All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost. [...]

'The Strider's Riddle', em The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

Hunter

ouvir

if travel is searching
and home has been found

i'm not stopping

i'm going hunting
i'm the hunter
i'll bring back the goods
but i don't know when

thought that i could organise freedom
how scandinavian of me
you sussed it out, didn't you?

you could smell it
so you left me on my own
to complete the mission
now i'm leaving it all behind

i'm going hunting
i'm the hunter...

(you just didn't know me!)

Bjork, em Homogenic (1997).

We are all each other's demons and angels.

em Before Sunrise, 1995

The quality of mercy is nor strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

Portia, in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, act 4.

Eterno é este instante, o dia claro,
as cores das casas desenhadas em aguada rasa,
castanhos e vermelhos quase em declive,
as janelas limpíssimas, os vidros muito honestos.
este instante que foi e já não é, mal pousei a caneta
no papel: eterno

Sonhei contigo, acordei a pensar
que ainda eras, como é esta janela, 
como o corpo obedece a este vento quente, e é ágil, 
mas tudo: tão confuso como são os sonhos 

Agora, neste instante, recordo a sensação 
de estares, o toque. 
Não distingo os contornos do meu sonho, não sei 
se era uma casa, ou um pedaço de ar. 
A memória limpíssima é de ti 
e cobriu tudo, e trouxe azul e sol a esta praça 
onde me sento, organizada a esquadro,
como as casas 

E agora, o teu andar
acabou de passar mesmo ao meu lado, igual, 
e agora multiplica-se nas mesas e cadeiras
que cobrem rua e praça, 
e eu vejo-te no vidro à minha frente, 
mais real que este instante, e se Bruegel te visse
pintava-te, exactíssima e aqui. 
E serias: mais perto de um eterno

(Eu, que nada mais sei, só o fulgor do breve, 
eu dava-te palavras - )

Ana Amaral Dias, em Vozes, 2011.

Discernimento

Song of Sand

ouvir

If sand waves were sound waves 
What song would be in the air now
What stinging tune
Could split this endless noon
And make the sky swell with rain
If war were a game that a man or a child
Could think of winning
What kind of rule
Can overthrow a fool
And leave the land with no stain.

Suzanne Vega, em 99.9 Fº (1992)

hidden in veils, covered in silk

youtube

she's a pornographer's dream, he said.
I knew what he meant.
but it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
he would have, that hadn't been spent?

would he still dream of the thigh? of the flesh upon high?
what he saw so much of?
wouldn't he dream of the thing that he never
could quite get the touch of?

it's out of his hands, over his head
out of his reach, under this real life
hidden in veils, covered in silk
he's dreaming of what might be

out of his hands, over his head
out of his reach, under this real life
hidden in veils,
he's dreaming of mystery.

Bettie Page is still the rage
with her legs and leather;
she turns to tease the camera, and please us at home,
and we let her.

who's to know what she'll show of herself,
in what measure?
if what she reveals, or what she conceals,
is the key to our pleasure?

it's out of our hands, over our heads
out of our reach, under this real life
hidden in veils, covered in silk
we're dreaming of what might be

it's out of our hands, over our heads
out of our reach, under this real life
hidden in veils
we're dreaming of mystery.

she's a pornographer's dream, he said.
I knew what he meant.
but it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
he would have?

Suzanne Vega, Beauty & Crime (2007)

Eu não escolho um campo entre os campos que já existem, e resisto com todas as minhas forças a todas as intimidações com que pretendem forçar-me a estar com este ou aquele campo. És por A ou por B? - eis o torniquete totalitário, a máquina binária, com que os colectivos e as instituições pretendem extorquir uma escolha. Não, o campo que eu escolho sou eu que o construo - entendido?

Eduardo Prado Coelho

Andábamos sin buscarnos, pero sabiendo que andábamos para encontrarnos

Julio Cortázar

Il y a un proverbe juif admirable: L'homme pense, Dieu rit. (...) Mais pourquoi Dieu rit-il en regardant 'homme qui pense? Parce que l'homme pense et la vérité lui échappe. Parce que plus les hommes pensent, plus la pensée de l'un s'éloigne de la pensée de l'autre.

Kundera, L'art du roman, 1986.

[...]

O meu tantã é de outros tempos

A melodia que oiço

É o crepitar de chamas

Confundindo-se com o roncar da fome

E o chão onde piso

É uma ilha de fogo

A minha nuvem é a fumaça

Da bala disparada
[...]

Na esperança do incerto

Odete Semedo

Sobre Todas as Coisas

ouvir

Pelo amor de Deus

Não vê que isso é pecado, desprezar quem lhe quer bem
Não vê que Deus até fica zangado vendo alguém
Abandonado pelo amor de Deus

Ao Nosso Senhor
Pergunte se Ele produziu nas trevas o esplendor
Se tudo foi criado - o macho, a fêmea, o bicho, a flor
Criado pra adorar o Criador

E se o Criador
Inventou a criatura por favor
Se do barro fez alguém com tanto amor
Para amar Nosso Senhor

Não, Nosso Senhor
Não há de ter lançado em movimento terra e céu
Estrelas percorrendo o firmamento em carrossel
Pra circular em torno ao Criador

Ou será que o deus
Que criou nosso desejo é tão cruel
Mostra os vales onde jorra o leite e o mel
E esses vales são de Deus

Pelo amor de Deus
Não vê que isso é pecado, desprezar quem lhe quer bem
Não vê que Deus até fica zangado vendo alguém
Abandonado pelo amor de Deus

Chico Buarque e Edu Lobo, cantada por Gilberto Gil em O Grande Circo Místico

Spring Haze

ouvir

Well I know it's just a spring haze
But I don't much like the look of it
And if omens are a god send like men
Breezing in
Certain these clouds go somewhere
Billowing out to somewhere
In a single engine cessna
You say we'll never make it there
So all we do is circle it

Uh oh
Let go
Off on my way
Unseen this eternal wanting
Uh oh
Way to go
So I get creamed
Waiting for Sunday to drown
Uh oh
Way to go
Waiting on Sunday Waiting on Sunday to land
Uh oh
Way to go
Waiting on Sunday
Waiting on sunday to drown

So I know it's just a spring haze
But I don't much like the look of it
And all we do is circle it
And I found out where my edge is
And it bleeds into where you resist
And my only way, way out is to go
So far in
Billowing out to somewhere
Billowing out
Luna riviera
Billowing out to Somewhere

Uh oh
Let go
Off on my way
Unseen this eternal wanting
Let go
So if I really get creamed
Waiting for Sunday to drown
Waiting on Sunday to drown

Why does it always end up like this
Why does it always end up like this
Why does it always end up like this

Uh oh
Off on my way
Unseen this eternal wanting
Let go
Way to go
So I get creamed
Waiting on Sunday to drown
Uh oh
Waiting on
Waiting on Sunday
Waiting on Sunday to land
Uh oh
Waiting on
Waiting on Sunday
Waiting on Sunday to drown
Waiting on Sunday to
Waiting
Waiting on Sunday Waiting on Sunday to land
Uh oh
So if I really get creamed
Waiting on Sunday to drown

Tori Amos, do álbum To Venhus and Back (1999)

Las Simples Cosas

ver

Uno se despide insensiblemente de pequenas cosas
Lo mismo que en un arbol que en tiempo de otoño
muere por sus hojas
Al fin tristeza es la muerte lenta de las simples cosas
Esas cosas simples que te van doliendo en el corazon

Uno vuelve siempre a los viejos sitios
en que amo la vida
y entonces comprende como estan de
ausentes las cosas queridas

Por eso muchacho no partas ahora
soñando el regreso, que el amor es simple
y las cosas simples las debora el tiempo
demorate aqui, en la luz mayor
de este medio dia, donde encontraras
con el pan al sol, la mesa tendida

Letra de Chavela Vargas, cantada por Buika

Penitent

ver

Once I stood alone so proud
Held myself above the crowd
Now i am low on the ground.

From here i look around to see
What avenues belong to me
I can't tell what ive found.

Now what would You have me do
I ask you please?
I wait to hear.

The mother, and the matador,
The mystic, all were here before,
Like me, to stare You down.

You appear without a face,
Disappear, but leave your trace,
I feel your unseen frown.

Now what would you have me do
I ask you please?
I wait to hear
Your voice, the word, you say
I wait to see your sign
Would I obey?

I look for you in heathered moor,
The desert, and the ocean floor
How low does one heart go.

Looking for your fingerprints
I find them in coincidence,
And make my faith to grow.

Forgive me all my blindnesses
My weakness and unkindnesses
As yet unbending still.

Struggling so hard to see
My fist against eternity
And will you break my will?

Suzanne Vega, álbum Songs in Red and Gray (2001).

Todo começo é involuntário.
Deus é o agente.
O heroe a si assiste, vário
E inconsciente.

À espada em tuas mãos achada
Teu olhar desce.
"Que farei eu com esta espada?"

Ergueste-a, e fez-se.

Fernando Pessoa, "O Conde D. Henrique", em Mensagem.

The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.

 Henri-Louis Bergson, 1859 –1941

Saturate every atom

The idea has come to me that what I want now to do is to saturate every atom. I mean to eliminate all waste, deadness, superfluity: to give the moment whole; whatever it includes. Say that the moment is a combination of thought; sensation; the voice of the sea. Waste, deadness, come from the inclusion of things that dont belong to the moment; this appalling narrative business of the realist: getting on from lunch to dinner: it is false, unreal, merely conventional. Why admit any thing to literature that is not poetry–by which I mean saturated?

The Diary of Virgina Woolf, vol. 3 (1825-30) 

Rusted Pipe

ouvir

Now the time has come to speak
I was not able
And water through a rusted pipe
Could make the sense that I do

Gurgle, mutter
Hiss, stutter
Moan the words like water
Rush and foam and choke

Having waited
This long of a winter
I fear I only
Croak and sigh

Somewhere deep within
Hear the creak
That lets the tale begin

Now the time has come to move
I was not able
Water through a rusted pipe
Could make the moves that I do

Stagger, stumble
Trip, fumble
I fear I only
Slip and slide

Somewhere deep within
Hear the creak
That lets the tale begin

Somewhere deep within
Hear the creak
That lets the tale begin

Suzanne Vega, album Days of Open Hand (1990).   

I shall never put you together entirely,

Pieced, glued, and properly jointed. [...]

em The Colossus, de Sylvia Plath (1960).

We get to make a living; we give to make a life.
Recebemos para ter do que viver; damos para construir uma vida.

Winston Churchill