Edvard Munch (1863-1944)

Manuel Gusmão (1945)


É isto: a noite de manhã
Tu levantas-te

Manhã e noite não se vêem ao espelho
antes o estilhaçam para dentro
desencontram-se interminavelmente

mas ouvem-se uma à outra entre as salas da casa

Tu estás súbita ali na esquina do corredor
sinto por momentos a tua cara negra
e a imensidão do teu corpo anoitecido

passas-me a manhã devagar
de mão a mão
como um mapa fosforescente

onde por certo íamos morrer


Manuel Gusmão, Mapas O Assombro A Sombra
.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Ample make this bed.
Make this bed with awe;
In it wait till judgment break
Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight,
Be its pillow round;
Let no sunrise’ yellow noise
Interrupt this ground.

Emily Dickinson

música para todos os tempos #1

D. Bomtempo & Carlos Seixas || «Estudos e Toccatas»
Sofia Lourenço (piano) || Numérica
[12] -- Carlos Seixas, Toccata

.

Noam Chomsky (n. 1928)


«A good way of finding out who won a war, who lost a war, and what the war was about, is to ask who's cheering and who's depressed after it's over - this can give you interesting answers. So, for example, if you ask that question about the Second World War, you find out that the winners were the Nazis, the German industrialists who had supported Hitler, the Italian Fascists and the war criminals that were sent off to South America - they were all cheering at the end of the war. The losers of the war were the anti-fascist resistance, who were crushed all over the world. Either they were massacred like in Greece or South Korea, or just crushed like in Italy and France. That's the winners and losers. That tells you partly what the war was about. Now let's take the Cold War: Who's cheering and who's depressed? Let's take the East first. The people who are cheering are the former Communist Party bureaucracy who are now the capitalist entrepreneurs, rich beyond their wildest dreams, linked to Western capital, as in the traditional Third World model, and the new Mafia. They won the Cold War. The people of East Europe obviously lost the Cold War; they did succeed in overthrowing Soviet tyranny, which is a gain, but beyond that they've lost - they're in miserable shape and declining further. If you move to the West, who won and who lost? Well, the investors in General Motors certainly won. They now have this new Third World open again to exploitation - and they can use it against their own working classes. On the other hand, the workers in GM certainly didn't win, they lost. They lost the Cold War, because now there's another way to exploit them and oppress them and they're suffering from it.»

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)


Somewhere or Other


Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet - never yet — ah me!
Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
With just a wall, a hedge, between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
Fallen on a turf grown green.

Christina Rossetti
.

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)


CANÇÃO

Tu, a quem não digo que acordado
fico à noite a chorar;
tu, cujo ser me faz cansado
como um berço a embalar;
tu, que me não dizes quando velas
por amor de mim;
diz-me: — Se pudéssemos aguentar
sem a acalmar
a pompa deste amor até ao fim?

...............................................................

Ora olha os amantes e o que eles sentem:
mal vêm as confissões,
quão breve mentem!

..............................................................

Só tu me fazes só. Só tu posso trocar.
Um momento és bem tu, depois é o sussurrar
ou um perfume sem traços.
Ai! a todas eu perdi entre os meus braços!
Só tu em mim renasces, sempre e a toda a hora:
Por nunca te abraçar é que te tenho agora.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Domingos Rebelo (1891-1975)

Georges Seurat (1859-1891)

Mark Twain (1835-1910)




THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN


NOTICE:
Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.

EXPLANATORY:
In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.
I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.



CHAPTER I

You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly—Tom's Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.

Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars apiece—all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round—more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be respectable. So I went back.

The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them,—that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people.

Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself.

. . . . . . . . . . .

[www.gutenberg.org]

António Gedeão (1906-1997)

Poema do poste com flores amarelas

Vieram os operários, puseram o poste de ferro na berma do passeio
e foram-se para voltar noutro dia.
O poste tinha sido pintado há pouco de verde
e quando lhe batia o sol rutilava como as escamas dos dragões.
Mesmo junto do poste, no passeio, havia uma árvore que dava flores amarelas,
e o vento fez cair algumas flores amarelas sobre o poste verde.
As pessoas que por ali passavam diziam "que chatice de poste",
mas o poeta sorria para as flores amarelas.

António Gedeão

.

René Magritte (1898-1967)
.

Nazim Hikmet (1901-1963)


Falling Leaves

I've read about falling leaves in fifty thousand poems novels and so on
watched leaves falling in fifty thousand movies
seen leaves fall fifty thousand times
fall drift and rot
felt their dead shush shush fifty thousand times
underfoot in my hands on my fingertips
but I'm still touched by falling leaves
especially those falling on boulevards
especially chestnut leaves
and if kids are around
if it's sunny
and I've got good news for friendship
especially if my heart doesn't ache
and I believe my love loves me
especially if it's a day I feel good about people
I'm touched by falling leaves
especially those falling on boulevards
especially chestnut leaves

Nazim Hikmet
.

Manuel António Pina (1943)


Amor como em casa

Regresso devagar ao teu
sorriso como quem volta a casa. Faço de conta que
não é nada comigo. Distraído percorro
o caminho familiar da saudade,
pequeninas coisas me prendem,
uma tarde num café, um livro. Devagar
te amo e às vezes depressa,
meu amor, e às vezes faço coisas que não devo,
regresso devagar a tua casa,
compro um livro, entro no
amor como em casa.

Manuel António Pina

Claude Monet (1840-1926)
.

Jan Vermeer van Delft (1632-1675)

John Keats (1795-1821)

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love; — then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Ezra Pound (1885-1972)



The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter

After Li Po

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.


At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.


At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?


At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.


You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

Ezra Pound
.

Pablo Picasso (1891-1973)
.