Thursday, 16 April 2015

Eduardo and a Voice - for a day in April / Eduardo Galeano, neste Dia Mundial da Voz

I took me a while to place something regarding the passing of Eduardo Galeano.  I heard of it on the same day and shortly after hearing the news regarding Günter Grass.


That which I have read by him, his interviews and views always touched me deeply as it has others.
There are voices in the world that should always remain with us, for their clarity of thought and humanity.

So I leave you with two video clips
with two very special voices, his,
and one of whom is still thankfully with us - Sir Willard White (with his beautiful voice).


____________________________________________________



- Duas vozes especiais no Dia Mundial da Voz.































images:

1. Eduardo Galeano 
«entrevistando al guerrillero César Montes 
en la selva guatemalteca, 
a fines de los sesenta» 
(public domain picture in wikipedia)

2. Eduardo Galeano - found in the Huffington Post 








.

Monday, 13 April 2015

Escrito em inglês, por uma portuguesa, sobre um alemão - e o mundo hoje perde o seu Günter Grass

_____________(I do not know the title to the "unknown poem").





held in my tiny childhood hand
(hand? ..but I see a bouquet of the reddest roses I'd ever seen, though their fragrance seems ever so odd)
..in my tiny bouquet of crimson flowers,
trembling,
petals cringing away from the trigger,
spellbound, .. unanswered tears (tears? I remember innocence.., running down my cheeks, flowing copiously,
fears that were not innocent,
(fears? I remember the orders of the "innocent")
orders,
borders,
Man betraying Man
(Man? I remember something else, blooming, dripping red..)
Alain's final year at Marienbad,
fingers drenched, stained..
- Halt!
- Who goes there?
- Halt..

deep breath
lungs closing
heart sto___
.






(..and stop the guns of war)







_____________________________________________________________.

Some are born tender and never turn ugly, not even in the face of the beast.


(by Maria MFA Costa)























G. Almeida
 graphite on paper
 13/04/2015










"I'm always astonished by a forest. It makes me realise that the fantasy of nature is much larger than my own fantasy. I still have things to learn."
Günter Grass










Thursday, 2 April 2015

Film & Literature.. (a great loss) / post: English / Português

I know our population isn't that large, and that the beauty of mortality is the value of existence.. but..

I mean really now, did it have to be so close to one another?

Really?
























I was wondering when I'd get around to posting something regarding Herberto Helder, didn't expect it to be on the day that we bid adieu to Manoel.

Goodness knows how hard it is to see our loved ones go. It is such a powerful feeling that it starts to become a true blessing when we get to worry about those who are still here.

In the case of each of these men (such towering existence left us all through their work) I could never just post or choose one poem or one film, it's an impossible task to choose.


Like many I know that suffocating difficulty in accepting seeing those that we love go, on a personal level.

On March 23 the nation became an orphan and but 10 days later it happens again.

It seems almost a prank, and ironic, seeing that presently we have as the top representatives of our people some who probably look at their names and asks themselves "who? ummmm, are they cereal brands?"


I'm sorry, They deserve celebration for the gigantic contribution each of them had given us, so I shall refrain from thinking more of "little people" who's help in aiding the country, through such heavy a loss (in either case), is probably as useful as breasts on a bull.



No, I shall not post a sample of Herberto's writing, nor shall I place here any excerpt of any film directed by Manoel.

The nation mourns. We must try to overcome our difficulties and know that they're on some sunny beach, in the company of Camões, Pessoa, Mozart, Picasso and Miles, being served gin tonics by Shakespeare, Camus and DaVinci, playing poker with Cleopatra (she's a hard one to break) and Hermann Hesse among others, listening to conversation between Bach and Dr. King as they write up some new scores for each sunset (music & librettos), António Fragoso skipping rope, a smiling Nietzsche pinching himself, Einstein and Tagore off in some nearby corner playing a cool game of backgammon and not sure who dancing a sweet little gigue along with Marie Curie next to the shimmering waves (they move so fast it's hard to tell and if it weren't for Marie's lab coat she'd be hard to recognize).
Now where was I? ah, yes..

Please excuse me as I go off to a little corner of the universe for a little while to weep for our loss..





(pictures of magus film director Manoel Oliveira at the races - the Estoril International Circuit - where he won in 1937 - LINK)

(pictures of the 'poets' poet', a towering and mesmerizing shepherd of language - Herberto Helder - LINK & LINK)


________________________________________________________________________________.





Por favor ponham uma tonelada de almofadas em torno do Pomar e da Rego.. 






Na altura de ir, num o país envolto num turbilhão de ventos e estranhos silêncios..
onde nada sabia, apenas se sentia (escrito no dia seguinte a 24) - "ontem, entre o vento que uivava e o frio que entrava nos ossos tropecei, na companhia de uma amiga minha e de um peludo cão musculado, numa exposição que era de uma poesia difícil de imaginar possível. Alí moravam Pomars de cortar a respiração, um Resende delicado, quase tímido, uma Vieira da Sílva que.. bolas que nem consigo descrever, de onde a luz do sol de Lisboa entrava praticamente com a dimensão do vento, que afinal se percebia de onde vinha, de um piano tapado com um branco lençol, mudo, do Júlio (sem Pomar ou Resende, do próprio), do próprio Mário Dionísio, e de outros.., enquanto deambulava por uma Lisboa quase esquecida, praticamente adormecida, ligeiramente às escuras e Lisboeta de tempos e andamentos vários - de ruelas, onde as mulheres não solteiras ou viúvas tratavam do trigo da nação.., e todos tratavam do vento (exit - stage dimention 18)" ,
seguia um,

e ontem à noite, com um estrondo que abalou a península de Setúbal toda, nas (e das) entranhas da terra, sentindo-se a onde de choque na linha de Cascais e em Lisboa, onde um amigo achava ter havido um terramoto, preocupado vendo as suas esculturas (de sua autoria) tremerem todas e um outro amigo dele não muito longe com seus pincéis e tintas mexendo-se, onde gente da margem sul sonhava, esperançosa até, haver algo a "modular" em São Bento e em Belém, onde outros mesmo tão longe como a invicta também diziam ter sentido a coisa.. (nem que por simpatia fosse), parecia dar um tom onde só faltava um clarim a dar o "toque de silêncio" à véspera de seguir outro, de uma geração mais velha (embora isto das gerações, no que respeita a genialidade não tem nem tempo nem hora).

Um país assim atravessando uma enorme orfandade, onde por ironia (ou não), é o próprio país e suas pessoas a reflectir o que se passa, e talvez ainda bem, já que quem os representa nunca o pode fazer, coitados, seria difícil para qualquer um, quanto mais esses..

Fazem-me   (o H_____ o M_____ )   pensar noutros dois que nada têm a ver, aparentemente, mas têm, e não só pelo que disse em inglês..









Boa noite.