Viola di Mare

Um dos filmes mais belos que vi sobre o amor entre duas mulheres.
Senão o mais belo.

Ci sarà qualcosa nei tuoi occhi viola
Ci sarà qualcosa nella vita per cui valga la pena
Ci sarà qualcosa che mi può stordire
Ci sarà qualcosa, anche una cura, un sogno per morire


Raymond Carver

Para Tess

Lá fora, no Estreito, a água está espumando,
como se diz por aqui. Está muito agitada, e me sinto feliz
por não estar lá fora. Feliz porque pesquei o dia inteiro
em Morse Creek, lançando uma isca falsa
para frente e para trás. Não peguei nada. Nenhuma
mordida, sequer. Mas tudo bem. Tudo ótimo!
Eu carregava o canivete do seu pai, e por algum tempo
fui seguido por um cão que o dono chamava de Dixie.
Por momentos me senti tão feliz que precisei parar
de pescar. Uma hora deitei na margem de olhos fechados,
escutando o barulho que a água fazia,
e o vento nas copas das árvores. O mesmo vento
que sopra no Estreito, mas também um vento diferente.
Por um momento, até imaginei que eu tinha morrido – 
e não me importei, ao menos por alguns minutos,
até que realmente mergulhei no: Morto.
Enquanto deitava ali de olhos fechados,
logo depois de ter imaginado como seria
se de fato nunca me levantasse outra vez, pensei em você.
Então abri os olhos e me ergui depressa,
e voltei a ficar feliz.
Eu sou grato a você, sabe? Eu queria te dizer.

(trad. Cide Piquet)


Philip Hodgins

2 poemas de Philip Hodgins

Eye of the needle

In the earth
there are doorways
from this earth
but they are narrow.
The weight of matter
keeps it down to earth,
as if the property called mass
is store-security, a clip-on
tag-alarm that stops us
taking our garment
when we leave the shop.
Thoughts are already things
before they’re set to ink.
Their heaviness is hard
to measure, but material,
being stuff in the head.
Weigh the brain before
and after thinking,
the difference is no
laughing matter, too real
to follow us through Exits.
Even light
is far too heavy.
It must be dark
through there.

The Sick Poem

The poem has cancer.
You couldn’t make it
look any worse
and feel any worse
if you threw acid
on the page afterwards.
It began as a minor complaint
and spread to be an obsession.
They say it has something
to do with words
but no-one really understands
how it works.
A well-paid team of experts
is looking hrough it,
a sample has been taken
and yes, words were there.
But what does that tell you?
There’s a theory
if you ignore the thing
then it will go away
but all experience shows
it just keeps coming back
more and more.
Perhaps you should
love what’s wrong with it?
Embrace the flaw:
a failure of communication,
an inability to form
the right words
at the appropriate time.
If this were something big,
say life or death,
there might be some insights
to be had from each stage,
like the hard wisdom
suffering is supposed to give you
but doesn’t really.
Think of what goes on
in all those hospitals.
Perhaps the problem
is one of bad manners:
those clapped-out poeticisms
struggling across the page
through a damaged form.
I’m telling you straight:
to use a metaphor
at a time like this
would be obscene.


Stormy Weather from another room


Warsan Shire


no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark.
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city
running as well.
your neighbours running faster
than you, the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind
the old tin factory is
holding a gun bigger than his body,
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one would leave home unless home
chased you, fire under feet,
hot blood in your belly.
it’s not something you ever thought about
doing, and so when you did -
you carried the anthem under your breath,
waiting until the airport toilet
to tear up the passport and swallow,
each mouthful of paper making it clear that
you would not be going back.
you have to understand,
no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land.
who would choose to spend days
and nights in the stomach of a truck
unless the miles travelled
meant something more than journey.
no one would choose to crawl under fences,
be beaten until your shadow leaves you,
raped, then drowned, forced to the bottom of
the boat because you are darker, be sold,
starved, shot at the border like a sick animal,
be pitied, lose your name, lose your family,
make a refugee camp a home for a year or two or ten,
stripped and searched, find prison everywhere
and if you survive and you are greeted on the other side
with go home blacks, refugees
dirty immigrants, asylum seekers
sucking our country dry of milk,
dark, with their hands out
smell strange, savage -
look what they’ve done to their own countries,
what will they do to ours?
the dirty looks in the street
softer than a limb torn off,
the indignity of everyday life
more tender than fourteen men who
look like your father, between
your legs, insults easier to swallow
than rubble, than your child’s body
in pieces - for now, forget about pride
your survival is more important.
i want to go home, but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home tells you to
leave what you could not behind,
even if it was human.
no one leaves home until home
is a damp voice in your ear saying
leave, run now, i don’t know what
i’ve become.

Julien Blaine


Cassiano Ricardo


Sylvia Telles - Demais

"Demais" é uma música de grande complexidade harmônica. Composta por
Tom Jobim e Aloysio de Oliveira, tinha endereço certo: Maysa. Mas
Sylvinha gravou primeiro e casou com Aloysio. O vídeo é uma cena
do filme de 1962, Assassinato em Copacabana. A coreografia no
meio da canção faz rirA interpretação de Sylvia é soberba. 
Como seriam as de Maysa logo depois, 
e Angela Ro Ro mais tarde.