© Pentti Sammallahti

Arizona Amp and Alternator > Man on a String

© Nick Brandt

Fausto > Quando às vezes ponho diante dos olhos

...Where the Sea Lands © Mario Abbatepaolo

Fausto > Como um sonho acordado

© camponesa pragmática

Laura Veirs > Magnetized

Seen and Not Seen © Ken Rosenthal

Alice in Chains > Would

Room within room © hyeyoung kim

Howe Gelb > World Stand Still

The Inhabitants © Fredrik Marsh

R.E.M. > Losing my religion

Rite of Passage > © Tom Chambers

Carlos Paredes > Dança dos Camponeses

Till the Cows Come Home: County Fair Portraits © Dan Nelken

Louis Jordan > Ain't Nobody Here but Us Chickens

Night Light © Tom Chambers

The Ditty Bops > Angel with an attitude

The Impossible Tasks © Cig Harvey

Anywhen > All that numbs you

Fall of Eurydice & Ophelia 1, 2 © Peggy Washburn



















Patience & Prudence > Tonight You Belong To Me

Future Bible Heroes > She-Devils of the Deep

Iowa Spring © Missy Gaido Allen

Art Star - Cato Salsa Experience

Tennessee Williams © Christopher R. Harris

Galeria - aqui.
Statement - aqui.

De quem sofre ninguém faz caso

Mas fazer pouco já sabem.



Quando me contaram da loja BomPovo pareceu-me muito mal.



As pessoas também têm sentimentos.

Última hora

A Zazie tinha o "Mornings on Bourbon Street" e salvou-me gentilmente a vida ao postá-lo no Cocanha.

Obrigada, Zazie!

E agora, o poema.

«Mornings on Bourbon Street


He knew he would say it. But could he believe it again?

He thought of the innocent mornings on Bourbon Street,
of the sunny courtyard and the iron
lion’s head on the door.

He thought of the quality light could not be expected
to have again after rain,

the pigeons and drunkards coming together from under
the same stone arches, to move again in the sun’s
faint mumble of benediction with faint surprise.

He thought of the tall iron horseman before the Cabildo,
tipping his hat so gallantly towards old wharves,
the mist of the river beginning to climb about him.

He thought of the rotten-sweet odor of Old Quarter had,
so much like a warning of what he would have to learn.

He thought of belief and the gradual loss of belief
and the piercing together of something like it again.

But, oh, how his blood had almost turned in color
when once, in response to a sudden call from a window,
he stopped on a curbstone and first thought,

Love, Love, Love.

He knew he would say it. But could he believe it again?

He thought of Irene whose body was offered at night
behind the cathedral, whose outspoken pictures were hung
outdoors, in the public square,
as brutal as knuckles smashed into grinning faces.

He thought of merchant sailor who wrote of the sea,
haltingly, with a huge power locked in a halting tongue–

Lost in a tanker off the Florida coast,
the locked and virginal power burned in oil.

He thought of the opulent antique dealers on Royal
whose tables of rosewood gleamed as blood under lamps.

He thought of his friends.

He thought of his lost companions,
of all he had touched and all whose touch he had known.

He wept for remembrance.

But when he had finished weeping, he washed his face,

he smiled at his face in the mirror, preparing to say
to you, whom he was expecting.

Love. Love. Love

But could he believe it again?»

Tennessee Williams

my sweet old etcetera - e. e. cummings

my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting

for,
my sister

isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that

i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et

cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

Mudança de endereço de e-mail e eclipse de comentários

Os comentários estão vivos, mas ocultos nos bastidores do blogger. Não faz grande sentido manter um sistema de comentários quando as minhas visitas ao blog são ultimamente tão raras que só me apercebi dos últimos através das notificações recebidas na conta de e-mail. E mesmo a conta de e-mail, que era do hotmail, precisou de algumas reanimações nos últimos tempos. Correspondência e comentários, a partir de agora, para oscavaleiroscamponesesATyahooDOTcom, please. Quando (e se) o blog regressar a um ritmo diário, voltam os comentários.

Saudações camponesas.

Orpheus Descending # 4

Death don't come when you want it, it comes when you don't want it! I wanted death, then, but I took the next best thing. You sold yourself. I sold my self. You was bought. I was bought. You made whores of us both.

Tennessee Williams