tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36532551305776839582024-03-27T23:54:45.790+00:00Dialectos de um CachimboUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1444125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-72087118335191137882024-02-06T18:48:00.004+00:002024-02-06T18:48:45.800+00:00"Múltiplas Mãos" de Armando Silva Carvalho<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8G3NI5R6Sfg1GPrZILQ85VrXkYN3ny-T84-GwlcVSnBVy4ekAvG9OkXw3SpEbNM2zwQNE5RTDLFnO8TWiUeP1SFByDmQnuilF6PP2BGtml8VsmZOBZ1B1pEQERDHDPdbw1zG_ATXFe0DV6QHgTsEjHFMHAXfDRkiMBDqdlGHKYp1RxxEDO2NVtLstkrDs/s614/A%20Sombra%20do%20Mar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="440" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8G3NI5R6Sfg1GPrZILQ85VrXkYN3ny-T84-GwlcVSnBVy4ekAvG9OkXw3SpEbNM2zwQNE5RTDLFnO8TWiUeP1SFByDmQnuilF6PP2BGtml8VsmZOBZ1B1pEQERDHDPdbw1zG_ATXFe0DV6QHgTsEjHFMHAXfDRkiMBDqdlGHKYp1RxxEDO2NVtLstkrDs/w143-h200/A%20Sombra%20do%20Mar.jpg" width="143" /></a></div> "As mãos amadurecem, sorvem todo o sol</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a que cada corpo tem direito</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>apenas porque nasce.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Mas há mãos excessivas e maduras de sonhos,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>conchas duma maré que erra nas dunas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e se arrasta entre as areias mortas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e as nuvens térreas, brônzeas,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>não santificadas.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Eu vejo-me nas mãos dos outros animais,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>castigam-me pesadas </i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>contra os umbrais da noite.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>São as graças do chumbo, fotos negativas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>da alegria do mundo,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>recolhem todo o peso dos corpos</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>naufragados.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>E são as mãos da alma, mãos recolhidas da vida,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>tão belas e tão fúnebres,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que o fogo, o fogo apenas as acaricia</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>com a leve e muda labareda</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de deus."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Armando Silva Carvalho em "A Sombra Do Mar"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Assírio & Alvim</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>1ª edição, Julho de 2015</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 90</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-16032271314014516662024-02-06T17:58:00.004+00:002024-02-06T17:58:59.615+00:00"De Costas Voltadas" de Armando Silva Carvalho<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWLqWfBZTAax6Nzs08yp-hbhrrwx5COdFsgnX19mipv4aaurzcIra17-93oVUr208KTinSqkKCXwN1VVvH7xdrNhDbGo_iJ-jByAZ4Wr9sR1Ffx66t1izzSRVhRduP8QPNiZEqN3ZyR8Nphs_hJ4fcBYIXmnJ17Y6JyLtFQQoGfm0vchszUO71lLQUjZ7/s614/A%20Sombra%20do%20Mar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="440" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWLqWfBZTAax6Nzs08yp-hbhrrwx5COdFsgnX19mipv4aaurzcIra17-93oVUr208KTinSqkKCXwN1VVvH7xdrNhDbGo_iJ-jByAZ4Wr9sR1Ffx66t1izzSRVhRduP8QPNiZEqN3ZyR8Nphs_hJ4fcBYIXmnJ17Y6JyLtFQQoGfm0vchszUO71lLQUjZ7/w143-h200/A%20Sombra%20do%20Mar.jpg" width="143" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Sempre agarrada aos dias, com o andar do tempo,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>tudo passa a ser um enigma, a idade é uma senhora meio</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>amarrotada,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a lamber os jornais e a trocar as linhas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>todas as manhãs.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Acabaram-se de vez as teorias sobre a voz do silêncio,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>é outra a filosofia dos ruídos do corpo.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Quem não arrebanhou as metáforas para o inverno da vida</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>aquece quando aquece a língua e arde no frio.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Os dias são muito mais altos, parecem olhar por cima as </i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>gargalhadas,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>os cães mais impacientes, mais cínicos,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>o meu, que não existe, aprendeu a ralhar e já não ladra,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>quer ser o meu compadre, e é isto, um cómico forçado.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Nunca pensei fazer poemas destes, tão naturalistas.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Andei a reler o Campos, mas não sei subir à sua metafísica.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>O homem estragou de vez a vida a muita gente.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>O Eugénio é que dizia:</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>com o Pessoa só de costas voltadas."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Armando Silva Carvalho em "A Sombra Do Mar"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Assírio & Alvim</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>1ª edição, Julho de 2015</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 17</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-74080148857924927902024-01-19T18:40:00.000+00:002024-01-19T18:40:03.786+00:00"Gargalo Grande" de Daniel Maia-Pinto Rodrigues<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipMhIkoFl1sWMbfDC_CyQWgVRaIxQ-HlnnBFrN6vcU5cr9B21LoxvX0e0pwSR0uBcLkSC-AxQ6W1UXRScEcO4KjG37kx9bt1BnoVFTgvBo_90REYB1hrIju2-UCckHbIUkwNZ23tjl3Uu6nOjExUmdGigYdi9zSKxEdWb0qm6TYVVqrWvPXubPcgMIGdaV/s704/Turquesa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="482" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipMhIkoFl1sWMbfDC_CyQWgVRaIxQ-HlnnBFrN6vcU5cr9B21LoxvX0e0pwSR0uBcLkSC-AxQ6W1UXRScEcO4KjG37kx9bt1BnoVFTgvBo_90REYB1hrIju2-UCckHbIUkwNZ23tjl3Uu6nOjExUmdGigYdi9zSKxEdWb0qm6TYVVqrWvPXubPcgMIGdaV/w137-h200/Turquesa.jpg" width="137" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Quando gaivotas se deslocarem</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>no azul da imagem, quando</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>nos ervaçais crescerem largas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>acácias onde os pássaros brilhem -</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>quiseste partir.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Deixasses ao longe no alpendre</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>o início da iluminura.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Quando por fragrâncias perfeitas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>descobrirmos o alecrim do outono,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>é a hora de as rolas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>adoçarem o silêncio, é a hora</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de as mãos se desprenderem do frio.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Crê que, do lirismo</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>continuo a beber pelo gargalo."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Daniel Maia-Pinto Rodrigues em "Turquesa"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Imprensa Nacional - Casa da Moeda</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>1ª edição, Dezembro de 2019</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 89</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-78381800966108959422024-01-19T18:07:00.000+00:002024-01-19T18:07:21.222+00:00"Alteração" de Daniel Maia-Pinto Rodrigues<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDESr3nDGgUpdYNwW9mF4XT8VX5CK4BHQmCBjcUitChdV5_KeWXdmPIr2i040Jf21VSGcvm8IzcovtbeiymjYZQWhBYDxvQUUIZTc5JCEnK-qA004XS06lox_vJraO5vKOLb9zOX4LbDEFHuKorT2nyGDL6irG-HCAxOHC_qgX3xcNcHduBh5EQkSqyKQo/s704/Turquesa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="482" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDESr3nDGgUpdYNwW9mF4XT8VX5CK4BHQmCBjcUitChdV5_KeWXdmPIr2i040Jf21VSGcvm8IzcovtbeiymjYZQWhBYDxvQUUIZTc5JCEnK-qA004XS06lox_vJraO5vKOLb9zOX4LbDEFHuKorT2nyGDL6irG-HCAxOHC_qgX3xcNcHduBh5EQkSqyKQo/w137-h200/Turquesa.jpg" width="137" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Olho estes desenhos</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>com calma espalhando a água das cascatas.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Nada me garante que dimanem luz pelos campos</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>os pássaros da manhã</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>nem que o fim dos bosques se alongue</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>pelas nuvens.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Olho de novo os desenhos</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>em relevo já a água turbulenta.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Ouvem-se as grandes tílias</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>comentando em segredo de brisa</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a palidez de quem as desenha."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Daniel Maia-Pinto Rodrigues em "Turquesa"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Imprensa Nacional - Casa da Moeda</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>1ª edição, Dezembro de 2019</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 33</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-57436487677686191972024-01-19T17:52:00.002+00:002024-01-19T18:08:08.262+00:00"Turquesa" de Daniel Maia-Pinto Rodrigues (I)<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMCjyirMr9HVg0hTpc4eR8F4Rocz3pFMe135fsmVoXRpaY4FtDafWLsGcY0KfYvZkQX3cuOdCgyI6GKhe2nlETCy0gEDYf-ZqABfI1UCUZqjEPsBRvHWnT5ks80OJSHN8OKf3KSuH0jMgie9B2jQwDr1B7Cab8OYY-o47KOQcNAcrUlRpEZMU4MbniwX0O/s704/Turquesa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="482" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMCjyirMr9HVg0hTpc4eR8F4Rocz3pFMe135fsmVoXRpaY4FtDafWLsGcY0KfYvZkQX3cuOdCgyI6GKhe2nlETCy0gEDYf-ZqABfI1UCUZqjEPsBRvHWnT5ks80OJSHN8OKf3KSuH0jMgie9B2jQwDr1B7Cab8OYY-o47KOQcNAcrUlRpEZMU4MbniwX0O/w137-h200/Turquesa.jpg" width="137" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Entendem as folhas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a rapidez</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>com que se desprendem dos ramos.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Entendem as asas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a debilidade dos pássaros.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Acima de tudo</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>o que interessa a novembro</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>é as crianças poderem dizer</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>está vento</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>é sentirem-no arrebatar-lhes os cabelos</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>engolfar-se nos gorros</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>misturar-se na roupa quente.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Há uma criança na escola</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que através dos vidros vê novembro -</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e a meia distância</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>ao lado do novembro</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>vê o anjo da guarda</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a atirar pedras</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>lentamente contra a luz."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Daniel Maia-Pinto Rodrigues em "Turquesa"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Imprensa Nacional - Casa Da Moeda</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>1ª edição, Dezembro de 2019</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 29</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-26697670769340132052024-01-03T18:58:00.001+00:002024-01-03T18:58:26.709+00:00Filmes: o que mais gostei em 2023<div style="text-align: left;"><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"A Arte da Luz tem 20.000 Anos" de João Botelho @ RTP2 <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNX3kkW2F_3pjmdNGd4x5_HMpqqyMbTipp8Y6msD-Jnb9GzG97Lg8eRFbIw8mLV086L66z94abjsnxG13i9i-do2HcSfWXVkM6c6HJ5DItOnZR3kiiiSRL6mUpxcfrg5yi-ge0G-1BxJM3wCV5TutJJjUvYYns-TRMMPbnR06jAwQTsr0Fg5is19oG285/s291/Filmes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="291" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNX3kkW2F_3pjmdNGd4x5_HMpqqyMbTipp8Y6msD-Jnb9GzG97Lg8eRFbIw8mLV086L66z94abjsnxG13i9i-do2HcSfWXVkM6c6HJ5DItOnZR3kiiiSRL6mUpxcfrg5yi-ge0G-1BxJM3wCV5TutJJjUvYYns-TRMMPbnR06jAwQTsr0Fg5is19oG285/w200-h119/Filmes.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"ChungKing Express" de Wong Kar Wai @ TvCine Edition</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Dias Selvagens" de Wong Kar Wai @ TvCine Edition</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Disponível para Amar" de Wong Kar Wai @ TvCine Edition</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"História de um Proprietário Rural" de Yasujiro Ozu @ Cinema Medeia Nimas</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Mal Viver" de João Canijo @ TvCine Edition</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Nyad" de Elizabeth Chai Vasarhely e Jimmy Chin @ Netflix</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"O Fim do Outono" de Yasujiro Ozu @ Cinema Medeia Nimas</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Ramiro" de Manuel Mozos @ RTP2</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Viver Mal" de João Canijo @ TvCine Top</i></b></span></li></ul></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-65302912217664999152024-01-03T17:59:00.000+00:002024-01-03T17:59:32.589+00:00Dos Dias: o que mais gostei em 2023<div style="text-align: right;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDH4bhZC88voz18Gj8EZqSEr7Nh2KMhyphenhyphenKo_b4zJTgecfnWutz9YkYf3RFbPgXkIZ-erAbYDyR3bsTIfTQbBpmzwDyW6J_zIJPGGvSB6tPEHXe0ZONR1TOUeHqe1Zw37LS8SO33DXkPqTd_95N7HZ4Znp12VvIiy6GmpgdmXmszzmG7ED5IdqBQuYz3TWg1/s860/Four%20seasons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="860" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDH4bhZC88voz18Gj8EZqSEr7Nh2KMhyphenhyphenKo_b4zJTgecfnWutz9YkYf3RFbPgXkIZ-erAbYDyR3bsTIfTQbBpmzwDyW6J_zIJPGGvSB6tPEHXe0ZONR1TOUeHqe1Zw37LS8SO33DXkPqTd_95N7HZ4Znp12VvIiy6GmpgdmXmszzmG7ED5IdqBQuYz3TWg1/w200-h133/Four%20seasons.jpg" width="200" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- 2º Evento de Xadrez @ Quinta das Palmeiras</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i> - A poesia como exercício espiritual @ Casa da Malta</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i> - A poesia do Al-Andaluz @ Livraria Municipal Verney</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i> - Marta Pereira da Costa (com António Pinto - viola) @ Museu do Fado</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i> - Oficinas de Maio no Jardim (papel de plantas) @ Casa da Cerca - Centro de Arte Contemporânea</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i> - Simbologia no Cemitério @ Cemitério dos Prazeres</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i> - Sons do Oriente Lírico @ Centro Científico e Cultural de Macau</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-16999474506429201742024-01-03T17:33:00.001+00:002024-01-03T17:33:27.009+00:00Ecrãs: o que mais gostei em 2023<div style="text-align: left;"><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"A Paisagem de Artur Pastor" de Fernando Carrilho @ RTP2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZxOIvagVroqDLnb6x32D6MdX1kMcbsrN_PYgmTk8NzZzMahD_lx3kx99x8zTzskxnT23LERc47znhGk55PRILPrdemdXnb9YhNO-LT3hWu8mTaD2Ln6E_D4O6bk9TvK1FQU6L73r-FTpJWvkWuPAA0shHupBBJ5MctUv7EmnKvq4JdEnuUv59uTHUo4B/s750/Ecr%C3%A3s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="476" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZxOIvagVroqDLnb6x32D6MdX1kMcbsrN_PYgmTk8NzZzMahD_lx3kx99x8zTzskxnT23LERc47znhGk55PRILPrdemdXnb9YhNO-LT3hWu8mTaD2Ln6E_D4O6bk9TvK1FQU6L73r-FTpJWvkWuPAA0shHupBBJ5MctUv7EmnKvq4JdEnuUv59uTHUo4B/w127-h200/Ecr%C3%A3s.jpg" width="127" /></a></div></i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"A vida é um autocarro vazio" @ RTP2</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Entre Imagens" @ RTP2</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Espaços incríveis de George Clarke"</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Eugénio de Andrade, o poeta" @ RTP3</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Herberto Helder - Meu Deus Faz Com Que Eu Seja Sempre Um Poeta Obscuro" @ RTP2</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Histórias da Montanha" @ RTP1</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Macaenses em Lisboa: Ilusão ou Realidade" @ RTP2</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Segredos das Rochas" @ RTP2</i></b></span></li><li><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Ruy Belo, Era Uma Vez" @ RTP2</i></b></span></li></ul></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-66966641687115327632024-01-02T20:40:00.000+00:002024-01-02T20:40:27.732+00:00Arte & Cultura: o que mais gostei em 2023<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_Wf1ZSxtGNBPtrg8MqJN6Pc7UMYX3O34xWyt1m9X5YuXxQPHC14dWz_yOedx344wGHtke6G1iMr6Fi1j1MXzlT3ChbC-j9XKrLVKLo4cexl-7c-bATG_c0dShGbuN-CFds2e_65Xwr0YTUhvBnr3lmabuka-Iw_X5-5tOQNar_MPaHdWLQd1g6DbLgGm/s1600/Chafes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_Wf1ZSxtGNBPtrg8MqJN6Pc7UMYX3O34xWyt1m9X5YuXxQPHC14dWz_yOedx344wGHtke6G1iMr6Fi1j1MXzlT3ChbC-j9XKrLVKLo4cexl-7c-bATG_c0dShGbuN-CFds2e_65Xwr0YTUhvBnr3lmabuka-Iw_X5-5tOQNar_MPaHdWLQd1g6DbLgGm/w200-h125/Chafes.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Avesso dos Afetos" de Sofia Salazar Leite @ Centro Cultural de Cascais</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Da Calma Fez-se O Vento" de Sandra Rocha @ MAAT</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Mater" de Maja Escher, Marta Castelo e Virgínia Fróis @ Pavilhão Branco</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Metamorfoses - Os Rios Transbordam e Desabam ..." de Ilda David @ Sociedade Nacional de Belas Artes</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Morphosis" de Catarina Nunes e Vanessa Barragão @ MU.SA - Museu das Artes de Sintra</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- Mundo Flutuante: estampas japonesas «ukiyo-e» @ Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Mural da Felicidade" de Carolina Caldeira @ Avenidas - Um Teatro Em Cada Bairro</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Objectos Intemporais, Delicadas Intimidades" de João Duarte @ Fábrica das Palavras</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Panorama" de Daniel Blaufuks @ Galeria Vera Cortês</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Rui Chafes e Alberto Giacometti. Gris, Vide, Cris" @ Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Terra Mineral Terra Vegetal" de Duarte Belo @ Biblioteca Nacional de Portugal</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-34686982016132370242024-01-02T18:48:00.000+00:002024-01-02T18:48:23.984+00:00O que mais gostei de ler em 2023<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><u><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_PJKvHS0L5jxgCFHnWfR5ucCGs0YyS5RwF7Do0PiU0d_64qZQkCRJqIByzehf75Y01vKhw7cdGY0W-XoZtBs0KnkcnirrzaE9V-sRpKsWgaMVByX9tZtzOrRUE3H4nn2RD2auPFShyphenhyphen8UlGw5Qr0SxTdw3mYI01hU4N2G-9QQ4WQyhMQPWoZSRM6wYfMw/s400/woman-reading-a-book-paint-by-numbers-319x400-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="319" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_PJKvHS0L5jxgCFHnWfR5ucCGs0YyS5RwF7Do0PiU0d_64qZQkCRJqIByzehf75Y01vKhw7cdGY0W-XoZtBs0KnkcnirrzaE9V-sRpKsWgaMVByX9tZtzOrRUE3H4nn2RD2auPFShyphenhyphen8UlGw5Qr0SxTdw3mYI01hU4N2G-9QQ4WQyhMQPWoZSRM6wYfMw/w159-h200/woman-reading-a-book-paint-by-numbers-319x400-1.jpg" width="159" /></a></div>FICÇÃO:</u></i></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Alguns Preferem Urtigas" de Junichirõ Tanizaki</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Cerromaior" de Manuel da Fonseca</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Mãe" de Pearl S. Buck</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Maina Mendes" de Maria Velho da Costa</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Manhã e Noite" de Jon Fosse</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Mil Sóis Resplandecentes" de Khaled Hosseini</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Misericórdia" de Lídia Jorge</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Sob a Estrela do Outono" de Knut Hamsun</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Um Cão no Meio do Caminho" de Isabela Figueiredo</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Uma Paixão Simples" de Annie Ernaux</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><u>NÃO FICÇÃO:</u></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "A Era do Homem Forte" de Gideon Rachman</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Adopção Tardia" de Maria Sequeira Mendes</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Confrarias de Portugal" de Ana Catarina André e Marisa Cardoso</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Fé, Esperança e Carnificina" de Nick Cave e Sean O´Hagan</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Football Leaks" de Rafael Buschmann e Michael Wulzinger</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Os Engenheiros do Caos" de Giuliano Da Empoli</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><u>POESIA E OUTROS GÉNEROS:</u></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Cadernos do Verão" de Manuel Matos Nunes</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Caixa Inglesa" de Olga Gonçalves</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Campo Aberto" de Sebastião da Gama</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Canina" de Andreia C. Faria</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Ervas" de João Miguel Fernandes Jorge</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Insolúvel Flautim" de Manuel Matos Nunes</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "O Árabe do Futuro 1" de Riad Sattouf</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "O Azul Imperfeito - Livro de Horas V (Pessoa em Llansol)" de Maria Gabriela Llansol</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "O Livro das Coisas Ardidas" de Emanuel Jorge Botelho</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Os Pássaros Brancos e Outros Poemas" de W. B. Yeats</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Os Passos em Volta" de Herberto Helder</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Obra Poética I" de António Ramos Rosa</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Obra Poética II" de António Ramos Rosa</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- "Pequeno Tratado das Figuras" de Manuel Gusmão</i></b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><u>FOTOGRAFIA E ARTES</u></i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>- "Artur Pastor - Portugal país de contrastes"</i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>- "Entre as Águas" de João Mariano</i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>- "Fluvial" de Tito Mouraz</i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-69429805553652939382023-12-19T21:05:00.003+00:002023-12-19T21:05:43.600+00:00"A Nossa Casa" de Sebastião Da Gama<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZS7MN9Jp2nif7hAZkc8eaY84ax7z9L783YA69tZH6uGxjk2BE89RPyKikJP2dP1uOXvM_grfr4GFBVkd-hPpMFeH-MpHlTuLd9rYUBUZ0Za8xr0qlnR8j0vWkvtvVDxEgD7BhbH-mQanUFxqRAb6D8io-G5hXhxZqgflbcr3AK2x-F3ymygjjVjirVBK7/s770/Campo%20Aberto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZS7MN9Jp2nif7hAZkc8eaY84ax7z9L783YA69tZH6uGxjk2BE89RPyKikJP2dP1uOXvM_grfr4GFBVkd-hPpMFeH-MpHlTuLd9rYUBUZ0Za8xr0qlnR8j0vWkvtvVDxEgD7BhbH-mQanUFxqRAb6D8io-G5hXhxZqgflbcr3AK2x-F3ymygjjVjirVBK7/w139-h200/Campo%20Aberto.jpg" width="139" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"A luz acesa</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>(petróleo débil)</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e tu inquieta, feliz, à minha espera.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Cismam livros de versos sobre a mesa.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Sonolentos, os cravos da varanda</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>cabeceiam nos vidros.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Ando lá fora.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>(Lá fora, a ventania,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a noite, o frio dos Astros,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a Poesia decerto ...)</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>A luz débil, insistes no bordado.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Os nossos filhos dormem</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>(levantaste-te agora para vê-los ...).</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Irónica, a Poesia</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>sabe que ando lá fora a procurá-la,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>indiferente ao vento e à noite fria."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Sebastião Da Gama em "Campo Aberto"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Ática, Janeiro de 1999</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Páginas 110 e 111</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-47446037945074585452023-12-19T20:35:00.004+00:002023-12-19T20:35:33.788+00:00"Plenitude" de Sebastião Da Gama<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3etfc4Ph5HYYJ5_HdVmRYOu2c5KLpgu-LvvXWdD_uZSRhVkLabeHRv4dxd_Tq0ecyFhI5TVk_hg5CH337ZOxe0YgIw6AqBNgJtbdVFvXZSP3iE9iAeqJQ5yb-bijgCpahRszc6qwKWAaqjI520OnlPeJjQ9O6WAa9NOHRW-3gBYXGSNOGAifIExFyXDH/s770/Campo%20Aberto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3etfc4Ph5HYYJ5_HdVmRYOu2c5KLpgu-LvvXWdD_uZSRhVkLabeHRv4dxd_Tq0ecyFhI5TVk_hg5CH337ZOxe0YgIw6AqBNgJtbdVFvXZSP3iE9iAeqJQ5yb-bijgCpahRszc6qwKWAaqjI520OnlPeJjQ9O6WAa9NOHRW-3gBYXGSNOGAifIExFyXDH/w139-h200/Campo%20Aberto.jpg" width="139" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Sorri, sorriste. O Mundo era pequeno.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Mas bastava. Cabia nele, intacto,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>o encantamento pleno</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que te detinha ali, junto de mim,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que nos detinha ali, serenos, puros,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>longe da multidão, longe do Tempo</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- rio que passava ao largo e nós ficávamos."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Sebastião Da Gama em "Campo Aberto"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Ática, Janeiro de 1999</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 108</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-27941381869050028582023-12-19T20:19:00.000+00:002023-12-19T20:19:35.898+00:00"O Cais" de Sebastião Da Gama<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw4DiHyaDp4kHJvDRt_xBTrHBFLK1QjNInrPPWZHC8agGRvJGmVtczBzmY1zi1CYSVmbDPhGwwMLXUxFky0RDUuInmMUB2IvYY97_4jwO7V8BpQN0E-PVfCoPvAQ7lNuI2yrKveTP0NksOMx1LRTpb9M7_wzLV3a0s1h7-WXE_fyI1-MjeJo7iA2Oo_P0k/s770/Campo%20Aberto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw4DiHyaDp4kHJvDRt_xBTrHBFLK1QjNInrPPWZHC8agGRvJGmVtczBzmY1zi1CYSVmbDPhGwwMLXUxFky0RDUuInmMUB2IvYY97_4jwO7V8BpQN0E-PVfCoPvAQ7lNuI2yrKveTP0NksOMx1LRTpb9M7_wzLV3a0s1h7-WXE_fyI1-MjeJo7iA2Oo_P0k/w139-h200/Campo%20Aberto.jpg" width="139" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Já o cais não é de pedra,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de tanto sentir o Mar.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Já não é, a pedra, lisa:</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>já ganha forma de velas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>pandas de vento e de orgulho;</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>já deixou de ser branquinha,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>p´ra ser azul como as águas.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Já o cordame, que sonha</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>noite e dia sobre o cais,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>o tem o sonho mudado</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>em algas prenhes de iodo.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Degraus de pedra se animam</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e pelas ondas se atrevem</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- botes sem mestre, perdidos,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>sem outro leme que o gosto</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de ir pelas ondas adentro.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Marujos que o nunca foram,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>assentadinhos no cais</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>desde a hora do nascer,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>quem foi que disse que tinham</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>raízes naquelas pedras?</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- Já lhes despontam nas costas,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>já por ares e mares os levam,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>asas leves de gaivota.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Cada traineira que passa</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>convida o cais a sair.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Já o cais não é de pedra.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>O sal moldou-lhe uma quilha,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>as ondas o encurvaram,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>os limos o arrastaram</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>p´ra lá de todo o limite,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e o cais cedeu ao convite</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de ser um barco sem mestre.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Lá vai perdido nas ondas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e não lhe importa a chegada.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Deitou a bússola ao Mar.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Fez uma estaca do leme,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que atesta o sítio em que foi.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Voltou as costas à terra</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e o seu destino cumpriu-se,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que era partir e mais nada."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Sebastião Da Gama em "Campo Aberto"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Ática, Janeiro de 1999</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Páginas 87 e 88</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-48810822479917206142023-12-19T18:46:00.001+00:002023-12-19T18:46:21.805+00:00"Carruagem de Terceira" de Sebastião da Gama<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1Bhk1eqQm2yiYvGeeYgzh54aREh7WJGM4VHcwd1pba2OdHotGH11icVWY6jB2WmIM_cP4Hm35TPj3r9nncuM2mrG1nLvK303E7OS3YzHRSYQYGvJjVPXbSFBVyTGkL0wkeLKXjdBWNVoImA_zNUIRiwkmsKwxVMK8VeFwna8bwZaqPbCw4Uo7mtDSM-b/s770/Campo%20Aberto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1Bhk1eqQm2yiYvGeeYgzh54aREh7WJGM4VHcwd1pba2OdHotGH11icVWY6jB2WmIM_cP4Hm35TPj3r9nncuM2mrG1nLvK303E7OS3YzHRSYQYGvJjVPXbSFBVyTGkL0wkeLKXjdBWNVoImA_zNUIRiwkmsKwxVMK8VeFwna8bwZaqPbCw4Uo7mtDSM-b/w139-h200/Campo%20Aberto.jpg" width="139" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"O Amor tinha sido</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>havia muito tempo.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>(Seu cabelo era preto</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e branco o seu vestido.)</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>O seu vestido é preto.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>O seu cabelo é branco.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Vai sentada no banco</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>mesmo em frente do meu.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Ao lado, um vulto de homem</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que é a memória viva</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>da força já antiga</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que lhe agitava o seio.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Falam só do presente.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Mas suas mãos cruzadas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>é nas coisas passadas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que poisam, meigamente.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Um halo de inocência</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e de serenidade</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>- não a breve grinalda</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de lírios ou de rosas -</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>lembra o amor sem posse</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de onde lhes vem o ar</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de deuses que se amaram</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>em dias que não morrem."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Sebastião Da Gama em "Campo Aberto"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Ática, Janeiro de 1999</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Páginas 85 e 86</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-25981883094814463922023-12-10T14:32:00.000+00:002023-12-10T14:32:31.046+00:00Apontamentos de um sábado de manhã <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgigW5VVBn8gd6mbfNw1TlF8OLeqO1XlwQ68GuYpEWHneDiGAIYXgf9wfjE0ssFk-Yk7qLdahnOai7EWO8RHqnRY7aeTEPAb08PY3Zh3oJ3fCa-o44ROMMRv1LC0FwrSLQlpidToToeXqfhE_mfeWT0ZAl9jw6iEEFk_GDvo4INlkg0NfEhyKIE9iBXFk_/s1560/Mercados%2001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="1560" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgigW5VVBn8gd6mbfNw1TlF8OLeqO1XlwQ68GuYpEWHneDiGAIYXgf9wfjE0ssFk-Yk7qLdahnOai7EWO8RHqnRY7aeTEPAb08PY3Zh3oJ3fCa-o44ROMMRv1LC0FwrSLQlpidToToeXqfhE_mfeWT0ZAl9jw6iEEFk_GDvo4INlkg0NfEhyKIE9iBXFk_/w320-h240/Mercados%2001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSChNw5osyDYiyAuA9Sbc4L5WZeOqgI_IcN5QIfi83AYURo5HBFDuMzolwvm5wIM4a0dgNA6payGqeP9esH04ar_ZTYbZk5Uvdbf9eR-azjhGi7sc5c6mRIAuTJLoTjJ2rW_4qZGhY8NWVP22uo11hb-B-vmSCXhTxayOEKpNfJmAtL3PZdqKMcmotnqCb/s1864/Mercados%2002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1810" data-original-width="1864" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSChNw5osyDYiyAuA9Sbc4L5WZeOqgI_IcN5QIfi83AYURo5HBFDuMzolwvm5wIM4a0dgNA6payGqeP9esH04ar_ZTYbZk5Uvdbf9eR-azjhGi7sc5c6mRIAuTJLoTjJ2rW_4qZGhY8NWVP22uo11hb-B-vmSCXhTxayOEKpNfJmAtL3PZdqKMcmotnqCb/s320/Mercados%2002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4y6pyworzcNUbzL3rbflgqHz3QlqT0YV-svOHpNkIDcjg9RjpfzeByl4dUjQHj4GoMNdOBDl6mHQ8kTouVElAzs8mePl8liPiM5-mAamovOjUvchGpBhSTrGw7zqMgAXmgLptRv7IRBLY5W4jObQtEcCSl2IKqH5TozOfeagQPY4gQyYIbXfwAFuEbmn/s1560/Mercados%2003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4y6pyworzcNUbzL3rbflgqHz3QlqT0YV-svOHpNkIDcjg9RjpfzeByl4dUjQHj4GoMNdOBDl6mHQ8kTouVElAzs8mePl8liPiM5-mAamovOjUvchGpBhSTrGw7zqMgAXmgLptRv7IRBLY5W4jObQtEcCSl2IKqH5TozOfeagQPY4gQyYIbXfwAFuEbmn/w300-h400/Mercados%2003.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasbzYdRPnuDfIVc8pyku2iiJu9KkNxpjCX5yavf954XJlkmuK-92mLWSMglAVhCJIJpFih1zwGOzv6vhGmPSSLZM5EQDYmrNO1N9C8NNWXm6RVIS-TiuXQVkR-P06IDRXFSKJs8EJskDleW32kZRvd0jccGCk64J4VIIInaRZ_eUv2ACpufbKFjEIDoLN/s1560/Mercados%2004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasbzYdRPnuDfIVc8pyku2iiJu9KkNxpjCX5yavf954XJlkmuK-92mLWSMglAVhCJIJpFih1zwGOzv6vhGmPSSLZM5EQDYmrNO1N9C8NNWXm6RVIS-TiuXQVkR-P06IDRXFSKJs8EJskDleW32kZRvd0jccGCk64J4VIIInaRZ_eUv2ACpufbKFjEIDoLN/w300-h400/Mercados%2004.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-2571302075934914962023-12-06T18:07:00.002+00:002023-12-06T18:08:35.039+00:00Fotografando Palavras (X)<div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: helvetica; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhJRLNoNKlwhUx3aHIWBGhyAl-8St_5ksvxzkXAVLCgfKqQI84VTSWMm0R54kvEy8Boks1Q_TxSFTg5shyphenhyphenFQOkEyctSH_x4nEZiWI907HpQGX0LsTnkVNW6hR7k3o86a13SDm-j74gL4DGDkivBzU8ylYDf26XCxvKZSRT8pX1SbuSj1VPTuv2CdpKvKTw/s1024/Fotografar%20Palavras.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhJRLNoNKlwhUx3aHIWBGhyAl-8St_5ksvxzkXAVLCgfKqQI84VTSWMm0R54kvEy8Boks1Q_TxSFTg5shyphenhyphenFQOkEyctSH_x4nEZiWI907HpQGX0LsTnkVNW6hR7k3o86a13SDm-j74gL4DGDkivBzU8ylYDf26XCxvKZSRT8pX1SbuSj1VPTuv2CdpKvKTw/w300-h400/Fotografar%20Palavras.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mansardas</span></span></i></b></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Quartos de mansarda têm tectos baixos</span></i></b></div><i><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Inclinados como o meu pensamento</span></i></b></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>E neles ouvem-se bem as tempestades</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Ficam no último andar de hotéis antigos</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>E graníticos sem varandas para o mar</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Quartos de mansarda têm cadeirões</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Abandonados e vazios com a forma do teu corpo</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Junto a janelas exíguas com cortinas curtas</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Quartos de mansarda têm camas por desfazer</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Amantes ausentes e noites longas</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Ficam mais perto do céu</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Com virgens assexuadas</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>E analfabetos do amor como hóspedes</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Dos quartos de mansarda avistam-se</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-weight: bold;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Anjos caídos nos telhados das cidades</i></b></div></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i>Porque perderam as asas.</i></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-style: normal; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Texto: Ana Paula Jardim</b></span></i></span></div><div style="color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-style: normal; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Fotografia: Paula Abreu Silva</b></span></i></span></div><div style="color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-style: normal; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><br /></b></span></i></span></div><div style="color: #666666; font-family: Philosopher; font-style: normal; text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>Do projecto de Paulo Kellerman, fotografar palavras, <a href="http://fotografarpalavras.blogspot.com/2023/11/4501.html" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">aqui </a></i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><i>😊</i></span></b></span></div></div></span></i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-29211464938193289732023-11-01T14:48:00.001+00:002023-11-01T14:48:14.819+00:00"Ilha" de Emanuel Jorge Botelho<div style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>para o Manuel de Freitas</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"guardamos, no linho, o doer do tempo.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pvTcpsQm4DoBQSP9n5lCMOMmMpPmbj2kmp8KfGpOjAEqCfASutFnXho56n42pluV4GxS8QWX-7vwKeyQPoXsqkn3RoWUiG_oobMbCNtviWNNKG8E2h3b_CpDiwfeV_5r5KcQVdGVVZTC_G5-Fc8fYk-51nLmdyYUnltRXVH8wzo362B4B7LvH2a6dfZz/s415/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pvTcpsQm4DoBQSP9n5lCMOMmMpPmbj2kmp8KfGpOjAEqCfASutFnXho56n42pluV4GxS8QWX-7vwKeyQPoXsqkn3RoWUiG_oobMbCNtviWNNKG8E2h3b_CpDiwfeV_5r5KcQVdGVVZTC_G5-Fc8fYk-51nLmdyYUnltRXVH8wzo362B4B7LvH2a6dfZz/w144-h200/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" width="144" /></a></div></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>o mar é a nossa cicatriz."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Emanuel Jorge Botelho em "O Livro Das Coisas Ardidas"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Averno, Julho de 2023</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 48</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-41219518553310766162023-11-01T14:36:00.004+00:002023-11-01T14:39:15.097+00:00"Onze Linhas Do Meu Endereço" de Emanuel Jorge Botelho<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i> para o Giuseppe</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAzaAIYMulMOlrsxX6XK3Mk4lRrade-SpO_Q4V_Kd76hrapNA9OHORmcaLI-zRXK5lPEyY09-E13sIQfMl1iRFdmGeQitDxcf-73SaTw3uua4vVNos4XquNewHCmpD078aaP-Wmhgn89UJ4uxQpbOV39xPHxTr8VQyFvcX2AzraFRkHPPhGl_54r_Yms7/s415/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAzaAIYMulMOlrsxX6XK3Mk4lRrade-SpO_Q4V_Kd76hrapNA9OHORmcaLI-zRXK5lPEyY09-E13sIQfMl1iRFdmGeQitDxcf-73SaTw3uua4vVNos4XquNewHCmpD078aaP-Wmhgn89UJ4uxQpbOV39xPHxTr8VQyFvcX2AzraFRkHPPhGl_54r_Yms7/w144-h200/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>"pelo mar eu sempre soube</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>coisas de segredo,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>como se por ele me chegasse </i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a lisura do grito,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>ou o riso de deus.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>aprendi, com o meu pai,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que as ondas vêm do céu,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que são linhas que o céu desenha.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>deve ser por isso,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que o mar sabe tanto do silêncio,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>sabe quase tudo.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Emanuel Jorge Botelho em "O Livro Das Coisas Ardidas"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Averno, Julho de 2023</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 47</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-47270027302040246522023-11-01T14:04:00.004+00:002023-11-01T14:04:23.036+00:00"Acto de Contrição, ou quase" de Emanuel Jorge Botelho<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2UgkSeC4-P2qVb18ZEuVVMtgBiklNQwCYWQQ7YJrgLZvqMTNpZSNOcGAChVIuL3jxihZuE2haMOzRATeesCdx6i0Vh9x_LzHawamEmJgFnBnKn3rbcrcIlYzH1vjbfjO6EBkxlcU4jo78CfZO64WhcSkYq9duZJAdISbGxC9G3esJdtSiRexseb9mQZMY/s415/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2UgkSeC4-P2qVb18ZEuVVMtgBiklNQwCYWQQ7YJrgLZvqMTNpZSNOcGAChVIuL3jxihZuE2haMOzRATeesCdx6i0Vh9x_LzHawamEmJgFnBnKn3rbcrcIlYzH1vjbfjO6EBkxlcU4jo78CfZO64WhcSkYq9duZJAdISbGxC9G3esJdtSiRexseb9mQZMY/w144-h200/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>"o que me atormenta tem a ver</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>com a saudade e a memória,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>tudo coisas a que a alma dá guarida,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>sem que o tempo fale disso com o lume.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>eu só queria ter o silêncio alinhado com o medo,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e um pouco de água brava para dar a cada hora.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>talvez, assim, o meu morrer fosse mais limpo,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>sem a sombra, calada, do perdão."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Emanuel Jorge Botelho em "O Livro Das Coisas Ardidas"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Averno, Julho de 2023</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 37</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-81676570217820733162023-11-01T13:53:00.003+00:002023-11-01T13:53:47.659+00:00"Versos Do Desconsolo VI" de Emanuel Jorge Botelho<div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i> <span style="font-size: x-small;">para Paul Celan</span></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhprEkM5ZIhtQjmQSuKRpq83O0s51Kx-uRw9Bk1eryX-sDSwyfkcr31nRfZ71Q6F1GlKpdRT-1u1TSISQ4yPKYUhwkJijWSGYwz_ojk-Qu9sDJBzqkPm2cCx5s_h4uG0rCktCbWWcyjYvH1948BwP1FJImTqbLost0E6gzzCY2fBacpuUnn4o4wpuSytddT/s415/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhprEkM5ZIhtQjmQSuKRpq83O0s51Kx-uRw9Bk1eryX-sDSwyfkcr31nRfZ71Q6F1GlKpdRT-1u1TSISQ4yPKYUhwkJijWSGYwz_ojk-Qu9sDJBzqkPm2cCx5s_h4uG0rCktCbWWcyjYvH1948BwP1FJImTqbLost0E6gzzCY2fBacpuUnn4o4wpuSytddT/w144-h200/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>"ter do tempo a rosa mais perfeita,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e vê-la cair, exausta,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>rente aos dedos que há no medo.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>desenhar disso o sudário mais inteiro,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e a sua sombra."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Emanuel Jorge Botelho em "O Livro Das Coisas Ardidas"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Averno, Julho de 2023</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 23</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-74998403450403498342023-11-01T13:43:00.000+00:002023-11-01T13:43:47.059+00:00"Balanço" de Emanuel Jorge Botelho<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxomQVERZP9bKpaKqlM30HJgAruBobedB9mRDGUSCHRHJ4iS-s5PaHY7e_cotBlkgeQEZiTTkABxg5spWdCyzAvOIY9wVkG6Fnz6c1MH-sIpqqA1LDLZUwcbUj2KBb6v5J62yuxFkdgv7cEveanHOap1uXodfXYHAvWNaIf1r3CqZB1Zd2svhtDVnaYPKg/s415/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxomQVERZP9bKpaKqlM30HJgAruBobedB9mRDGUSCHRHJ4iS-s5PaHY7e_cotBlkgeQEZiTTkABxg5spWdCyzAvOIY9wVkG6Fnz6c1MH-sIpqqA1LDLZUwcbUj2KBb6v5J62yuxFkdgv7cEveanHOap1uXodfXYHAvWNaIf1r3CqZB1Zd2svhtDVnaYPKg/w144-h200/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" width="144" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"que fiz eu de mim em mais de setenta anos?</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que dardo arremessei para a terra das certezas?</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>o silêncio começa a escapar-me,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e já é muito pouco o meu saber de tempestades.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>resta-me, talvez, um pedaço de saudade,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e uma palavra, lavada, que ainda saiba a amoras.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>no fundo, andei para aqui a podar a sorte,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>na ânsia de querer tê-la, quase inteira,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>dentro do lume que há no medo.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>já só me resta uma estrela</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>para guardar dentro do bolso,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e um punho, vago de uso,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>para dar às aves do céu."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Emanuel Jorge Botelho em "O Livro das Coisas Ardidas"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Averno, Julho de 2023</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 17</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-83986755500624138112023-11-01T13:36:00.000+00:002023-11-01T13:36:12.657+00:00"Botânica" de Emanuel Jorge Botelho<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqQt6qxPagY8Qs-E5DAjV-3mBKOhxde3xewIaqYuL0knUfqE7Qao2DUjBwRwcF_ZfkiTvZUu89FGztgQb0zirXvEatXgfUIQ27tB6UpaIihPyapET4zaV_9T8ESUxB0h6QWVuxUDNlrs9oeJHEDbi51QLjlZVzRqjrC7lsr7gY9WOUvgW7TIlvZPMu3RhN/s415/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="300" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqQt6qxPagY8Qs-E5DAjV-3mBKOhxde3xewIaqYuL0knUfqE7Qao2DUjBwRwcF_ZfkiTvZUu89FGztgQb0zirXvEatXgfUIQ27tB6UpaIihPyapET4zaV_9T8ESUxB0h6QWVuxUDNlrs9oeJHEDbi51QLjlZVzRqjrC7lsr7gY9WOUvgW7TIlvZPMu3RhN/w144-h200/O%20Livro%20das%20Coisas%20Ardidas.jpg" width="144" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"o silêncio que há dentro de um trevo,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>essa rasura sobre os nomes do medo.</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e a alma ateada,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>a esse quase nada."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Emanuel Jorge Botelho em "O Livro das Coisas Ardidas"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Averno, Julho de 2023</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 09</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-90240674709494241982023-10-21T19:01:00.008+01:002023-10-23T19:06:09.940+01:00Na sétima hora do dia 😊<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0QxRMusWJPfUugCuVMoCVgnxokJ12F5Ey712ygG4oO2Ik-2swe89ikOZ2H2eDL4BHP1vP56DsXUdmgmEycOUyiwvT2gSynUh2aK9V7Caoc1WMn51ye-kwW1oL8hCXvvEksxqMvvmcChCrCtQ3AgUoG8DItmg2HOnzgDNMTDh1FI7d0Hfq722ukHNFrJB/s1560/S%C3%A9tima%20Hora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0QxRMusWJPfUugCuVMoCVgnxokJ12F5Ey712ygG4oO2Ik-2swe89ikOZ2H2eDL4BHP1vP56DsXUdmgmEycOUyiwvT2gSynUh2aK9V7Caoc1WMn51ye-kwW1oL8hCXvvEksxqMvvmcChCrCtQ3AgUoG8DItmg2HOnzgDNMTDh1FI7d0Hfq722ukHNFrJB/w300-h400/S%C3%A9tima%20Hora.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a 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href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6v696AIxjLyCfmyljM58hQn5NfMiw5L23y1Emg47ENJQDdgAqitJrAwpmLMh2G7PAyKE0AmGFnHIUofXnpftklUBaWu0NzeZNEsoBTrXo6aG0jXMBzKox7U3ahwf080LFXwwxEaGo-8mizRW3VAdgoIsfnUESKttZ77JE9fWS-glKPJleLU1XH8oAygh/s1560/S%C3%A9tima%20Hora%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH6v696AIxjLyCfmyljM58hQn5NfMiw5L23y1Emg47ENJQDdgAqitJrAwpmLMh2G7PAyKE0AmGFnHIUofXnpftklUBaWu0NzeZNEsoBTrXo6aG0jXMBzKox7U3ahwf080LFXwwxEaGo-8mizRW3VAdgoIsfnUESKttZ77JE9fWS-glKPJleLU1XH8oAygh/w300-h400/S%C3%A9tima%20Hora%203.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIEBDZsxf3dIDkVs0XuOggWd4vd1D4vaqArDccLt0a8gTn-Sk8Ik3RhIx49fWRCXqT1AsOXzR_iwOW6DL_9uLjrY-0d9a5NuQQ7YAgVdDdHzJ0Vng1tzOLSGbNBoKZqGfaNNHRtUJ1X4YqTTQYiqV5Wqa1SyPwoQrY9ofBsSoCL04LlzUO474opu33Ve6y/s1560/S%C3%A9tima%20Hora%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIEBDZsxf3dIDkVs0XuOggWd4vd1D4vaqArDccLt0a8gTn-Sk8Ik3RhIx49fWRCXqT1AsOXzR_iwOW6DL_9uLjrY-0d9a5NuQQ7YAgVdDdHzJ0Vng1tzOLSGbNBoKZqGfaNNHRtUJ1X4YqTTQYiqV5Wqa1SyPwoQrY9ofBsSoCL04LlzUO474opu33Ve6y/w300-h400/S%C3%A9tima%20Hora%204.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-11208256174028426292023-10-15T13:13:00.005+01:002023-10-15T13:13:58.065+01:00"Diário de Bordo" de Sebastião da Gama<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9FZBCo1X92b2s8sZ5HBfvmLzh9fkOELvDTN1UoS7Oo0TKSJXr5OV3K2X7X3z1H2y3zxf-EAi4QnYCmMkMGu3jlzbhp-FskaM12bP_yahyphenhyphensTQkPx3_yI7eTESqasZtNYl-i9LX3i1NzfjE6jveZJ2GhdDaECZJjT7N6jZ7RbC2kuP_i5C4838qYkMI7mo/s886/Serra%20M%C3%A3e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9FZBCo1X92b2s8sZ5HBfvmLzh9fkOELvDTN1UoS7Oo0TKSJXr5OV3K2X7X3z1H2y3zxf-EAi4QnYCmMkMGu3jlzbhp-FskaM12bP_yahyphenhyphensTQkPx3_yI7eTESqasZtNYl-i9LX3i1NzfjE6jveZJ2GhdDaECZJjT7N6jZ7RbC2kuP_i5C4838qYkMI7mo/w144-h200/Serra%20M%C3%A3e.jpg" width="144" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"Cá estou eu a julgar que vou remando ...</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Cá vai Deus a remar</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e eu a ser um remo com que Deus</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>rasga caminhos pelo Mar ..."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Sebastião da Gama em "Serra-Mãe"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Edições Ática, Abril de 1996</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 103</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3653255130577683958.post-55638472181228571582023-10-15T12:37:00.003+01:002023-10-15T12:37:31.699+01:00"Apontamento" de Sebastião da Gama<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-jHwOn2xZG-oSPOCrPISpgzcCmeQ65FNSJ8WIlA4BkossfzP30ZJ-R0PpKr_j27cpiTJcL-MPxquxWEqF7cg2YV09LnDZiwQG-krePgUPTuxWcVcK4wjaD4H6oU8tFlUzmp8dkxn7MfkSz9fKR4I_LLTSSXRexdZdLgxWpQN2CeiWyRCfhAYFuAfVtXK/s886/Serra%20M%C3%A3e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-jHwOn2xZG-oSPOCrPISpgzcCmeQ65FNSJ8WIlA4BkossfzP30ZJ-R0PpKr_j27cpiTJcL-MPxquxWEqF7cg2YV09LnDZiwQG-krePgUPTuxWcVcK4wjaD4H6oU8tFlUzmp8dkxn7MfkSz9fKR4I_LLTSSXRexdZdLgxWpQN2CeiWyRCfhAYFuAfVtXK/w144-h200/Serra%20M%C3%A3e.jpg" width="144" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>"É tão bom</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>sentir a ventania lá por fora</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>e a calma cá por dentro! ...</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Ou o contrário disto:</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>vento e raiva cá por dentro, e, lá por fora, uma calma</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>que mais parece um gesto ou um olhar</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de Cristo ...</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>Ou, então,</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>chegar a esta confusão</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>de não saber se o vento é lá por fora</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i>se é cá por dentro ..."</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Sebastião da Gama em "Serra-Mãe"</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Edições Ática, Abril de 1996</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: x-small;"><b><i>Página 64</i></b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0