verla!!
Lorca




De Jose Luis Peixoto. Excerto de "Lunar" in antidot0, pag73

Nao sei se te vejo. A luz escurece e essa e a cor do tempo a passar.

(...)
Nao sei se te vejo. A luz escurece e essa e a cor do tempo a passar. Os meus cabelos negros. O meu vestido negro. Na terra, nas ervas, nas arvores, o negro cobre superficies cada vez maiores. A noite chega lentamente e estende-se sobre as coisas em pequenas pocas de negro. E o negro do meu vestido escurece ainda mais.(..)

Duvida

Photo taken by Marta Veríssimo



Sabemos que as palavras
nos protegem do mundo.
Mas quem nos protege
das palavras?
Jose Mario Silva

Adeus

Adeus

Ja gastamos as palavras pela rua, meu amor,
e o que nos ficou nao chega
para afastar o frio de quatro paredes.
Gastamos tudo menos o silencio.
Gastamos os olhos com o sal das lagrimas,
gastamos as maos a forca de as apertarmos,
gastamos o relogio e as pedras das esquinas
em esperas inuteis.

Meto as maos nas algibeiras e nao encontro nada.
Antigamente tinhamos tanto para dar um ao outro;
era como se todas as coisas fossem minhas:
quanto mais te dava mais tinha para te dar.
as vezes tu dizias: os teus olhos sao peixes verdes.
E eu acreditava.
Acreditava,
porque ao teu lado
todas as coisas eram possiveis.

Mas isso era no tempo dos segredos,
era no tempo em que o teu corpo era um aquario,
era no tempo em que os meus olhos
eram realmente peixes verdes.
Hoje sao apenas os meus olhos.
E pouco mas a verdade,
uns olhos como todos os outros.

Ja gastamos as palavras.
Quando agora digo: meu amor,
ja nao se passa absolutamente nada.
E no entanto, antes das palavras gastas,
tenho a certeza
de que todas as coisas estremeciam
so de murmurar o teu nome
no silencio do meu coracao.

Nao temos ja nada para dar.
Dentro de ti
nao ha nada que me peca agua.
O passado e inutil como um trapo.
E ja te disse: as palavras estao gastas.

Adeus.

Eug�nio de Andrade

A clean, Well-Lighted Place, by Hemingway

Fotografia de Alexandre Paulo

Here is one of my favorite short stories by Hemingway.

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place
by Ernest Hemingway
It was very late and everyone had left the cafe except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the cafe knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.
"Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.
"Why?"
"He was in despair."
"What about?"
"Nothing."
"How do you know it was nothing?"
"He has plenty of money."
They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near the door of the cafe and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside him.
"The guard will pick him up," one waiter said.
"What does it matter if he gets what he's after?"
"He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago."
The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him.
"What do you want?"
The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said.
"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away.
"He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week."
The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the counter inside the cafe and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass full of brandy.
"You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deaf man. The old man motioned with his finger. "A little more," he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile. "Thank you," the old man said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the cafe. He sat down at the table with his colleague again.
"He's drunk now," he said.
"He's drunk every night."
"What did he want to kill himself for?"
"How should I know."
"How did he do it?"
"He hung himself with a rope."
"Who cut him down?"
"His niece."
"Why did they do it?"
"Fear for his soul."
"How much money has he got?" "He's got plenty."
"He must be eighty years old."
"Anyway I should say he was eighty."
"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"
"He stays up because he likes it."
"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me."
"He had a wife once too."
"A wife would be no good to him now."
"You can't tell. He might be better with a wife."
"His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down."
"I know." "I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."
"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him."
"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work."
The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters.
"Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.
"Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now."
"Another," said the old man.
"No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.
The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip. The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.
"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two."
"I want to go home to bed."
"What is an hour?"
"More to me than to him."
"An hour is the same."
"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home."
"It's not the same."
"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.
"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?"
"Are you trying to insult me?"
"No, hombre, only to make a joke."
"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence."
"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said. "You have everything."
"And what do you lack?"
"Everything but work."
"You have everything I have."
"No. I have never had confidence and I am not young."
"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up."
"I am of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older waiter said.
"With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night."
"I want to go home and into bed."
"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe."
"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long."
"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves."
"Good night," said the younger waiter.
"Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself, It was the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread, It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.
"What's yours?" asked the barman.
"Nada."
"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away.
"A little cup," said the waiter.
The barman poured it for him.
"The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished," the waiter said.
The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at night for conversation.
"You want another copita?" the barman asked.
"No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted cafe was a very different thing. Now, without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it's probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

Cinema Falado

Fantastic image, out of a Federico Felini film.

No primeiro numero da Revista "Orfeu". Pessoa "mata" Alberto Caeiro.

Rio Tejo, Lisboa, Portugal

Ponte 25 de Abril in Lisbon, Portugal.
This is the waters that have embrace Lisbon for centuries.
The Tejo has inspired poets, such as Pessoa and many other artists or citizens of the soul.

Here is a poem by Alvaro De Campos

Lisbon revisited (1926)
Nothing holds me to anything. I want fifty things at once.With a met-hungry anguish I yearn

For what I don't Know-Definitely for the indefinite...

Restless I sleep and live in restless dreamOf someone who sleeps restlessly, half of me dreaming.They close all the abstract and necessary doors on me.They drew the curtains on all the hypotheses I might see on the street.

There's no house on the side street with the number they gave me.
I woke to the same life I departed by sleeping.Even my dream armies suffered defeat.Even my dreams felt false as I dreamed them.Even the life I only desire - even that life - cloys...
I understand in fits and starts;I write betweentimes when I'm not tired;And a boredom that's bored even of itself drags me ashore;I've no idea how the future and fate will treat my aimless anguish;I don't know what impossible shouthern islands await me shipwrecked;Or what palm-groves of letters will give me at least a line of verse.
No, I don't know this, that, or anything else...And deep in my soul where I dream what I dreamt,In the furthest recesses of my soul where I live memory without any reason(And the past is a natural fog of fake tears),On the shortcuts and roads in the faraway woodsWhere I hypothesized my being,The last remnants of my ultimate illusionFlee, dismantled,My dream armies vanquished without ever having been,My latent cohorts shattered to pieces in God.
Once again I see you, City of my childhood terrifyingly lost...City of my sorrow and joy, I dream here again...I? But am I the same person who lived here once and returned,And came back here again, am I?Or are we, all the I's was or were here,A string of head-being strung all together by a memory strand,A string of dreams of myself which someone outside me dreamt up?

Once again I see you-With heart more distant, soul less my own.
Once again I see you - Lisbon, the Tagus, and all-,Useless passerby of you and of me,

Stranger in this place as in every other,

Accidental in life as is in the soul,Phantom wandering the balls of memory,To the squeeling of rates and the squeaking of boards,In the doomed castle where life must be lived...
Once again I see you,Shadow passing through shadows Shining for one moment in a unknown, funereal light,Then entering the night like a ship's wake disappearingIn water slowly becaome inaudible...
Once again I see you,But myself, alas, I fail to see!Shattered, the magical mirror where I saw myself identical,And in each fateful fragment I descry only a piece of myself-A piece of you and of myself...

(1926)
from «POESIA DE ÁLVARO DE CAMPOS» by Álvaro de Campos

Here is a link to the video of Madredeus singing about Lisbon and the Tejo River
It is called " Moro em Lisboa" ( I live in Lisboa).

mms://videos.madredeus.com/madredeus/MoroEmLisboa.asf

(If you are not able to open to the link ,you can go to the web site of Madredeus( there is a link on my blog) and open "video clips" and you will see "moro em Lisboa".
Abracos
Susana

MASTER SONG

Mr. Cohen again. The song it is called "Master Song" and wine and some more.

http://s27.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=1VVJLHDI6OKTN2HYRNCVXA9PGL

I believe that you heard your master sing when I was sick in bed.
I suppose that he told you everything that I keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling, well at least that's what you said.
And now do you come back to bring your prisoner wine and bread?
You met him at some temple, where they take your clothes at the door.
He was just a numberless man in a chair who'd just come back from the war.
And you wrap up his tired face in your hair and he hands you the apple core.
Then he touches your lips now so suddenly bare of all the kisses we put on some time before.
And he gave you a German Shepherd to walk with a collar of leather and nails, and he never once made you explain or talk about all of the little details, such as who had a word and who had a rock, and who had you through the mails.
Now your love is a secret all over the block, and it never stops not even when your master fails.
And he took you up in his aeroplane, which he flew without any hands, and you cruised above the ribbons of rain that drove the crowd from the stands.
Then he killed the lights in a lonely Lane and, an ape with angel glands, erased the final wisps of pain with the music of rubber bands.
And now I hear your master sing, you kneel for him to come.
His body is a golden string that your body is hanging from.
His body is a golden string, my body has grown numb.
Oh now you hear your master sing, your shirt is all undone.
And will you kneel beside this bed that we polished so long ago, before your master chose instead to make my bed of snow?
Your eyes are wild and your knuckles are red and you're speaking far too low.
No I can't make out what your master said before he made you go.
Then I think you're playing far too rough for a lady who's been to the moon;
I've lain by this window long enough to get used to an empty room. And your love is some dust in an old man's cough who is tapping his foot to a tune, and your thighs are a ruin, you want too much, let's say you came back some time too soon.
I loved your master perfectly I taught him all that he knew. He was starving in some deep mystery like a man who is sure what is true.
And I sent you to him with my guarantee I could teach him something new, and I taught him how you would long for me no matter what he said no matter what you'd do.
I believe that you heard your master sing while I was sick in bed, I'm sure that he told you everything I must keep locked away in my head.
Your master took you travelling, well at least that's what you said,
And now do you come back to bring your prisoner wine and bread?

Azul Dançante

Foto de E.Emanuel.

http://d33.yousendit.com/D/1R9DB4E3OJDLA2BJ93LY6Z3L5H/02-DJAVAN%20-%20FLOR%20DO%20MEDO%20-%202004.mp3

Depois de umas semanas longas de trabalho
ouvir esta cancao do Djavan... eh uma delicia.
O cd chama-se "vaidade".

FLOR DO MEDO
Venha me beijar de uma vez
você pensa demais pra decidir
venha a mim de corpo e alma
libera e deixa o que for nos unir
não vá fugir mais uma vez
vença a falta de ar que a flor do medo traz
tente pensar pode até ser mau e tal
mas pode até ser que seja demais
tudo vai mudar
posso pressentir
você vai lembrar e rir
alguma dor que não vai matar ninguém
pode ser vista e nos rondar
não precisa se assustar
isso é clamor de amor
venha me beijar de uma vez
feito nuvem no ar sem aflição
venha a mim de corpo e alma
libera a paz do meu coração
não vá se perder outra vez
nesse mesmo lugar por onde já passou
tente pensar pode até ser sonho e tal
mas pode até ser que seja o amor