Alguém Cantando

quando nascemos dão-nos à luz, à luz e a mais ninguém.

(Francisco Mendes Moreira)

un droit de l'homme toujours violé: celui de ne pas exister
Michel Leiris

(...)
A tarde morre pelos dias fora
É muito triste andar por entre Deus ausente

Mas, ó poeta, administra a tristeza sabiamente

é um crime cortar este poema em bocados e apresentar as partes como se pudessem viver independentes, apesar da beleza.
Mas hoje, ao passear plas estantes da Fnac, deparo-me com uma edição (outubro 2003- mais vale tarde...) livro + cêdê, da poesia de Ruy Belo, dita por Luís Miguel Cintra. Oiço e fica um verso. um tom.
venho para casa, venho o caminho inteiro, venho um único verso a ressoar:

A tarde morre pelos dias fora
É muito triste andar por entre Deus ausente
Mas, ó poeta, administra a tristeza sabiamente

(excerto de A Mão No Arado, Ruy Belo, in O Problema da Habitação)

Facundo de Zuviria, nos ares da rocinha

O sol aquece até ao futuro,
é preciso continuar a meter o coração
pelos atalhos.

Rui Pires Cabral

two plums and
half a dozen rotten roses
on the first day of summer
my sweetheart brought me
two plums
he had already eaten

second day of summer
he came along with
a plate of dijon moustard
and a pile of
subscrived magazines
my sweetheart built his starway
to heaven on subscrived magazines

on the third day of summer
my sweeheart brought to me
a blue tin folded necklace
and a one string guitar

fourth day comming
he sang me moving serenades
he had composed himself
he had composed himself
to someone else

fifth day of summer
i just watched him
from the sun
as he sang alone
still all of those
off note beautiful melodies

number six
my sweetheart gave to me
six pairs of sheltin' shoes
and a suitcase filled with his back
the one he always gives me
everytime he goes away
i shout
don't gimme the backs, mister!

on the seventh day of summer
had he come home with the bare hands
he always walks around with
had i be able to at least
walk around holding hands
in any given sunday at the park
first shitty shinny sunday summers's day

Mr. Tom Waits prepara novo disco.
are we bloody gonna wait?


What's he building in there?
What the hell is he building
In there?
He has subscriptions to those
Magazines... He never
Waves when he goes by
He's hiding something from
The rest of us... He's all
To himself... I think I know
Why... He took down the
Tire swing from the Peppertree
He has no children of his
Own you see... He has no dog
And he has no friends and
His lawn is dying... and
What about all those packages
He sends. What's he building in there?
With that hook light
On the stairs. What's he building
In there... I'll tell you one thing
He's not building a playhouse for
The children what's he building
In there?

Now what's that sound from under the door?
He's pounding nails into a
Hardwood floor... and I
Swear to god I heard someone
Moaning low... and I keep
Seeing the blue light of a
T.V. show...
He has a router
And a table saw... and you
Won't believe what Mr. Sticha saw
There's poison underneath the sink
Of course... But there's also
Enough formaldehyde to choke
A horse... What's he building
In there. What the hell is he
Building in there? I heard he
Has an ex-wife in some place
Called Mayors Income, Tennessee
And he used to have a
consulting business in Indonesia...
but what is he building in there?
What the hell is building in there?

He has no friends
But he gets a lot of mail
I'll bet he spent a little
Time in jail...
I heard he was up on the
Roof last night
Signaling with a flashlight
And what's that tune he's
Always whistling...
What's he building in there?
What's he building in there?

We have a right to know...


(Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan)

felicidade se acha em horinhas de descuido
pra ouvir rezando