jóias de família

Nuestros tesoros son tesoros falsos.
Y somos los ladrones de tesoros.

Felipe Benítez Reyes

segunda-feira, abril 02, 2007


domingo, abril 01, 2007


cruz quebrada 06

De hecho estamos en el extremo de Europa y en el principio de la otra mitad del mundo y somos casi felices...


Aletentejo 06

quarta-feira, abril 26, 2006

Alles Nahe werde fern
"Es decir «Todo lo cercano se aleja». Goethe lo escribió refiriéndose al crepúsculo de la tarde. Todo lo cercano se aleja, es verdad, tengo que pensar que es verdad."

Enrique Vila-Matas
"El viento ligero en Parma"


segunda-feira, abril 10, 2006


a luz sobre a mesa #8

O candeeiro que comigo cumpriu
o serviço militar foi ferido esta noite
pela minha insensatez.

Infortunado estacou, lívido
o dorso curvado até não ser mais
do que um rumor cego.

Cortei o fio que o ligava ao mundo
decerto errei no cálculo, no golpe,
na afeição.

Quem poderá ajudar-me
a espiar esta culpa, levar-me a dançar?

Tu, que foste mais do que um companheiro
de camarata, irmão, quase um pai

permite que seja agora eu
a velar-te
todas as noites.

Jorge Gomes Miranda
Portadas Abertas,



a luz sobre a mesa #7

Desde as nove -

Meia-noite e meia. Rapidamente passam as horas
desde as nove em que acendi o candeeiro,
e aqui me sentei. Estava sentado sem ler,
e sem falar. Falar com quem
totalmente só nesta casa.

O simulacro do meu corpo novo,
desde as nove em que acendi o candeeiro,
veio e encontrou-me e lembrou-me
fechados quartos com aromas,
e prazer passado - que prazer valente!
E trouxe-me também diante dos olhos,
ruas que se tornaram agora irreconhecíveis,
sítios cheios de movimento que findaram,
e teatros e cafés e era uma vez que o tempo tem.

O simulacro do meu corpo novo
veio e trouxe-me as tristezas também;
lutos de família, afastamentos,
sentimentos de gente minha, sentimentos
tão pouco apreciados dos mortos.

Meia-noite e meia. Como passam as horas.
Meia-noite e meia. Como passam os anos.

Konstandinos Kavafis
tradução de Joaquim Manuel Magalhães
Relógio d'Água


sábado, abril 08, 2006


a luz sobre a mesa #6

aluz sobre a .
Burning of The Midnight Lamp

The morning is dead
And the day is too
There’s nothing left here to greet me
But the velvet moon
All my loneliness
I have felt today
It’s a little more than enough
To make a man throw himself away
And I continue
To burn the midnight lamp

Now the smiling portrait of you
Is stll hangin’ on my frowning wall
It really doesn’t really doesn’t bother me too much at all
It’s just the, uh, ever falling dust
That makes it so hard for me to see
That forgotten ear-ring laying on the floor
Facing coldly toward the door
And I continue
To burn the midnight lamp
All alone

Lonely lonely, yeah
Lonely lonely lonely
Loneliness is such a, drag

So here I sit to face
That same old fire place
Gettin’ ready for the sam old explosion
Goin’ through my mind
And soon enough time will tell
About the circus and the wishingwell
And someone who will buy and sell for me
Someone who will toll my bell
And I continue to burn the midnight lamp

Darlin’ do you here me callin’ you
So lonely

Jimi Hendrix



a luz sobre a mesa #5

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of the memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said,
"Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

The lamp said,
"Four o’clock,
Here is the number on the door.
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

Prufrock and Other Observations

by T. S. Eliot



a luz sobre a mesa #4

When the lamp is shattered

The light in the dust lies dead --
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute --
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed.
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee,
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Percy Bysshe Shelley



a luz sobre a mesa #3

The Lamp burns sure -- within --

Tho' Serfs -- supply the Oil --
It matters not the busy Wick --
At her phosphoric toil!

The Slave -- forgets -- to fill --
The Lamp -- burns golden -- on --
Unconscious that the oil is out --
As that the Slave -- is gone.

Emily Dickinson



a luz sobre a mesa #2


The light of a student-lamp
sapphire light
the light of a smoking-lamp

Light from the Magellanic Clouds
the light of a Nernst lamp
the light of a naphtha-lamp
light from meteorites

Evanescent light
the light of an electric lamp
extra light

Citrine light
kineographic light
the light of a Kitson lamp
kindly light

Ice light
altar light

The light of a spotlight
a sunbeam
solar light

Mustard-oil light
maroon light
the light of a magnesium flare
light from a meteor

Evanescent light
light from an electric lamp
an extra light

Light from a student-lamp
sapphire light
a shimmer
smoking-lamp light

Ordinary light
orgone lumination
light from a lamp burning olive oil
opal light

atom-bomb light
the light of an alcohol lamp
the light of a lamp burning anda-oil

Jackson Mac Low
9 Light Poems


sexta-feira, abril 07, 2006


a luz sobre a mesa #1

Lampe du soir, ma calme confidente,

mon coeur n'est point par toi dévoilé;
on s'y perdrait peut-être; mais sa pente
du cotê sud est doucement éclairée.

C'est encore toi, ô lampe d'étudiant,
qui veut que le liseur de temps en temps
s'arrête étonné et se dérange
sur son bouquin, te regardant.

(Et ta simplicité supprime un Ange.)

Rainer Maria Rilke


sexta-feira, março 17, 2006


De un cuaderno antiguo

Sabes que no se diferencian.

El fruncido gemir de un vendaval,
los flecos de la lluvia interrogantes,
el ladrido del sol al mediodía,
la naranja olvidada en la mesa del patio,
lo mismo pueden ser
alimento de dicha o de tristeza.

Celebra tú, si puedes, cada imagen
igual si viene bien como si viene mal.
Detrás están tus ojos y detrás
el corte de tu daño, tu relato del día.

Serán lo que les des, como las leas.

Luis Muñoz
in "El Apetito"



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