published by talesforlove às 09:47
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tags: 2015, anthology, armenia, arménia, california, cover, england, eua, fiction, image, india, lisboa, lisbon, nature, poems, poetry, portugal, romenia, short stories, uk, united kingdom, usa
Como homenagear um cineasta importante
O Sr. Manoel de Oliveira é o cineasta, em atividade, com mais idade! Com a idade de 106 anos continua a produzir um filme por ano! Um dos seus melhores filmes é “Vale Abraão”, ao mesmo tempo belo e melancólico mas, seria possível indicar muitos outros filmes interessantes. Ele é também um exemplo do que é pensar positivo, um verdadeiro exemplo para todos nós. É com o objetivo de homenagear este exemplo de trabalho e qualidade no trabalho que o convidamos a escrever pelo menos um poema, sobre ele e os seus filmes, na sua própria língua, e que nos envie para podermos seleccionar os 106 poemas mais interessantes. Vamos compilar os poemas selecionados numa Antologia Poética, que tenha 106 poemas selecionados, tantos quantos os anos de vida do Sr. Manoel de Oliveira, este ano!
Por favor, visite as páginas seguintes para saber mais sobre o Sr. Manoel de Oliveira e o seu trabalho:
O livro a produzir surgirá no format de e-book disponível em windows (computador) e windows phone (smartphone)!
Não demore! A submissão de poesia inicia-se a 1 de Janeiro de 2015 e termina a 28 de Fevereiro!
Esperamos divulgar os resultados a 5 de Março em:
Por favor, envie um ou dois poemas, com o assunto “Poema a Manoel de Oliveira”, para:
Nome; País; Contacto de e-mail;
Os nossos parceiros nacionais hoje:
a) Jornal Bom Dia (no Luxemburgo)
b) Blog Destante (Portugal)
c) Revista Amizdat
d) Encruzilhadas Literárias
e) Magazine EUA Contacto New Jersey (nos EUA)
Os nossos parceiros em Português hoje:
a) Blog Concursos Literários (Brasil)
b) Galinha Pulando (Brasil)
Esperamos publicar o livro até 10 de Março!
Feliz 2015! Tudo de bom!
A equipa do concurso!
How to honor a great movie director
Manoel de Oliveira is the oldest movie director still working! He is 106 years old and continues to produce one movie per year! One of his best movies was “Abraham's Valley”, moody and beautiful, but we could mention many others. He is also an example of positive thinking and an example to all of us. It is to honor this example of work and quality at work that we invite you to write a small poem, about him or his movies, in your own language, and send it to us.
Please visit the following websites to know more about Manoel de Oliveira and his work:
We will select 106 poems and produce an e-book of poetry that will be available for windows (laptop) and windows phone (smartphone)!
Please hurry up! The submission of poetry for this contest starts 1st January 2015 and ends 28th February 2015!
Results will be available 5 March at:
Please send one or two poems, with message’s subject “Poem to Manoel de Oliveira”, to:
Name; Country; e-mail contact;
We expect to publish the book until 10 March!
Our international partners today:
Enjoy 2015! All best!
The team of the contest!
Boa tarde caros amigos, informo que o livro que deu origem a este blog ainda se encontra à venda, em papel, no Museu do Fado, em Lisboa, e ainda nas Bibliotecas de Arganil e Coja. O livro chama-se: "Tales for The Ones in Love".
Além de um conjunto de contos, o livro contém também dois poemas originais.
Agora que o Natal e o Final do Ano se aproximam aproveito para vos agradeçer por continuarem a ler e bisbilhotar este blog :). Muito obrigado e até breve.
Tudo isto, ali eu vi, por sobre as páginas fechadas, letras lêvedas de vida e olhos desejosos de a merecer viver. Eu explico: é como querer sentir um filme de cinema sem o ver, é a cadência livre, emocionalmente racional, de uma visita que, embora agradável, nos faz sentir cativos e presos, desagradavelmente receosos de perder aquele pedaço de utopia...
Afinal, que sentido tem a lógica, quando sucumbimos ao encanto de um sentir de verão, entre cheiros poéticos de tipografias modernas? Mas, ao final do dia, depois da Hora H, a música de Franz Liest trazia-me de volta, a medo, para o mundo encantado das coisas "reais"...
[fim, por agora]
Utopia, na feira do livro, foi o cheiro fétido a sonhos impossíveis mas, também, as flores sozinhas, abandonadas no chão, no seu azul arroxeado, bêbado do cheiro a pólen, capazes de se prostrarem à minha beira, na sua inocência indecente...
Sonhos loucos de Verão, aprisionados num recipiente de papel, como batatas fritas com molhos, ali devoradas por mim, para no fim sobrar apenas uma recordação, um céu quente, com uma cor sem nome... sem palavras que a descreva. Um símbolo daquele caminho que as palavras não nos permitem seguir. Tão só um sonho, desprezado por muitos mas, não por mim, durante aquela visita apaixonada.
I would like to inform you that the "Lisbon's Book Marketplace 84th Edition 2014" takes place from 29 May to 15 June.
I went there on the 29th May and it was a very interesting experience. I found out that there is a lot of new food there :)
not just books :) So, if you don't want to get fat, you shouldn't feel hungry when you visit this marketplace!
But... the books?! I expect to tell you here all my adventures soon :)
Essa água em que viajaste
é a mesma que hoje nos banha.
Esses monstros marinhos que enganaste,
semelhantes à baleia que nos acompanha.
Eu sinto a tua tristeza viajante.
Mas, sou apenas um lobo aquém,
com grande pena minha e vigilante,
são estranhas as tuas terras floridas além.
Aquém fica a prece de quem
um amor já não tem:
As tuas lágrimas quentes
têm o sal das almas crentes!
Morrer de amor, já não é,
para ninguém, o destino.
Mas, morrer esquecido
é talvez o fim mais temido...
Nota: Gonçalves Dias, poeta Brasileiro do século XIX, filho de pai Português,
morreu numa viagem de regresso de Lisboa para o Brasil, quando o seu
navio naufragou e o esqueçeram de resgatar... foi a única vitima desse
naufrágio. Existe muito mais a saber sobre este autor, vale a pena procurar
Certainly one of the most interesting places in Lisbon!
Certamente um dos locais mais interessantes de Lisboa!
Fado is everywhere!
O Fado está em todo o lado!
The dazzling light of the headlights didn't let us look in any other direction than that of the beach.
— Look! The boy is over there… if you follow the direction of the restaurant.
And I saw him, but what really took him there?! What was his story, what was impelling him to walking about, apparently without anybody noticing his absence?! This was the question that refrained my breath, almost to the point at which I was totally incapable to restore it. Something made me feel fear. I was having cold shivers of consciousness. I felt my legs freeze. And when I saw him, so far way, almost staring at us, I shook. Was it a trick of my imagination?
— What's going on with you?
You felt me shaking and become alert.
— No, it's nothing, I think you are right, lately I have been too vulnerable to influences.
Much sooner than we expected, we saw my parents car arriving. They were entering in the parking space and immediately whistled to us.
As soon as we entered the car my mother started that talk.
— How could you be so careless to let the car be stolen, and the mobile phone, important documents and even your driving licence?!
All my explanations where scarce and because of that, my mother stared at you through the rear-view mirror, as if blaming you for everything. I held your hand stronger. But that was not sufficient to divert that glance that was so unfair to you. I liked both, but each one in a different way.
We left you at your front door. And I told you:
— See you tomorrow.
With a strong voice, and who knows, a provocative tone. You stared at me as if you were to say goodbye forever, and answered:
— Yes, certainly.
Nevertheless, as soon as we continued our journey, the subject of our conversation changed.
— I don't want you with that girl. She just wants your money!
— That's not true! She likes me for what I AM!
My reaction to the demand of my mother wasn't calm and just left a sepulchral silence everywhere. A submissive restlessness, submerse in mutual misunderstanding. And nevertheless, the only thing that calmed me down was the little things that we had brought from the beach with us: the sand that dripped from my legs and feet and that pure and transparent feeling that just like water, even goes around the hardest rocks…
My father never showed more than restlessness serene and just told me to calm down and listen carefully to what I was being told. But, I lay down thinking about you. And how that beach was special… It brings us starfish from the sea with the high tide. You were their hunter.
After that night, the feeling that took over me was of incomplete joy, because of my mother’s doubts and the problems with the car. The next day, we only spoke on the phone. Nevertheless, everything started to get better when you told me that you had found a job at a hairdresser shop near your home. When I proudly told that to my mother, she looked at me astonished and sceptical.
Evidently, that could not solve our problem, but at least it showed your perseverance. You wouldn't be like the girls that supported violence in marriage, because the husband had money or even a car… This last one couldn't be our situation, because if we hadn't had the lift off our parents, we would have gone home on foot. And not even because that, or for fear of unknown paths, we would have followed separate ways.
With time our confidence became stronger, and that was evident when my mother went to the salon where you were working. The only thing that shadowed our life was the car… or better saying, its absence.
In time we received a phone call from the police... the car had been involved in a failed assault and was abandoned in the middle of nowhere somewhere in the city, almost intact with the documents inside the glove compartment.
That was the word that came out of my mouth when I received the news. It was too good and above all… the tank was full of petrol. I wasn't expecting anything: that was like a winning lottery ticket.
That afternoon I went to the nearest police station and got back the car. I examined it carefully, as if unlimited suspicion was a quality. Inside the luggage compartment I found out a leaflet from the High Waters restaurant that we had put there. Beneath one of the seats I found an unopened juice pack and finally your sun glasses, broken on the back seats.
In short, the car made me miss our beach, and it was even more than that, it was a true call that was pulling me out of the city. But… you had to go with me, without you the landscape wouldn't be the same. Everything would feel incomplete, just like a starfish with only four legs and the ocean without waves...
I returned home, driving the car that would take us back again to that beach.
You were different, I felt that whenever I looked in your eyes, and when you waited for me, no matter what had happened that had made me late, I didn’t have to apologise. I also felt that when I looked at you that day and invited you to go to that beach again, you would have eyes humid with joy and wouldn't even choose any direction that wasn't the one that took you back to mine.
Two months had passed since we had been there and far in the past were the times when my mother clearly fought against our relationship. At the end of the day, at sun set, we went for a walk near the water and then, while you were going to the car to pick up the money I stood at the esplanade waiting for you. I sat almost in the corner of the restaurant… only a table was separating me from the corner, unoccupied when I was seated. Soon after a young woman with her hair down sat on that table, and with her face down over her crossed arms started to cry… and with a desperate look on her face glanced at the sea… that movement was enough to see tears in her eyes. The hair, falling down over her white and salmon dress, drew me to her… I couldn't see such sadness. I could not even drink what was in front of me.
When I took a seat near her she felt my presence and stared at me. I also looked to her, but couldn't recognise what I saw, her eyes or the fortress illuminated in the night at the end of the beach. Those eyes, without doubt seemed surreal, transparent and obviously familiar. She wept, looking at me and I stood there without saying one word.
In the meanwhile you arrived... she looked at you, and even before you got closer to me, she vanished. You sat in her place. It was then that I recognised the resemblance... I had to be sick. That wasn't normal. As if this wasn’t enough, the boy from the beach came to us, everything seemed surreal. He came, you saw him too, but not the employee, and when I looked at him again he had already jumped the grating of that porch to the sand straight to the sea.
The employee explained the legend to us in impressive detail: the couple with two sons that died on the beach when were going to pick up starfish, and also the story of the youngest son, a boy that died in the sea when he discovered the truth about what happened to the parents…
— And their descendants are they alive and if so, where?
— I don't know… this is a copy of a portrait from the time, made by a street artist…
He looked at me astonished and I realised why: the resemblance. It was then that I decided to go after the boy, and I started running, following the moonlight reflection on the waves… but, it was too late, the boy had already dove into the darkness of the sea...