Blimunda

Tempo Descuidado

2008-11-20T04:44:00.000-08:00

Tempo Descuidado

Sempre que acho um tempo distraído
Me transborda um sentimento
Fujo? ou esqueço?
Será assim a prenunciada
Mentira?

Na clareza da manhã
Na sombra espessa da noite
O encontro claro Agarrado
A desfalecida verdade
Será que o Mar me ilude?

Na tonta ilusão de sentir braços esfolados
Contraídos no momento estendidos no desesperado futuro
Encontro passos! entre silêncios
Uma voz no meio
De mim, me acorda
Nas horas severas
No calmo tempo presente!
Agarrado a uma entretida saudade

Susana Pestana

Fascinação

2008-11-19T20:04:00.000-08:00

Entre os becos da tua vida
Descanso na tua esquina
somos dois distraídos
acumulados nas águas mornas
Porque me fascinas!

Numa organização aflita
Dispo-te entre ramos debotados
nas luzes de um sol traidor
Lentamente assustador
Aonde me fascinas!

Quero-te à beira de uma árvore
Num mar que não me pertence
A tua ausência desliza
como pingos de uma água visitada
Como me fascinas!

Vi-te respirar num rochedo vivo
O teu olhar resultou num suspiro demorado
Estás nas metades abertas
Num esconderijo de necessidades
E me fascinas, liberdade.

Susana Pestana

Casablanca

2008-06-20T09:32:00.000-07:00

"It doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people doesn't add up to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday, you'll understand that. Now, now... Here's looking at you kid.” HB

Photo by Wind

Aqui...Here

2007-11-18T17:12:00.000-08:00

Here I am
in hot Red Bank, New Jersey
By the Sea.

Abracos
Susana

Tejo no Inverno

2007-03-01T14:30:00.000-08:00

"Porque me fascinas!"..Susana Pestana

Blimunda's playlist (Oct)

2006-10-16T21:58:00.000-07:00

"Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? Does that make me crazy? possibly.... "GB
Sullen Girl-Fiona Apple
Crazy - Gnarls Barkley St. Elsewhere0
Just like heaven -Katie Melua
Family Affair- Sly & The Family Stone
The Ocean - Richard Hawley
Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight- The Isley Brothers

Lost In Love -Air Supply
Closer (Soundtrack) - Can'T Take My Eyes Off You
All the Way Around -Marvin Gaye Chronicles Crazy Gnarls Barkley St.
Your Body Is a Wonderland, John Mayer
Almost Doesn't Count -Brandy
Obtener un Si - Shakira Fijación Oral
Family Affair -Mary J. Blige No More Drama
Ms. Fat Booty- Def Black On Both Sides
Miracles - Jefferson Starship
Do What You Gotta Do-Roberta Flack
Morning Yearning- Ben Harper
Move On Up-Curtis Mayfield
Feeling Alright -Joe Cocker
Notas- Gotan Project
Mi Confesión -Gotan Project
Crazy love-Jackson Browne & Mark Cohn
Take Me As I Am- Mary J Blige
The Promise-Tracy Chapman
American Idiot- Green Day
Sunrise-Norah Jones
I put a spell on you-Nina Simone

(Photos by Wind)

Morning

2006-10-14T07:07:00.000-07:00

( all photos were taken by Wind)

"A yellow butterfly flew up
and startled me out of my morning complacency
I recognised your childish laugh
'Remember' you said'to live life today
and reach for a soul touch a heart or unveil a beautiful poem
my face smiled and I thought a whisper thank you for taking the time to remind me. "
MB

De tanto lidar com sombras....

2006-08-15T12:38:00.000-07:00

Paint by Wind

De tanto lidar com sombras, (…)
Umgang mit Schatten (...)

Somos dois abismos - um poço fitando o Céu.
Wir sind zwei Abgründe - ein Brunnen, der den Himmel anstarrt.

Fernando Pessoa

(......)

2006-08-15T12:17:00.000-07:00

Paint by Wind

"Sou o intervalo entre o que sou e o que não sou, entre o que sonho e o que a vida fez de mim, a média abstracta e carnal entre coisas que não são nada, sendo eu nada também. Que desassossego se sinto, que desconforto se penso, que inutilidade se quero! "

"Ich bin der Zwischenraum zwischen dem, was ich bin, und dem, was ich nicht bin, zwischen dem, was ich träume, und dem, was das Leben aus mir gemacht hat, der abstrakte und leibliche Mittelwert zwischen Dingen, die nichts sind, da ich ebenfalls nichts bin. Welche Unruhe, wenn ich fühle, welch Unbehagen, wenn ich denke, welche Nutzlosigkeit, wenn ich will!"

Fernando Pessoa

Wislawa Szymborska

2006-08-08T12:20:00.000-07:00

Possibilities
I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love's concerned,
nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness
to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms' fairy tales
to the newspapers' front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers
to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes,
since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven't mentioned here
to many things I've also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects
to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.
- Wislawa Szymborska

Mar

2006-07-13T01:02:00.000-07:00

Oda al mar. Pablo Neruda:Aquí en la isla
el mar
y cuánto mar
se sale de sí mismo
a cada rato,
dice que sí, que no,
que no, que no, que no,
dice que si, en azul,
en espuma, en galope,
dice que no, que no.
No puede estarse quieto,
me llamo mar, repite
pegando en una piedra
sin lograr convencerla,
entonces
con siete lenguas verdes
de siete perros verdes,
de siete tigres verdes,
de siete mares verdes,
la recorre, la besa,
la humedece
y se golpea el pecho
repitiendo su nombre.
Oh mar, así te llamas,
oh camarada océano,
no pierdas tiempo y agua,
no te sacudas tanto,
ayúdanos,
somos los pequeñitos
pescadores,
los hombres de la orilla,
tenemos frío y hambre
eres nuestro enemigo,
no golpees tan fuerte,
no grites de ese modo,
abre tu caja verde
y déjanos a todos
en las manos
tu regalo de plata:
el pez de cada día.
Aquí en cada casa
lo queremos
y aunque sea de plata,
de cristal o de luna,
nació para las pobres
cocinas de la tierra.
No lo guardes,
avaro,
corriendo frío como
relámpago mojado
debajo de tus olas.
Ven, ahora,
ábrete
y déjalo
cerca de nuestras manos,
ayúdanos, océano,
padre verde y profundo,
a terminar un día
la pobreza terrestre.
Déjanos
cosechar la infinita
plantación de tus vidas,
tus trigos y tus uvas,
tus bueyes, tus metales,
el esplendor mojado
y el fruto sumergido.
Padre mar, ya sabemos
cómo te llamas, todas
las gaviotas reparten
tu nombre en las arenas:
ahora, pórtate bien,
no sacudas tus crines,
no amenaces a nadie,
no rompas contra el cielo
tu bella dentadura,
déjate por un rato
de gloriosas historias,
danos a cada hombre,
a cada
mujer y a cada niño,
un pez grande o pequeño
cada día.
Sal por todas las calles
del mundo
a repartir pescado
y entonces
grita,
grita
para que te oigan todos
los pobres que trabajan
y digan,
asomando a la boca
de la mina:
"Ahí viene el viejo mar
repartiendo pescado".
Y volverán abajo,
a las tinieblas,
sonriendo, y por las calles
y los bosques
sonreirán los hombres
y la tierra
con sonrisa marina.
Pero
si no lo quieres,
si no te da la gana,
espérate,
espéranos,
lo vamos a pensar,
vamos en primer término
a arreglar los asuntos
humanos,
los más grandes primero,
todos los otros después,
y entonces
entraremos en ti,
cortaremos las olas
con cuchillo de fuego,
en un caballo eléctrico
saltaremos la espuma,
cantando
nos hundiremos
hasta tocar el fondo
de tus entrañas,
un hilo atómico
guardará tu cintura,
plantaremos
en tu jardín profundo
plantas
de cemento y acero,
te amarraremos
pies y manos,
los hombres por tu piel
pasearán escupiendo,
sacándote racimos,
construyéndote arneses,
montándote y domándote
dominándote el alma.
Pero eso será cuando
los hombres
hayamos arreglado
nuestro problema,
el grande,
el gran problema.
Todo lo arreglaremos
poco a poco:
te obligaremos, mar,
te obligaremos, tierra,
a hacer milagros,
porque en nosotros mismos,
en la lucha,
está el pez, está el pan,
está el milagro.
(Pablo Neruda)

ViVa Portugal

2006-07-08T04:35:00.000-07:00

“A viagem termina quando encerramos as nossas fronteiras interiores, Regressamos a nós mesmos, não a um lugar.” Mia Couto,escritor moçambicano, no livro O Outro Pé da Sereia, Agência Carta Maior, 27/06/2006

Antes Del Comienzo

2006-06-20T11:18:00.000-07:00

ANTES DEL COMIENZO

Ruidos confusos, claridad incierta.
Otro día comienza.
Es un cuarto en penumbra
y dos cuerpos tendidos.
En mi frente me pierdo
por un llano sin nadie.
Ya las horas afilan sus navajas.
Pero a mi lado tú respiras;
entrañable y remota
fluyes y no te mueves.
Inaccesible si te pienso,
con los ojos te palpo,
te miro con las manos.
Los sueños nos separan
y la sangre nos junta.
somos un río de latidos.
Bajo tus párpados madura
la semilla del sol.
El mundo
no es real todavía,
el tiempo duda:
sólo es cierto
el calor de tu piel.
En tu respiración escucho
la marea del ser,
la sílaba olvidada del Comienzo.

Octavio Paz

In Lisbon, Portugal

2006-06-14T11:24:00.000-07:00

Here I am again, "juntos" eu, o mar e o Tejo in Lisboa, Portugal for 6 weeks..

Juntos
Pedacinhos de tempo
roubados
Aqui e a ali
ruídos num quarto
que nos salva…
Desejos que nos acalmam.

Quando estamos juntos!
Dois mundos
Um Tejo iluminado
Uma canção Photo taken by Wind
Uma noite de raspão
Juntos
O Azul se esconde entre portas que se abrem
Períodos nus desejos submersos
passadeiras com vontades
Quando estamos juntos
Um medo empurrado
Uma madrugada acordada
Uma alma entre nos
Dois corpos alinhados

Juntos

Modelamos a saudade
cega-se a ausência
interrompe-se os vazios
reconcilia-se fragilidades

Por sombras de sílabas.
Quando estamos juntos….penetramos nos gestos dos nossos corpos

Susana Pestana

Greg Brown

2006-03-30T06:24:00.000-08:00

Here is one of the greatest musician/songwriters in the the Midwest- Mister Brown

"Where Is Maria?"
there's a sweated-through shirt thrown over a chair
an old photo of Anna Magnani in her underwear
there's an old dog barking at a brand new moon
and a sign in every window sayin' "Be Back Soon"
but where is maria?
there's a young fellow rockin' in a thump thump car
and he's smug as a commentator on NPR
and our foolish government tries to save face
while the whole world struggles to become one bland place
but where is maria?
there's a millionaire singing about nothing at all
but he looks pretty good and he's knocking 'em dead down at the mall
there's a woman weary of the look in men's eyes
when they don't look she just turns away and sighs
but where is maria?
there's a dirty rain falling like the tears of shame
she's the only one I know who'd dance with me in such a rain
there's a guru snoozin' in a limousine
and a whole industry pumping blood into recycled scenes
there'll be one corporation selling one little box
it'll do what you want and tell you what you want and cost whatever you got
but where is maria?
there's a pile of letters from lovers friends
if your dream came true would you still want it then
a series of images on an empty screen
no conclusions just a kiss from Mr. In-Between
but where is maria?
there's a wheel of symbols and a wheel of spokes
let's face it, friends, these are station wagons and we're our folks
the cafe's open the hotel's shut down
but lord these bad habits sure do stick around
but where is maria?
behind the camera I saw her smile
I'd like to go back to that room and stay there for a while
there's a stranger's body with an old friend's face
there's a wild parade and a slow fade and a touch of grace
can I visit your house? can I sleep in your bed?
ah maria, if I rub your back will you rub my head?
but where is maria?

2006-03-19T13:19:00.000-08:00

Project gotan

"Gotan Project," created by the trio Philippe Cohen Solal, Christoph H. Muller, and Eduardo Makaroff . Great music. Queremos Paz. We want PEACE

Abracos
Susana

O'Neill

2006-02-06T20:27:00.000-08:00

O amor é o amor - e depois?

Vamos ficar os dois a imaginar, a imaginar?...O meu peito contra o teu peito

cortando o mar, cortando o ar.

Num leito há todo o espaço para amar!

Na nossa carne estamos sem destino, sem medo, sem pudor, e trocamos - somos um? somos dois? -espírito e calor!O amor é o amor - e depois?

Alexandre O'Neill

Blimunda & Baltasar

2006-01-19T13:24:00.001-08:00

"They were not afraid, they were simply astounded at their own daring. The priest laughed and shouted. He had already abandoned the safety of the handrail and was running back and forth across the deck of the machine in order to catch a glimpse of the land below, north, south, east, and west, the earth looked so vast, now that they were so far away from it, Baltasar and Blimunda finally scrambled to their feet, nervously holding on to the cords, then to the handrail, dazed by the light and the wind, suddenly no longer frightened, Ah, and Baltasar shouted, We've done it, he embraced Blimunda and burst into tears, he was like a lost child, this soldier who had been to war, who had killed a man in Pegões with his spike, and was now weeping for joy as he clung to Blimunda, who kissed his dirty face. The priest came up to them and joined in their embrace, suddenly perturbed by the analogy the Italian had drawn when he had suggested that the priest himself was God, Baltasar his son, and Blimunda the holy ghost, and now all three of them were up there in the skies together, There is only one God, he shouted, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth. Then Blimunda said, Unless we open the sail, we shall go on climbing, and we might even collide with the sun."

Saramago

Voo descoberto

2006-01-09T16:15:00.000-08:00

Voo descoberto

Passou por mim uma voz
Um estoiro. Equilibrado na luz do dia,
Esperanças
Sentidas por uma realidade que se acorda
Um despertar sem aviso
Um olhar entreaberto nas metades agitadas.
Num um dia adulto
Coberto de brilhos nos olhos
Infantilidades adormecidas
Tu.
Criança que espreitas às escondidas
Dentro da minha vida num quarto pequeno.
De olhos arregalados
Congelados em dor,
Em feridas que se deslizam,
No despertar de uma lágrima que se rola.

Sabedora lágrima que és, minha amiga
Foge desse olhar arranhado pelos anos
E sobrevoa por galhos rijos e carinhosos.
Vultos aquecidos por momentos.
Voa!

Susana Pestana

In Absense

2005-12-29T04:05:00.000-08:00

Here is a poem from my friend Jill

That which was once so vivid and intense,
I swam in its energy,
in its enveloping all-encompassing mania

hijacked by a connection which transcends my defenses
ignited my mind until smoke clouded sanity with a high
penetrated my being, reaching the untouched, the unknown
sparking a sensation in the deepest of my darkness
so that my blood surged with new vigor for life
my heart felt everything around me with new delicacy
every nerve from my skin aroused by the slightest...sensation
in its spirit
which danced with mine in a very solitary dimension
in its body
which danced with mine in a very earthly dimension
evoking the nature that I am
in the trance of warm brown eyes
in its simplicity
cherishing the good, rejecting the confining, ailing, and trivial

is now but a memory of a dream
a few muted glimpses of brilliance
distant in my mind
I find myself searching for reality in the haze
in the shadow between my consciousness and reality
I speak of it as fact
yet as I hear my words, they feel unfamiliar to my mind
All I really know is each moment
and the few moments which wander into my consciousness as reminders of the unexplainable

Ben Harper

2005-12-27T22:51:00.000-08:00

THE DRUGS DON'T WORK (Richard Ashcroft) Live From Mars, 2001

All this talk of getting old
It's getting me down my love
Like a cat in a bag waiting to drown
This time I'm comin' down
And I know you're thinking of me
As you lay down on your side

Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again
Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again

But I know I'm on a losing streak
'Cause I passed down by old street
And if you wanna show, just let me know
And I'll sing in your ear again

Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again

So baby, Woh- if heaven calls, I'm coming too
Just like you said you leave my life, I'm better off dead

All this talk of getting old
It's getting me down my love
Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown
This time I'm comin' down

The drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again

So baby, Woh- if heaven calls, I'm coming too
And like you said, you leave my life, I'm better off dead

But if you wanna show, just let me know
And now I'll sing in your ear again

Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But now I know I'll see your face again
Yeah- I know I'll see your face again
Yeah- I know I'll see your face again
Oh- now
Yeah, I know I'll see your face again
Never coming down, Never coming down
No more, no more, no more, no more, no more, no more
Never coming down, never coming down
No more, no more, no more, no more, no more
Oh- now
Yeah, I know I'll see your face again

e e cummings

2005-12-11T09:58:00.000-08:00

me encanta....a vida.
VII

in the rain-
darkness, the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul. rarely-beloved
a single start is
uttered, and i

think
of you

Inverno

2005-12-03T11:34:00.000-08:00

Photo taken by Wind
Happy Birthday, my friend.
Wind.

se no encontro do inverno
na saturação conhecida
morra o desespero
no escuro do silêncio
no tremor das tuas mãos
no descuido do meu peito
uma alma vencida
um coração apertado
lágrimas unidas
achadas por ti...

Susana Pestana

Musica da LURA

2005-11-27T09:22:00.000-08:00

You can read more about this wonderful Portuguese/Cabo Verdean singer
http://www.caboverde.com/music/lura-e.htm

Heads made by the Sculptor "Wind"

Little trip to heaven, Tom Waits

2005-11-17T21:17:00.000-08:00

(Click on the link above to listening to this sweet song)You must remember Wind. I will post some of your wonderful photos soon. Um beijo para ti e para todos.
Little trip to heaven on the wings of your love
Banana moon is shining in the sky
I feel like I'm in heaven when your with me
I know that I'm in heaven when you smile
Though were stuck here on the ground
I got something that I've found, and it's you

I don't need to take no trip to outer space
All I have to do is look in your face
And before I know it I'm in orbit around you
Thanking my lucky stars that I found you
When I see your constellation, your my inspiration
And it's you

Your my North Star when I'm lost and feeling blue
Your my sun that's breaking through, it's true
And all the other stars seem dim around you
I thank my lucky stars that I found you
When I see your smilin face
I know nothing' gonna take your place
And it's you, and it's you, and it's you,
and it's you, and it's you, and it's you

Stay Away From Me Cos I'm In My Sin...Nina Simone

2005-11-14T16:05:00.000-08:00

Again.. Miss Nina Simone. This is a live version I run into the other day."Gin House Blues". Owesome version. ( click on the link above to listening to the song)

Gin House Blues
Stay away from me cos i'm in my sin
Stay away from me everybody cos i'm in my sin
If this joint is raided somebody give my gin
Don't try me nobody cos you will never win
Mm yeah don't try me nobody cos you will never win
I'll fight the army and navy somebody gives me my gin
When i'm feeling high i don't have nothing to do
Oh when i'm feeling high i don't have nothing to do
Just fill me full of good liquor i'll sure be nice to you
Any bootlegger show him a pal of mine any old time
Any bootlegger show him a pal of mine
Cos a good bottle of gin will get it everytime

Lord i don't want no clothes
I don't even want no bed to lay my head
I don't want no clothes
I don't event want no bed to lay my head
I don't want no pork chops and green
Just give me gin instead

Oh oh stay away from me cos i'm in my sin
Oh oh stay away from me yeah everybody cos i'm in my sin
If this joint is raided somebody give me my gin
Somebody give me my gin

Pessoa

2005-11-10T21:46:00.000-08:00

"Sobre a nudez forte da verdade o manto diafano da fantasia"

Fernando Pessoa

It's Closing Time

2005-11-05T16:11:00.000-08:00

Once again the wise words of the master- Leonard Cohen " It's Closing time". (To listening to the song , you need to click on the title above "It's Closing Time").
It is closing time......
Boa noite
Susana

Ah we're drinking and we're dancing
and the band is really happening
and the Johnny Walker wisdom running high
And my very sweet companion
she's the Angel of Compassion
she's rubbing half the world against her thigh
And every drinker every dancer
lifts a happy face to thank her
the fiddler fiddles something so sublime
all the women tear their blouses off
and the men they dance on the polka-dots
and it's partner found, it's partner lost
and it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops:
it's CLOSING TIME
Yeah the women tear their blouses off
and the men they dance on the polka-dots
and it's partner found, it's partner lost
and it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops:
it's CLOSING TIME

Ah we're lonely, we're romantic
and the cider's laced with acid
and the Holy Spirit's crying, "Where's the beef?"
And the moon is swimming naked
and the summer night is fragrant
with a mighty expectation of relief
So we struggle and we stagger
down the snakes and up the ladder
to the tower where the blessed hours chime
and I swear it happened just like this:
a sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss
the Gates of Love they budged an inch
I can't say much has happened since
but CLOSING TIME

I swear it happened just like this:
a sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss
the Gates of Love they budged an inch
I can't say much has happened since
CLOSING TIME

I loved you for your beauty
but that doesn't make a fool of me:
you were in it for your beauty too
and I loved you for your body
there's a voice that sounds like God to me
declaring, declaring, declaring that your body's really you
And I loved you when our love was blessed
and I love you now there's nothing left
but sorrow and a sense of overtime
and I missed you since the place got wrecked
And I just don't care what happens next
looks like freedom but it feels like death
it's something in between, I guess
it's CLOSING TIME

Yeah I missed you since the place got wrecked
By the winds of change and the weeds of sex
looks like freedom but it feels like death
it's something in between, I guess
it's CLOSING TIME

Yeah we're drinking and we're dancing
but there's nothing really happening
and the place is dead as Heaven on a Saturday night
And my very close companion
gets me fumbling gets me laughing
she's a hundred but she's wearing
something tight
and I lift my glass to the Awful Truth
which you can't reveal to the Ears of Youth
except to say it isn't worth a dime
And the whole damn place goes crazy twice
and it's once for the devil and once for Christ
but the Boss don't like these dizzy heights
we're busted in the blinding lights,
busted in the blinding lights
of CLOSING TIME

The whole damn place goes crazy twice
and it's once for the devil and once for Christ
but the Boss don't like these dizzy heights
we're busted in the blinding lights,
busted in the blinding lights
of CLOSING TIME

Oh the women tear their blouses off
and the men they dance on the polka-dots
It's CLOSING TIME
And it's partner found, it's partner lost
and it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops
It's CLOSING TIME
I swear it happened just like this:
a sigh, a cry, a hungry kiss
It's CLOSING TIME
The Gates of Love they budged an inch
I can't say much has happened since
But CLOSING TIME
I loved you when our love was blessed
I love you now there's nothing left
But CLOSING TIME
I miss you since the place got wrecked
By the winds of change and the weeds of sex.

"A sad fix for a minor poet to be in!"

2005-10-31T16:39:00.000-08:00

Here is a poem by Fernando Pessoa(Alvaro Campos).
Today, I also have a terrible cold....and I am a minor poet. My psychopathology class does not let me sleep and my body is getting weak. My DSM-IV-TR is a heavy book of mental disorders and on my back. Beautiful stuff, nonetheless. Granted I may lose myself later on when making diagnoses and assessements of real cases.
Nina(the dog) is the only one who keeps me straight in the world of the mental disorders. She is a good dog with many friends.
I will drink water and take care of this cold.
Ate amanha
Susana

Today have a terrible cold.
And everyone knows how terrible colds
Change the whole structure of the universe,
Making us sore at life,
Making us sneeze till we get metaphysical.
My day is wasted, full of blowing my nose,
My head aches vaguely.
A sad fix for a minor poet to be in!
Today I'm really a minor poet.
Whatever I was before was only wishful, and that's gone.
Fairy queen, good-bye, good-bye forever!
Your wings were sunbeams, and my feet are clay.
I'll never be well if I don't stretch out in bed.
I never was well unless if was stretched out across the
universe.
excuses un peu... What a terrible physical cold!
I need some truth and aspirin.
(1931)
Alvaro de Campos Poetry from �Poems of Fernando Pessoa�

(Wading Through) The Waters Of My Time

2005-10-26T13:24:00.000-07:00

Hello friends,
I know it is been sometime since you last heard from me. I've been occupy with matters of great importance. Here is a SUPERB cd.You all have to buy it. The name of this guy like I mentioned before is Richard Hawley and the cd its called is "Coles Corner". Let me post a sample of one of the songs called "(Wading Through) The Waters Of My Time". You can click on the link above and listen to the song. He reminds me of another famous singer..can you tell me who?
This song is different from the rest of the songs in the cd but his voice and all of the other songs are great.

Beijos
Susana

(Wading Through) The Waters Of My Time
Don't look for me in fields of clover
I won't be there I won't get older
I must wait here holed up in my time
Don't search for me in fields of green
I'm not there I won't be seen
I'm wading through the waters of my time
I'm wading through the waters of my time
Don't look for me in lands of gold
I won't be there I won't get old
I'll hover like a frozen bird in time
Don't reach for me the stars are cold
My race is run my stories told
I'm wading through the waters of my time
Don't search for me in lands of gold
I won't be there I can't get old
Don't hope for me the stars have died
I've slipped into the past
Cos I'm wading through the waters of my time
Yes I'm wading through the waters of my time
Don't search for me in lands of gold
I won't be there I can't get old
Don't hope for me the stars have died
I've slipped into the past
Cos I'm wading through the waters of my time
Yes I'm wading through the waters of my time
mmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm
Yes I'm wading through the waters of my time.

Richard Hawley- The Ocean

2005-10-14T22:05:00.000-07:00

Wind-Thanks for showing me----the way to the Ocean- soon..

Here is also a review of the song and great album by Richard Hawley. Click on the link above that says "richard Hwley-The ocean"
Susana

"He may not be posh but Richard Hawley can be grand. The first single from forthcoming album Coles Corner is a rather splendid piece of lush romanticism. The five-minute-plus album version has been cut down for single duty, and given a crashing intro instead of the gentle, gradual build of the former.

But the body remains a lovely vehicle for Richard Hawley's velvety voice, part growl, part croon. "You lead me down by the ocean / the world is fine by the ocean / you know this time's for real / it helps the heart to heal..." And this being a love song (and apparently an autobiographical one at that), there's not much doubt what the pair are getting up to down by the ocean, even without the climax - orchestral and presumably otherwise as well - of "Here comes the wave..."

Other songs on Coles Corner may prove more interesting in the long run, but The Ocean - and the move to Mute - will serve well to introduce a new audience to Hawley's relaxed, retro classic sound. The 7" version includes Kelham Island, an orchestral track highlighting the lap steel and Hawaiian guitar sounds of so many of Hawley's songs. "

- Helen Wright

Porque amo futebol....PORTUGAL

2005-10-10T21:12:00.000-07:00

Photo of Nuno Gomez. After scoring the goal that put Portugal in the World Cup. It will be in Germany, this summer 2006.

The road trip with Miss Nina ( the dog) was very good. Saw along the way some coyotes, and deer. It was nice to be close to nature and in the middle of nowhere. It is a always a good sign that you are far away from civilization, when cell phones do not workIt was a goodtrip for the soul.

Portugal national team qualify for the world cup.(soccer).Angola also qualify for the first time. Life is good, when my two countries qualify for the world cup.

The only disappointment was:
My team -the New York Yankees, lost. It is was a sad night. After watching their last games and still had hopes.

Fisherman's Blue-Waterboys

2005-10-06T21:54:00.000-07:00

Fishermen's blue- Waterboys.
One of the greated albuns every made- Here is song about finding...one of my favorities songs ever.

(Check the link above to listening to the song)
Miss Nina Simone( The dog) and I are taking a long road trip and will return Monday. I will leave this city like the fisherman's blue-and leave you with this great song.-fisherman's Blue
Um besito
Susana and Mizz Nina.

Artist: The Waterboys
LyricsSong: Fisherman's Blues Lyrics

I wish I was a fisherman
tumblin'on the seas
far away from dry land
and
it's bitter memories
castin' out my sweet line
with abandonment and love
no ceiling bearin' down on me
save the starry sky above
with light in my head
with you in my arms...

i wish i was the brakeman
on a hurtlin fevered train
crashin head long into the heartland
like a cannon in the rain
with the feelin of the sleepers
and the burnin of the coal
countin the towns flashin by
and a night that's full of soul

with light in my head
with you in my arms...
And I know I will be loosened
from the bonds that hold me fast
and the chains all around me
will fall away at last
and on that grand and fateful day
I will take thee in my hand
I will ride on a train
I will be the fisherman
With light in my head
You in my arms...
Light in my head
You in my arms...
Light in my head
You...With light in my head
You in my arms...

Mariza- FADISTA

2005-10-05T20:39:00.000-07:00

(check the link above- "Mariza-FADISTA" to listening to her music and an interview)

Mariza the new Queen of Fado.
MARIZA, Vocalist will be at Isaac Stern AuditoriumFriday, October 7, 2005 at 8:00 PM. The Portuguese sensation Mariza, a fadista in the tradition of the legendary Amalia Rodrigues, makes her Carnegie Hall debut. She will also be in Memphis and other USA cities as well. Check her web site for details.

As the Portuguese say: We have 3 passions in Portugal. All of those 3 passions start with the letter F.
Fado, Food ( including wine) and Futebol ( The real football-Soccer).

Here is a review of one her first cds.

Fado em mim
(World Connections)
This music is elegant, sophisticated and yearning. There's something about the guitars and the cadences of the voice that evoke the mystery and sadness of the ocean. Someone waits at a cafe on the quayside for a lover they know will never return...
Mariza has created a stir in Portugal and internationally this year with this debut album. She's young, looks the part and has a fabulous, keening, lyrical voice. She reinterprets the Portuguese tradition of Fado singing, a form of urban folk music based around cafe society. "Loucura" the opening track and "Que Dues Me Perdoe" feel like they embody the form: sad yet dignified, powerful and dramatic and beautifully sung, with simple accompaniment from portugese classical guitars.
With a voice as intense and potentially as unrelenting as this a little drama can go a long way. But the material here has enough variety to ensure a satisfying programme of many different moods. "Poetas" starts with a brooding arrangement for piano and cello, before the guitars come back and lift the track into uptempo jauntiness. "Terra D'Aqua" is simply a very strong and compelling melody.
"Barco Negro" is just a drum and Mariza's soaring voice and has an unmistakably Celtic feel to it. (Well, I suppose it's only a brief skip across the sea from Portugal to the south coast of Ireland). And there's a "hidden" track at the end, which for once is essential and not time wasting filler: a stark, great version of "Loucura" for just piano and voice.
This is state of the art "world music". Every detail is just right. It's beautifully recorded, with a deluxe sleeve and packaging. Anyone who likes emotional music, dramatically and skillfully expressed should enjoy it.
Reviewer: Nick Reynolds

The News- Jack Johnson

2005-10-04T09:51:00.000-07:00

"The News"

A billion people died on the news tonight
But not so many cried at the terrible sight
Well mama said
It's just make believe
You can't believe everything you see
So baby close your eyes to the lullabies
On the news tonight

Who's the one to decide that it would be alright
To put the music behind the news tonight
Well mama said
You can't believe everything you hear
The diagetic world is so unclear
So baby close your ears
On the news tonight
On the news tonight

The unobtrusive tones on the news tonight
And mama said

Why don't the newscasters cry when they read about people who die?
At least they could be decent enough to put just a tear in their eyes
Mama said
It's just make believe
You cant believe everything you see
So baby close your eyes to the lullabies
On the news tonight

e.e.cummings

2005-10-01T15:26:00.000-07:00

A poem by e.e.cummings and a photo of Sintra-Portugal ( Um dos lugares mais unico e belo no mundo).

except in you
honour,
my loveliest,
nothing
may move may rest
--you bring

(out of dark the
earth)a
procession of
wonders
huger than prove
our fears

were hopes:the moon
open
for you and close
will shy
wings of because;
each why

of star(afloat
on not
quite less than all
of time)
gives you skilful
his flame

so is your heart
alert,
of languages
there's none
but well she knows;
and can

perfectly speak
(snowflake
and rainbow mind
and soul
november
and april)

who younger than
begin
are,the worlds move
in your
(and rest,my love)
honour

This and That

2005-09-28T18:46:00.000-07:00

Here is Link to Sidney Bechet "Summertime" Above -"This and That"

Hello friends,

Today, I should get into real bloging time so called- observations.
Today work was good.

On my mind:

My 50 minutes presentation in how to be a good Feminist Therapist, tomorrow.
Preparation: At Mill ( local and the best coffee house in Lincoln, Nebraska, the rest of all the coffee houses are pure "view", for either those who "like to be something " and for those, who call themselves "folkies".)

My partner in crime:
My colleague(will not reveal name, for confidential purposes), who will be my "sacrifice patient" tomorrow. We did discuss several concepts about my application of the Feminist Theory. In the middle of Empowering, Demystification of traditional Counselor Sessions in its interity, Self-Discloure Application, Gender-Role Analysis, Gender Role Intervention, Power Analysis and Power Intervention and so on and so forth.....We ended drinking wine at a local preferred Pub ( will not reveal the name, for reasons of exclusivity).

Conclusion: results will be interesting tomorrow.

Now that I'm home, I will have another glass of wine. A Portuguese one.

Boa noite
Susana

Gaivota-Amalia Rodrigues

2005-09-27T20:20:00.000-07:00

(Aqui vai a rainha do fado(Queen of Fado). Amalia Rodrigues. There are no words to describe this song....only her voice.
( To listing to the song you need to click the highligt link above." Gaivota-Amalia Rodrigues"

Gaivota
Musica: Alain Oulman
Letra: Alexandre O'Neill

Se uma gaivota viesse
trazer-me o ceu de Lisboa
no desenho que fizesse,
nesse ceu onde o olhar
e uma asa que nao voa,
esmorece e cai no mar.

Que perfeito coracao
no meu peito bateria,
meu amor na tua mao,
nessa mao onde cabia
perfeito o meu coracao.

Se um portugues marinheiro,
dos sete mares andarilho,
fosse quem sabe o primeiro
a contar-me o que inventasse,
se um olhar de novo brilho
no meu olhar se enlacasse.

Que perfeito coracao
no meu peito bateria,
meu amor na tua mao,
nessa mao onde cabia
perfeito o meu coracao.

Se ao dizer adeus a vida
as aves todas do ceu,
me dessem na despedida
o teu olhar derradeiro,
esse olhar que era seu teu,
amor que foste o primeiro.

Que perfeito coracao
no meu peito morreria,
meu amor na tua mao,
nessa mao onde perfeito
bateu o meu coracao.

Ain't Got No Home

2005-09-26T20:11:00.000-07:00

Very early one summer morning, Clarence Henry was performing on the bandstand and improvised his way into the basic riff behind "Ain't Got No Home". The crowd responded favorably, so he developed it further. Soon, Chess Records A&R was hustling Henry into Cosimo Matassa's studio in September of 1956 to record. Local DJ Poppa Stoppa laid the "Frogman" handle on the youngster when he spun the catchy 45 and it stuck.

Manu Chao. Mentira..

2005-09-21T22:04:00.000-07:00

Mentira...Manu Chao
Here is a song by Manu Chao. Yesterday, a friend of mine from Peru, gave me this cd...And I've not stop listening to Manu Chao since then. Manu's songs are very political and at times not. This song it is called "mentira"-Lie. It is about lies that people tell to themselves and others. Messed up world we live in, isn't it? ... But one of the greatest lies and injustice ever done in this world, was the negation/refused to signed the Kyoto protocol. This song it is called "lie" and CD it is called Clandestino. By the end of the song a lot singers from Brazil and other countries make a statement about this injustice.
You can listining to the song by clicking in the title "mentira"

"Manu Chao was born in Paris in 1961 to a Galician father and a Basque mother. As he himself says, if in his home there had been a football, now he would be playing soccer, but there was a guitar, instead...as well as many refugees : intellectuals, singers, composers, painters...all fleeing south American dictatorships. Those were frequent visitors to his father, Ram�n.

Joint de Culasse, Hot Pants, Los Carayos, are the first bands formed by Manu, with which he began to mark his present in the Parisian scene. The real music earthquake, however, was undoubtedly the Mano Negra, whose contribution to multicultural and fiesta music has left indelible marks and influenced a huge numbers of bands that came later.After the break-up of Mano Negra during their Colombian adventure, Manu created Radio Bemba: more of a group of friends than a collectivity of musicians. They settled into a building (occupying one floor) of the Gran Via in Madrid. The "community" initiative did not work out all that well, so Manu decided to leave Europe and begin a long pilgrimage through Africa and Latin America, taking along a recording studio that would fit in his rucksack. Such trips (his interviews with Eduardo Galeano in the Brazilian NortheasT impressed him so much that he considered publishing a book with Zona de Obras) allowed him to collect fragments of sounds, cultures and diverse impressions which he brought together in his first solo work: Clandestino. Recorded with the collaboration of many friends, this intimate record was conceived as a compilation of life snapshots not meant for a larger public. Its more than two million copies sold without any sort of promotion were to prove the contrary. Melancholy rhythms, love poetry and melodies that lure the hearer into dance follow each other without pause in this unique album, which rose unexpectedly to a place of utmost importance in the musical panorama.But this was not enough for Manu.Now based in Barcelona, he brought together new (Caravanne des Quartier) and old (Mano Negra) friends and soon Radio Bemba began to rehearse, going out into the streets again. It was probably during the "Feira das Mentiras" a huge fiesta organized in his paternal Galicia during the France World Cup that he recovered the desire to come back to the scene "with all his heart".With two tours through Lost America and a larger number of unofficial than of official concerts, Manu turned a quiet-sounding album into a gigantic fiesta , mixing Mano Negra songs loved by the public with reminiscences from Los Carayos, adaptations of merengue classics and many new tunes with a constant message of optimism and hope delivered with incredible energy on stage."

Susana

Miguel de Unamuno

2005-09-15T22:19:00.000-07:00

EN HORAS DE INSOMNIO
(Cuatro sonetos)
I
Me voy de aqui, no quiero mas oirme;
de mi voz toda voz suename a eco,
ya falta asi de confesor, si peco
se me escapa el poder arrepentirme.
No hallo fuera de mi en que me afirme
nada de humano y me resulto hueco;
si esta carcel por otra al fin no trueco
en mi vacio acabare de hundirme.
Oh triste soledad, la del engano
de creerse en humana compania
moviendose entre espejos, ermitano.
He ido muriendo hasta llegar al dia
en que espejo de espejos, soyme extrano
a mi mismo y descubro no vivia.
Lunes, 24-IV-1911

Bob Schneider (Metal & Steel)

2005-09-15T15:07:00.000-07:00

Another song by Bob Schneider from the the cd Lonelyland. To listining to the song, you will need to click on the link Bob S. ( Metal& Steel).
Susana

Metal & Steel
�1999 shockorama music pub. / lyrics & music by bob Schneider

I am metal I am steel
But I don't mind cause I can't feel a thing
I'm a diamond ring
I'm not flesh & I'm not bone
And I'm not sad & I'm not all alone
I'm a stone
The king is dead and the queen has flown
Left me here in the twilight zone
Lost & looking for a way to get back home
But there's no right & there's no wrong
So I'll be good & I'll be strong
I'll be silver & I'll be gold
Without a heart and without even a soul
I'll be coal
I won't be blood and teeth and skin
& I won't feel this pain I'm in
I'll be tin with no heart within

Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me

2005-09-14T15:48:00.000-07:00

You can click on the link of the title to listening to the song. This song must be 15 years old but one of my favorites. Recently rediscover..funny how life is, never really quite got it until some days ago.
Susana

Last night I dreamt
That somebody loved me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm

Last night I felt
Real arms around me
No hope, no harm
Just another false alarm

So, tell me how long
Before the last one ?
And tell me how long
Before the right one ?

The story is old - I know
But it goes on
The story is old - I know
But it goes on

Oh, goes on
And on
Oh, goes on
And on

Smiths

Stable it Together

2005-09-12T12:10:00.000-07:00

Here is another song by Jack J.

Staple It Together"

Its really
Too bad
He became a prisoner of his own past
He stabbed a moment in the back
With a brown thumb tack
That held up the list of things he gotta do
Its really,
No good
He's moving on before he understood
He shot the future in the foot with every step it took
From the faces that he knew cause he forgot to look

Better staple it together and call it bad weather
Staple it together and call it bad weather X3
Mm hmm

Well I guess you could say
That he dont even know where to begin
Cause he looked both ways but he was so afraid
Diggin deeper through the ditch
With every chance he missed
And the mess he made
Cause hate is such a strong word
And every brick he laid
A mistake they say
That his walls are getting taller
His world is getting smaller

Better staple it together and call it bad weather
Staple it together and call it bad weather X3
Mm hmm

Whoo

Its really
Too bad
He became a prisoner of his own past
He stabbed a moment in the back
With a brown thumb tack
That held up the list of things he gotta do
Its really,
No good
Hes moving on before he understood
He shot the future in the foot with every step it took
From the faces that he knew cause he forgot to look

Better staple it together and call it bad weather
Staple it together and call it bad weather X3

If the weather is better
We should get together
Spend a little time and we can do whatever
And if we get together we'll be twice as clever
So, staple it together and call it bad weather, mm hmmm

Check the link below on the name of the song to be able to listining to it. The program is itunes, either you have to download itunes or make the convertion to be able to hear.
Susana

Banana Pancakes-Jack Johnson

2005-09-11T20:58:00.000-07:00

Great cd from the singer/songwriter Jack Johnson. The other cds are fantastic as well..very good. Here is the link for the web site and a short song from the new cd " in between dreams"

http://www.jackjohnsonmusic.com/

http://s33.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=39B85N29PXWO10OXXPIMFGLQUA

Belle

Oi lienda
Bella che fa?
Bonita, bonita que tal?
But belle Je ne comprend pas francais
So you’ll have to speak to me
Some other way

Golden in the Sunset

2005-09-10T14:33:00.000-07:00

Another of his songs. Golden in the Sunset, click on the words to listinig to the song.

You can read more about him on this blog- My friend- Jill)
http://residenciaenlatierra.blogspot.com/

I'm good now

2005-09-10T14:24:00.000-07:00

Bob Schneider
Last night, I more or less discover the music of this man. My friends and I went to a club and listing to one of the greatest show ever....Here is one of his songs. You can click on the Link that says " I'm good now" to listining to the song. Great night in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Ted Kooser

2005-09-08T15:05:00.000-07:00

The Blind Always Come as Such a Surprise

The blind always come as such a surprise,
suddenly filling an elevator
with a great white porcupine of canes,
or coming down upon us in a noisy crowd
like the eye of a hurricane.
The dashboards of cars stopped at crosswalks
and the shoes of commuters on trains
are covered with sentences
struck down in mid-flight by the canes of the blind.
Each of them changes our lives,
tapping across the bright circles of our ambitions
like cracks traversing the favorite china.

Ciao

2005-09-01T15:33:00.000-07:00

CIAO CIAO ...I'm leaving Lincoln, Nebraska for some days. I'm going to Indiana to visit a good friend of mine Dr.Carla V.
Jill, Thanks for looking after Nina Simone. You have been a great friend. Please do not drink my portuguese wine:)
Here is a song by Adriana Calcanhotto:

http://s22.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=1VGJ5OV7AI3Y02H1G0DL98U48G

may my heart always be open to little...

2005-08-30T20:51:00.000-07:00

Photo de MV

e.e. cummings - may my heart always be open to little... (19)

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

NINA

2005-08-22T16:34:00.000-07:00

Amigos e amigas and friends,

Here is my dog, Nina. Bonitinha, naao eh?
Sorry for taking so long to post anything. My mother has return to Portugal. My studies and job have have kept me busy. Thank you to all of my friends in Lincoln, Ne, other States and countries. You all rock!It is been a hard month and also a very refreshing month in many ways. You all have been there for me, at every second and moment. I have had a fantastic time with some of you.
Lets keep drinking wine.
Cheers
Susana

Mama is in town

2005-07-16T22:08:00.000-07:00

Mom is in town for a couple weeks.
She is cooking , taking care of my wood floors, shopping, watering my plants and so on and so forth.
There are plenty things in my house nowdays and here are a list of things:

Lots of portuguses red wine
Deodorant from Portugal
Frozen cod fish
Expensive French perfume
Portuguese cigarettes

The house is very clean . Tomorrow, I will get a dog. The names are Amalia or Nina. Help me choose a name. What do you think?

Susana

SAGRES

2005-07-04T09:45:00.000-07:00

Photo de MV
SAGRES

Vinha de longe o mar ...
Vinha de longe, dos confins do medo ...
Mas vinha azul e brando a murmurar
Aos ouvidos da terra um cosmico segredo.

E a terra ouvia, de perfil agudo,
A confidencial revelacao
Que iluminava tudo
Que fora bruma na imaginacao.

Era o resto do mundo que faltava
(Porque faltava mundo !)
E o agudo perfil mais se agutava,
E o mar jurava cada vez mais fundo.

Sagres sagrou entao a descoberta
Por descobrir:
As duas margens da certeza incerta
Teriam de se unir !

Miguel Torga

Lizz Wright

2005-07-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

"Music lives in that place where anything can be picked up. It can become a different statement in someone else's hands than in my hands. The fact that it can be passed from hand to hand is something beautiful, almost spiritual. It means different things in different places, and I approached this record as if there is no history. I was just a voice, and I loved it."
- Lizz Wright

Here some of her music.
Taste of Honey

http://homepage.mac.com/aurgasm/.Public/Lizz%20Wright%20-%20A%20Taste%20Of%20Honey.mp3

Old Man
http://homepage.mac.com/aurgasm/.Public/Lizz%20Wright%20-%20Old%20Man.mp3

Susana

Cuerpo Presente

2005-06-26T15:28:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-26T09:50:00.000-07:00

Photo taken by Marta Veríssimo

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

Adeus

2005-06-13T05:13:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-11T20:48:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-10T13:07:00.000-07:00

Fantastic image, out of a Federico Felini film.

2005-06-09T07:10:00.000-07:00

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

Rio Tejo, Lisboa, Portugal

2005-06-08T19:58:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-06T14:06:00.000-07:00

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

2005-06-03T13:58:00.000-07:00

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

TOM WAITS

2005-05-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

Here is another dramatic song from the Cd "Real Gone"by Tom Waits. Tom Waits has not cease to surprise me. He is an incredible artist and a great story teller.

http://media-01.anti.com/tom_waits/real_gone/Hows_It_Gonna_End.mp3

How's It Gonna End

He had 3 whole dollars
A worn out car
And a wife who was
Leaving for good
Life's made of trouble
Worry pain and struggle
She wrote good bye in
The dust on the hood
They found a a map of Missouri
Lipstick on the glass
They must of left
In the middle of the nite
And I want to know
The same thing
Everyone wants to know
How it going to end?
Behind a smoke colored curtain,
the girl Disappeared,
the found out the ring was a fake
A tree born crooked
Will never grow straight
She sunk like a hammer in to the lake
A long lost letter and
And old leaky boat
Promises are never meant
To keep
And I want to know
The same thing
Everyone wants to know
How it going to end?
The barn leaned over
The vultures dried their wings
The moon climbed up an empty sky
The sun sank down behind the tree
On the hill
There's a killer and he's coming
Thru the rye
But maybe he's the Father
Of that lost little girl
It's hard to tell in this light
And I want to know
The same thing
Everyone wants to know
How it going to end?
Drag your wagon and your plow
Over the bones of the dead
Out among the roses and the weeds
You can never go back
And the answer is no
And wishing for it only
Makes it bleed Joel Tornabene was broken
On the wheel Shane and Bum Mahoney on the lamb
The grain was as gold
As Sheila's hair
All the way from Liverpool
With all we could steal
He was robbed of twenty dollars
His body found stripped
Cast into the harbour
There and drowned
And I want to know
The same thing
Everyone wants to know
How it going to end?
The sirens are snaking their
Way up the hill It's last call somewhere in
The wordl
The reptiles blend in with the Color of the street
Life is sweet at the edge
Of a razor
And down in the front row of
An old picture show
The old man is asleep
As the credits start to roll
And I want to know
The same thing
Everyone wants to know
How it going to end?

2005-05-29T16:03:00.000-07:00

Com esse teu ar
de arcanjo negro
polido e magro
triste e alheado

ficas por vezes quase etereo
calado
enquanto eu te olho docemente

Num espanto condenado
quase mistico
debruco-me secratamente
a
tua beira

e numa especie de prece
porque existes

alheado- magro
belo e triste

estou de joelhos
meu amor
e beijo-te

Maria Teresa Horta(CANDELABRO, 1964)

Miguel Torga

2005-05-21T15:29:00.000-07:00

Excerto de "Diário IV" - (1946/1949)

Lamego, 5 de Outubro de 1946

Já uma vez tentei escrever da minha meninice passada aqui, mas não fui capaz de coisa de jeito. A infância não se repete, nem na lembrança, nem na imaginação. Quando muito, dá-se outra infância. As cenas ingénuas, porque eram ingénuas, não tinham consciência; e as humilhações, de tão pungentes, não há memória que consinta na sua perfeita expressão. "
Miguel Torga

2005-05-21T15:18:00.000-07:00

" who can not see well, one word
is not able to see well, one soul "

Susana Pestana

True Loves Leave No Traces

2005-05-14T15:23:00.000-07:00

From the album Death of a Ladies' man.
Leonard Cohen

True Love Leaves No Traces

As the mist leaves no scar
On the dark green hill
So my body leaves no scar
On you and never will
Through windows in the dark
The children come, the children go
Like arrows with no targets
Like shackles made of snow
True love leaves no traces
If you and I are one
It's lost in our embraces
Like stars against the sun
As a falling leaf may rest
A moment on the air
So your head upon my breast
So my hand upon your hair
And many nights endure
Without a moon or star
So we will endure
When one is gone and far
True love leaves no traces
If you and I are one
It's lost in our embraces
Like stars against the sun

http://leafandlime.hobix.com/mp3/True%20Loves%20Leaves%20No%20Traces.mp3

Leonard Cohen

2005-05-10T21:20:00.000-07:00

the song
Dance me to the end of love" by Leonard Cohen and very nicely done by Peyroux.

Leonard Cohen - Dance Me To The End Of Love Lyrics

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Madeleine Peyroux

2005-05-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

Here is a fantastic new singer.

"When she first burst onto the recording scene in 1996, with her stunning debut album Dreamland, Madeleine Peyroux was greeted with a veritable torrent of gushing reviews. Most raved about her smoke-and-whiskey vocals, often comparing her to the late, great Billie Holiday. Others wondered how someone so young could perform classic songs by Holiday, Bessie Smith and Patsy Cline so convincingly as to make them sound like her own. Time magazine pronounced the groundbreaking Dreamland “the most exciting, involving vocal performance by a new singer this year.”
Peyroux, a 22-year-old American who had been living in Paris as a street musician, suddenly found herself on the fast track to fame. Appearances at Lilith Fair and jazz festivals, and opening tours for Sarah McLachlan and Cesaria Evora followed, while Dreamland’s sales reached an impressive 200,000 copies worldwide. “It was great,” recalls Peyroux. “I got to perform with fantastic musicians. I got to see Nina Simone live. I could’ve kept running with it, but instead I stepped back and took a breather.”
You might say Peyroux spent much of her recent past out of the public eye. But with many changes in the music industry in recent years, it is not unusual to find someone in this sort of position. As Peyroux concludes, "It had to do with the climate. ...A lot of artists are no longer getting the kind of attention that they used to." But Peyroux never stopped singing, returning to her busking roots with street performances and club dates around the world from Los Angeles (to New Orleans to New York City) to Western Europe before being signed by Rounder Records in 2003.Eight years have passed between the release of Dreamland and that of Careless Love.
Waiting that long to release her sophomore album is admittedly not a typical career move, but then Peyroux [pronounced like the country Peru] is not a typical artist. One needs only to listen to Careless Love to understand this. The album seamlessly weaves strands of acoustic blues, country ballads, torch songs and pop into a vibrant fabric that is both classically vintage and thoroughly up to date. Produced by Larry Klein (Joni Mitchell, Shawn Colvin), the album features songs as old as W. C. Handy’s bluesy title track, popularized by Bessie Smith in the late 1920s, and others as recent as Elliott Smith’s folky “Between the Bars.” Peyroux also covers material as diverse as Hank Williams’ “Weary Blues” and Leonard Cohen’s “Dance Me to the End of Love.”But one of the album’s standout tracks is the sultry “Don’t Wait Too Long,” an original swing number composed by Peyroux, Klein and Grammy Award winning songwriter Jesse Harris, best known for his contributions to Norah Jones’ 2002 hit album Come Away with Me. Peyroux’s relationship with Harris goes back many years. “I met Jesse when I was touring Dreamland,” explains Peyroux. “We started collaborating and then lost touch for a few years. We reconnected in New York as he was about to win a Grammy, and wrote that song together sitting on a bench in Central Park.” Klein later added to the composition, which serves as a kind of mission statement for Peyroux’s career. “Sometimes you’ve got to lose it all,” she sings, “before you find your way.”
Clearly, Peyroux has found her way with Careless Love. More focused and energized than Dreamland, the album benefits from the singer’s time away, as if she’s returned to recording with renewed commitment. She and Klein began working together, one on one, in California last December. After deciding on repertoire, they went into the studio with such stellar session players as guitarist Dean Parks, organist Larry Goldings and bassist David Piltch. “Larry (Klein) convinced me that I could interpret songs by Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan in my own way” she recalls. “He has a very personal relationship with these songs, and so do I.” Peyroux also has a very personal relationship with French culture. On Dreamland, she covered Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose.” On Careless Love, she delivers a vibrant version of “J’ai Deux Amours” (“I Have Two Loves”), a song that American expatriate singer Josephine Baker sang to Allied troops in France during the Second World War. “In many ways, Josephine Baker embodied that song because she represented an alliance between America and France during the war. It has so much symbolism and it’s important to remember that in these days of strained international relations.”
Born in Georgia, Peyroux grew up in Paris and New York. Very quickly, Peyroux got hooked on French culture and began singing with groups of talented street musicians in the Latin Quarter, including the Riverboat Shufflers and The Lost Wandering Blues and Jazz Band, with whom she toured Europe. Several years later, while visiting New York, she was spotted performing in a club, by an Atlantic Records A&R rep. Yves Beauvais, who eventually signed her and co-produced Dreamland. All of the initial reviews that greeted Dreamland focused on the Billie Holiday resemblance. “Like Holiday,” wrote Time magazine, “Peyroux has a bittersweet, brokenhearted alto; she lingers and slides off notes, finding emotion in the slow, sad, fade rather than the obvious vocal burst.” But perceptive reviewers noted that Peyroux wasn’t imitating Lady Day. As acclaimed pianist Cyrus Chestnut, who played on Dreamland, put it: “[Peyroux] has her own story to tell: with her voice, her heart, her spirit.”With Careless Love, Peyroux is once again proving herself to be an original interpreter and an open receptor to songs from earlier eras—an artist who channels vintage jazz and blues with chilling accuracy. “I feel very lucky to be part of a tradition of songwriting that stands the test of time,” says Peyroux. “I also feel lucky to be able to go back and perform as much as I did before—I can’t wait.” Adds Peyroux, with characteristic modesty: “I’m very eager to know what the reaction to the record will be. We did something that felt good. I hope we touch a chord with people.” With its sweet, bewitching sound, there’s no doubt that Careless Love will do just that.

http://hurl.content.loudeye.com/scripts/hurl.exe?clipid=070092601010006910&cid=010026

Celso Fonseca

2005-05-04T16:40:00.000-07:00

CELSO FONSECA, one of Brazil's best kept secrets. The albun "natural" is great.
Here is a song from another project with Caetano Veloso and Gilberto Gill, I think.

http://homepage.mac.com/aurgasm/.Public/Celso%20Fonseca%20-%20Don%20De%20Fluir.mp3

Poema

2005-04-30T11:45:00.000-07:00

Hoje faco anos e o meu pai escreveu um belo poema para mim. Obrigado Papa
Today is my birthday and my Dad wrote a beautiful poem. Thanks Dad

Nos remos da canoa d' Alma
sinto o abraço da Terra e do Mar
nas marés cheias.
Na espuma branca que a onda quebrou
atraco no cais dos meus sonhos
e inspiro o bafo das ondas azuis
a espalharem-se na Rocha dos meus Ideais.
Não sou canoa.
Sou o meu Navio.

Do Pai

Agostinho Pestana

Amalia Rodrigues-FADO

2005-04-29T13:55:00.000-07:00

Amalia Rodrigues

"The soul of Portugal is captured in its Fado music. Literally translated as 'fate' it is a sound that somehow combines heartbreak, stoicism, and elation all at once. The undisputed queen of this unique music was the late great Amalia Rodrigues, whose legacy has set the bar for all Fadistas to come. 'The Art of Amalia' is a reverent portrait of the Diva, with interview and concert footage that will delight any fan of Fado, and enrapture the new listener. From her impoverished start on the streets of Alfama, to her concerts before thousands of adoring fans, a staggering body of work emerges, from a woman who dedicated herself completely to her art."

http://www.amaliarodrigues.lisbon52.com/Fados/Gavoita.htm

http://www.amaliarodrigues.lisbon52.com/Fados/NemAsParedesConfesso.htm

2005-04-23T16:23:00.000-07:00

A photo by Rui Palha

This poem by e e cummings is one of my favorites.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Sinnerman- Nina Simone

2005-04-22T14:39:00.000-07:00

Another song of Nina Simone. You read the words. It is just a very great song

" Sinnerman "

Sinnerman where you gonna run to
Sinnerman where you gonna run to
Where you gunna run to
All on that day

Well I run to the rock
Please hide me I run to the rock
Please hide me I run to the rock
Please hide me lord
All on that day

Well the rock cried out
I can't hide you the rock cried out
I can't hide you the rock cried out
I ain't gonna hide you god
All on that day

I said rock what's a matter with you rock
Don't you see I need you rock
Don't let down
All on that day

So I run to the river
It was bleedin' I run to the sea
It was bleedin' I run to the sea
It was bleedin' all on that day

So I run to the river it was boilin'
I run to the sea it was boilin'
I run to the sea it was boilin'
All on that day

So I run to the lord
Please help me lord
Don't you see me prayin'
Don't you see me down here prayin'

But the lord said
Go to the devil
The lord said
Go to the devil
He said go to the devil
All on that day

So I ran to the devil
He was waiting
I ran to the devil he was waiting
I ran to the devil he was waiting
All on that day

Oh yeah!

Oh I run to the river
It was boilin' I run to the sea
It was boilin' I run to the sea
It was boilin' all on that day

So I ran to the lord
I said lord hide me
Please hide me
Please help me
All on that day

Said God where were you
When you are old and prayin'

Lord lord hear me prayin'
Lord lord hear me prayin'
Lord lord hear me prayin'
All on that day

Sinnerman you oughta be prayin'
Oughta be prayin sinnerman'
Oughta be prayin all on that day

NINA SIMONE

2005-04-20T22:17:00.000-07:00

Friends,
Here is the high priestess of Soul Dr. Nina Simone.
If you are in Germany today, maybe you can pay tribute to her music by going to the show.
Susana Pestana

2005-04-19T14:15:00.000-07:00

Island of the Dead, 1880
Arnold Böcklin (Swiss, 1827-1901)
Oil on wood; 29 x 48 in. (73.7 x 121.9 cm)
Reisinger Fund, 1926 (26.90)

The first version of five paintings. I was just listening to Rachmaninoff's symphony "The isle of the dead". Absolutely superb.
Susana Pestana

2005-04-17T21:37:00.000-07:00

Photo taken by Reinhard somewhere in Portugal

Não posso adiar o amor para outro século
não posso
ainda que o grito sufoque na garganta
ainda que o ódio estale e crepite e arda
sob montanhas cinzentas
e montanhas cinzentas

Não posso adiar este abraço
que é uma arma de dois gumes
amor e ódio

Não posso adiar
ainda que a noite pese séculos sobre as costas
e a aurora indecisa demore
não posso adiar para outro século a minha vida
nem o meu amor
nem o meu grito de libertação

Não posso adiar o coração

© 1960, António Ramos Rosa From: Viagem Através de uma NebulosaPublisher: Lisboa, 1960

Re-Tornada

2005-04-13T16:46:00.000-07:00

Photo taken by "The Wind" Reinhard, somewhere on Portuguese shores.

"RE TORNADA" AG

Voltar ao nada
Voltar sem nada
Voltar com nada
Tornar ao nada
Tornar sem nada
Tornar com nada
Voltar, voltar, tornar,
Re tornada

Susana Pestana

Ted Kooser

2005-04-10T20:57:00.000-07:00

Here is a poem by Ted Kooser.
Ted Kooser is the poet Laureate of the United Stated this year and he lives near Lincoln, Nebraska

In January

Only one cell in the frozen hive of night is lit,
or so it seems to us: this Vietnamese café, with its oily light, its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.
Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.
Beyond the glass, the wintry city creaks like an ancient wooden bridge.
A great wind rushes under all of us.
The bigger the window, the more it trembles.

2005-04-10T15:29:00.000-07:00

2005-04-09T22:04:00.000-07:00

É Noite

É noite. A noite é muito escura. Numa casa a uma grande distância Brilha a luz duma janela. Vejo-a, e sinto-me humano dos pés à cabeça. É curioso que toda a vida do indivíduo que ali mora, e que não sei quem é, Atrai-me só por essa luz vista de longe. Sem dúvida que a vida dele é real e ele tem cara, gestos, família e profissão. Mas agora só me importa a luz da janela dele. Apesar de a luz estar ali por ele a ter acendido, A luz é a realidade imediata para mim. Eu nunca passo para além da realidade imediata. Para além da realidade imediata não há nada. Se eu, de onde estou, só veio aquela luz, Em relação à distância onde estou há só aquela luz. O homem e a família dele são reais do lado de lá da janela. Eu estou do lado de cá, a uma grande distância. A luz apagou-se. Que me importa que o homem continue a existir?
Alberto Caeiro

2005-04-09T12:42:00.000-07:00

não queiras saber.
http://www.huescarock.com/public/forum/uploads/Electro/2005-03-03_222108_Jorge_Drexler_-_Al_otro_lado_del_río_BSO_Diarios_de_Motocicleta.mp3

2005-04-07T14:44:00.000-07:00

ALMA AUSENTE

NO te conoce el toro ni la higuera,
ni caballos ni hormigas de tu casa.
No te conoce el niño ni la tarde
porque te has muerto para siempre.

No te conoce el lomo de la piedra,
ni el raso negro donde te destrozas.
No te conoce tu recuerdo mudo
porque te has muerto para siempre.

El otoño vendrá con caracolas,
uva de niebla y montes agrupados,
pero nadie querrá mirar tus ojos
porque te has muerto para siempre.

Porque te has muerto para siempre,
como todos los muertos de la Tierra,
como todos los muertos que se olvidan
en un montón de perros apagados.

No te conoce nadie. No. Pero yo te canto.
Yo canto para luego tu perfil y tu gracia.
La madurez insigne de tu conocimiento.
Tu apetencia de muerte y el gusto de su boca.
La tristeza que tuvo tu valiente alegría.

Tardará mucho tiempo en nacer, si es que nace,
un andaluz tan claro, tan rico de aventura.
Yo canto su elegancia con palabras que gimen
y recuerdo una brisa triste por los olivos.

2005-04-07T13:59:00.000-07:00

CUERPO PRESENTE

LA piedra es una frente donde los sueños gimen
sin tener agua curva ni cipreses helados.
La piedra es una espalda para llevar al tiempo
con árboles de lágrimas y cintas y planetas.

Yo he visto lluvias grises correr hacia las olas
levantando sus tiernos brazos acribillados,
para no ser cazadas por la piedra tendida
que desata sus miembros sin empapar la sangre.

Porque la piedra coge simientes y nublados,
esqueletos de alondras y lobos de penumbra;
pero no da sonidos, ni cristales, ni fuego,
sino plazas y plazas y otras plazas sin muros.

Ya está sobre la piedra Ignacio el bien nacido.
Ya se acabó; ¿qué pasa? Contemplad su figura:
la muerte le ha cubierto de pálidos azufres
y le ha puesto cabeza de oscuro minotauro.

Ya se acabó. La lluvia penetra por su boca.
El aire como loco deja su pecho hundido,
y el Amor, empapado con lágrimas de nieve,
se calienta en la cumbre de las ganaderías.

¿Qué dicen? Un silencio con hedores reposa.
Estamos con un cuerpo presente que se esfuma,
con una forma clara que tuvo ruiseñores
y la vemos llenarse de agujeros sin fondo.

¿Quién arruga el sudario? ¡No es verdad lo que dice!
Aquí no canta nadie, ni llora en el rincón,
ni pica las espuelas, ni espanta la serpiente:
aquí no quiero más que los ojos redondos
para ver ese cuerpo sin posible descanso.

Yo quiero ver aquí los hombres de voz dura.
Los que doman caballos y dominan los ríos:
los hombres que les suena el esqueleto y cantan
con una boca llena de sol y pedernales.

Aquí quiero yo verlos. Delante de la piedra.
Delante de este cuerpo con las riendas quebradas.
Yo quiero que me enseñen dónde está la salida
para este capitán atado por la muerte.

Yo quiero que me enseñen un llanto como un río
que tenga dulces nieblas y profundas orillas,
para llevar el cuerpo de Ignacio y que se pierda
sin escuchar el doble resuello de los toros.

Que se pierda en la plaza redonda de la luna
que finge cuando niña doliente res inmóvil:
que se pierda en la noche sin canto de los peces
y en la maleza blanca del humo congelado.

No quiero que le tapen la cara con pañuelos
para que se acostumbre con la muerte que lleva.
Vete, Ignacio: No sientas el caliente bramido.
Duerme, vuela, reposa: ¡También se muere el mar!

La Sangre Derramada

2005-04-06T15:26:00.000-07:00

LA SANGRE DERRAMADA

¡QUE no quiero verla!

Dile a la luna que venga,
que no quiero ver la sangre
de Ignacio sobre la arena.

¡Que no quiero verla!

La luna de par en par.
Caballo de nubes quietas,
y la plaza gris del sueño
con sauces en las barreras.

¡Que no quiero verla!
Que mi recuerdo se quema.
¡Avisad a los jazmines
con su blancura pequeña!

¡Que no quiero verla!

La vaca del viejo mundo
pasaba su triste lengua
sobre un hocico de sangres
derramadas en la arena,
y los toros de Guisando,
casi muerte y casi piedra,
mugieron como dos siglos
hartos de pisar la tierra.
No.
¡Que no quiero verla!

Por las gradas sube Ignacio
con toda su muerte a cuestas.
Buscaba el amanecer,
y el amanecer no era.
Busca su perfil seguro,
y el sueño lo desorienta.
Buscaba su hermoso cuerpo
y encontró su sangre abierta.
¡No me digáis que la vea!
No quiero sentir el chorro
cada vez con menos fuerza;
ese chorro que ilumina
los tendidos y se vuelca
sobre la pana y el cuero
de muchedumbre sedienta.
¡Quién me grita que me asome!
¡No me digáis que la vea!

No se cerraron sus ojos
cuando vio los cuernos cerca,
pero las madres terribles
levantaron la cabeza.
Y a través de las ganaderías,
hubo un aire de voces secretas
que gritaban a toros celestes,
mayorales de pálida niebla.
No hubo príncipe en Sevilla
que comparársele pueda,
ni espada como su espada,
ni corazón tan de veras.
Como un río de leones
su maravillosa fuerza,
y como un torso de mármol
su dibujada prudencia.
Aire de Roma andaluza
le doraba la cabeza
donde su risa era un nardo
de sal y de inteligencia.
¡Qué gran torero en la plaza!
¡Qué buen serrano en la sierra!
¡Qué blando con las espigas!
¡Qué duro con las espuelas!
¡Qué tierno con el rocío!
¡Qué deslumbrante en la feria!
¡ Qué tremendo con las últimas
banderillas de tiniebla!

Pero ya duerme sin fin.
Ya los musgos y la hierba
abren con dedos seguros
la flor de su calavera.
Y su sangre ya viene cantando:
cantando por marismas y praderas,
resbalando por cuernos ateridos,
vacilando sin alma por la niebla,
tropezando con miles de pezuñas
como una larga, oscura, triste lengua,
para formar un charco de agonía
junto al Guadalquivir de las estrellas.
¡Oh blanco muro de España!
¡Oh negro toro de pena!
¡Oh sangre dura de Ignacio!
¡Oh ruiseñor de sus venas!
No.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Que no hay cáliz que la contenga,
que no hay golondrinas que se la beban,
no hay escarcha de luz que la enfríe,
no hay canto ni diluvio de azucenas,
no hay cristal que la cubra de plata.
No,
¡¡Yo no quiero verla!!

Lorca

La Cogida Y La Muerte

2005-04-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

LA COGIDA Y LA MUERTE

A las cinco de la tarde.
Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
Un niño trajo la blanca sábanaa
las cinco de la tarde.
Una espuerta de cal ya prevenidaa
las cinco de la tarde.
Lo demás era muerte y sólo muertea
las cinco de la tarde.
El viento se llevó los algodonesa
las cinco de la tarde.
Y el óxido sembró cristal y níquela
las cinco de la tarde.
Ya luchan la paloma y el leopardoa
las cinco de la tarde.
Y un muslo con un asta desoladaa
las cinco de la tarde.
Comenzaron los sones del bordóna
las cinco de la tarde.
Las campanas de arsénico y el humoa
las cinco de la tarde.
En las esquinas grupos de silencioa
las cinco de la tarde.¡
Y el toro, solo corazón arriba!a
las cinco de la tarde.
Cuando el sudor de nieve fue llegandoa
las cinco de la tarde,
cuando la plaza se cubrió de yodoa
las cinco de la tarde,
la muerte puso huevos en la heridaa
las cinco de la tarde.
A las cinco de la tarde.
A las cinco en punto de la tarde.

Un ataúd con ruedas es la camaa
las cinco de la tarde.
Huesos y flautas suenan en su oídoa
las cinco de la tarde.
El toro ya mugía por su frentea
las cinco de la tarde.
El cuarto se irisaba de agoníaa
las cinco de la tarde.
A lo lejos ya viene la gangrenaa
las cinco de la tarde.
Trompa de lirio por las verdes inglesa
las cinco de la tarde.
Las heridas quemaban como solesa
las cinco de la tarde,
y el gentío rompía las ventanasa
las cinco de la tarde.A las cinco de la tarde.
¡Ay qué terribles cinco de la tarde!¡Eran las cinco en todos los relojes!¡Eran las cinco en sombra de la tarde!

Lorca

Ao longe o Mar

2005-04-05T18:07:00.000-07:00

Photo by Reinhard( Wind) somewhere in Portugal

Letra e Música de Pedro Ayres Magalhães
(Madredeus)

Porto calmo de abrigo
De um futuro maior
Porventura perdido
No presente temor
Não faz muito sentido
Não esperar o melhor
Vem da névoa saindo
A promessa anterior
Quando avistei ao longe o mar
Ali fiquei
Parada a olhar
Sim, eu canto a vontade
Canto o teu despertar
E abraçando a saudade
Canto o tempo a passar
Quando avistei ao longe o mar
Ali fiquei
Parada a olhar
Quando avistei ao longe o mar
Sem querer, deixei-me ali ficar

Ao longe o Mar

2005-04-05T16:08:00.000-07:00

You and I are not snobs...

2005-04-04T14:40:00.000-07:00

Scene from the film "Million Dollar Baby" . Great film
Here are some words from e.e.cummings:

"The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople-- it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs. Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to mostpeople? Catastrophe unmitigated. Socialrevolution. The cultured aristocrat yanked out of his hyperexclusively ultravoluptuous superpalazzo,and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detentioncamp swarming with every conceivable species of undesirable organism. Mostpeople fancy a guaranteed birthproof safetysuit of nondestructible selflessness. If mostpeople were to be born twice they'd improbably call it dying--
you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human beings; for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery, the mystery of growing:which happens only and whenever we are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming. Life, for eternal us, is now' and now is much to busy being a little more than everything to seem anything, catastrophic included.

Life, for mostpeople, simply isn't. Take the so called standard of living. What do mostpeople mean by "living"? They don't mean living. They mean the latest and closest plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science, in its finite but unbounded wisdom, has succeeded in selling their wives. If science could fail, a mountain's a mammal. Mostpeople's wives could spot a genuine delusion of embryonic omnipotence immediately and will accept no substitutes.

-luckily for us a mountain is a mammal. The plusorminus movie to end moving, the strictly scientific parlour game of real unreality, the tyranny conceived in misconception and dedicated to the proposition that every man is a woman and any woman is a king, hasn't a wheel to stand on. What their synthetic not to mention transparent majesty, mrs and mr collective foetus,would improbably call a ghost is walking. He isn't a undream of anaesthetized impersons, or a cosmic comfort station, or a transcedentally sterilized lookiesoundiefeelietastiesmellie. He is a healthily complex, a naturally homogenous, citizen of immorality. The now of his each pitying free imperfect gesture, his any birth of breathing, insults perfected inframortally milleniums of slavishness. He is a little more than everything, he is democracy; he is alive: he is ourselves.

Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn, a human being; somebody who said to those near him, when his fingers would not hold a brush "tie it to my hand"--

nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false, nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary, nothing emptied or filled, real or unreal; nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening, innocent spontaneaous, true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and impossibly such a garden, but actually flowers which breasts are amoung the very mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted; brain over heart, surface: nowhere hating or to fear; shadow, mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making;only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno,impotent nongames of wrong right and right wrong; never to gain or pause, never the soft adventure of undoom, greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of inexistence; never to rest and never to have;only to grow.

Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question"

PALAVRAS DE MIA COUTO

2005-04-02T08:29:00.000-08:00

Um silêncio assalto
A morte nos avizinha. A ausência nos torna família e aproxima mesmo aqueles que sempre estiveram distantes.

Mia Couto
Assim aprece, pelo menos. Mas nem sempre sucede. Por vezes, a morte afasta.Os que eram amigos não comparecem. Os que eram familiares se convertem em estranhos.

Em lugar de solidariedade,os parentes encontram na morte de alguém motivo para tomarem posse, reivindicarem direitos e reclamarem heranças.

Já Fabrício Sabat com o seu livro Viúvas da minha terra nos tinha alertado para quanto é grave e generalizado esse assalto a que são sujeitas as mulheres que acabaram de perder os seus maridos. Ainda a ferida está fresca e eis que cunhados, primos e tios se unem numa investida sem quartel. A ideia mestra é que os bens do falecido devem ser levados de volta para a sua família de origem. Esse assalto não respeita nem mulher, nem os filhos do casal.

A mulher que enviuvou está numa condição menor, renegada e excluída. Pode mesmo ser alcunhada de feitiçaria e acusada da morte do marido. Um longo percurso ainda nos falta para garantir direitos e segurança às viúvas da nossa terra. Os direitos que elas conquistam enquanto seres soberanos são, afinal, os mesmos que as irão defender contra esse assalto que ocorre quando, fragilizadas por terem perdido companheiro, são sujeitas a perderem tudo.

Eu acreditava ingenuamente que esta criminosa tendência atingia apenas alguns segmentos da nossa sociedade.

Nunca acreditei que minha vizinha Alzira (este é obviamente um nome falso, apenas para efeito desta crónica) fosse alvo de uma campanha de rapina. O falecido marido era economista, gente reputada e bem colocada. Ela mesmo, Alzira, com formação universitária reincidia nas tradições urbana de seus pais. Nada parecia levar a crer que as "hienas\" lhe caíssem em cima e disputassem aquilo que ela e seu marido tinham erguido com o esforço de uma vida.

Mas aconteceu. E eu, por distracção, não me dei conta. Em ela se queixou. Soube-o por portas e travessas. Visitei-a e ela, com dignidade, não apresentou queixa, nem reclamação. Mas eu achei por bem escrever esta palavra solidária. Para desocultar um crime que se disfarça de "tradição". Mas que nos faz sangrar a todos nós e a todos nos rouba um pouco da nossa humanidade.

2005-03-28T13:46:00.000-08:00

Mãos Ocultas

Os meus dedos tocaram-te...
Mas não conseguiram decifrar
Nesta terra molhada, já cultivada
Mãos audaciosas e faladas.
Sou preta, com um frio branco nas veias
Navego entre os mares abertos,
Palavras, perseguidas e calmas.
Sou mulher, de rosto velho e novo
És uma criação abandonada e minha.
Despi-te nas ruas dos limites.
Cavalo branco sem garras...
Mulher de língua mística,
Convidei-te numa inocência vendida.
Amarrei-te às escondidas da vida
Adormeceste no meu berço crescido.
Estou nua, no desespero dos sonhos.
Vieste sufocando os meus mares...
Nos campos bandidos e naufragados
Quero fugir a esse milagre comum!
Quero amar-te sozinha.

By Susana Pestana

Como assim?

2005-03-25T21:39:00.000-08:00

Blimunda...

2005-03-25T21:27:00.000-08:00

Como é mesmo?
Mulher é todos os dias.

Susana Pestana

2005-03-20T08:23:00.000-08:00

Pessoa
Fernando Pessoa e o Fado

«Toda a poesia - e a canção é uma poesia ajudada - reflecte o que a alma não tem. Por isso a canção dos povos tristes é alegre, e a canção dos povos alegres é triste. O Fado, porém, não é alegre nem triste. É um episódio de intervalo. Formou-o a alma portuguesa quando não existia e desejava tudo sem ter forças para o desejar. As almas fortes atribuem tudo ao Destino; só os fracos confiam na vontade própria, porque ela não existe. O fado é o cansaço de alma forte, o olhar de desprezo de Portugal ao Deus em que crê e que também o abandonou. No fado os Deuses regressam, legítimos e longínquos. É esse o segundo sentido da figura de El-Rei D. Sebastião.»

FELIZ DIA DO PAI

2005-03-19T15:42:00.000-08:00

Dia do Pai ( Blimunda, Joca e o meu Papa(Dad)

BEIJINHOS COM CARINHO

2005-03-19T15:10:00.000-08:00

NOME
Frequento palavras estrangeiras
Já vivi em saudade,
mas expulsaram-me(p'ra sempre?...)
da língua portuguesa.

Alexandre O'Neill
Poesias Completas
in Poemário 2005 Assírio & Alvim

Vazio

2005-03-19T10:34:00.000-08:00

Vazio

Fera mascarada
na luz do dia
ou será
A noite
diga.

Masked animal
in the light of day
or perhaps
At the night
tell.

Susana Pestana

2005-03-18T10:38:00.000-08:00

Vida de cao by Leonardo Negrao

A wonderful contradiction.

Bijou- the Cat stated: Miss Blimunda is now a graduate student and a full time worker. She will soon disappear because she will have no life. I'm the Princess of the house and Miss Blimunda, the Queen of the house will be gone on and off and when that happen, Bijou-Me the Cat will take over.
I often wonder what it would be like to have a life of a dog..... (Bijou is thinking)

Bijou-Bijou.
( Blimunda will release picture soon)

2005-03-17T14:52:00.000-08:00

Jangada ( De Leonardo Negrao)
Aqui vai esta cancao lindissima que a Amalia tao bem canta.
You can here the song on this link:
http://www.amaliarodrigues.lisbon52.com/Fados/Povo_Que_Lavas_No_Rio.htm

Amália Rodrigues : Povo que lavas no rio.
Música: Fado Victoria
Letra: Pedro Homem de Melo

Povo que lavas no rio
E talhas com o teu machado
As tábuas do meu caixão.
Pode haver quem te defenda
Quem compre o teu chão sagrado
Mas a tua vida não.

Fui ter à mesa redonda
Bebi em malga que me esconde
O beijo de mão em mão.
Era o vinho que me deste
A água pura, puro agreste
Mas a tua vida não.

Aromas de luz e de lama
Dormi com eles na cama
Tive a mesma condição.
Povo, povo, eu te pertenço
Deste-me alturas de incenso,
Mas a tua vida não.

Povo que lavas no rio
E talhas com o teu machado
As tábuas do meu caixão.
Pode haver quem te defenda
Quem compre o teu chão sagrado
Mas a tua vida não.