terça-feira, 21 de setembro de 2010

Peach, plum, bear


A descoberta dos últimos tempos!
Joanna Newsom


We speak in the store
I'm a sensitive bore
You seem markedly more
And I'm oozing suprise

But it's late in the day
And you're well on your way
What was golden went gray
And I'm suddenly shy

And the gathering floozies
Afford to be choosy
And all sneezing darkly
In the dimming divide

And I have read the right book
To interpret your look
You were knocking me down
With the palm of your eye

This was unlike the story
It was written to be
I was riding its back
When it used to ride me

quarta-feira, 15 de setembro de 2010

The road to Home


(Foto: António Cruz)

"All the leaves are falling from the trees
And the snow is coming, don’t you know?
But I’ll still remember which way to go
I’m on the road, the road to home

Oh the sound is fading in my ears
And I can’t believe I’ve lasted all these years
But I’ll still remember which way to go
I’m on the road, the road to home

Oh the light is fading all the time
And this life I’m in it seems to pass me by
But I’ll still remember which way to go
I’m on the road, the road to home

Now I must say good bye
Keep telling myself “now don’t you cry”
But I’m here where I belong."

terça-feira, 14 de setembro de 2010

At last the secret is out


At last the secret is out as it always must come in the end. The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend. Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire. Still water run deep, my dear. There's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links. Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks. Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migrane and the sigh... there is always another story. There is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high above the convent hall. the scent of the elder bushes. The sporting prints in the hall. The croquet matches in summer. The handshake. The cough. The kiss.

There is always a wicked secret...a private reason for this.

(At last the secret is out: Wystan Hugh Auden, 1907 - 1973)