sábado, 26 de dezembro de 2015
domingo, 20 de dezembro de 2015
sábado, 19 de dezembro de 2015
segunda-feira, 14 de dezembro de 2015
Orphaned Land - The Never Ending Way of ORWarriOR
Rafael Hurovich
ORPHANED LAND
Para quem não conhece, esta banda israelense de metal-progressivo-oriental-folk tem feito mais pela paz entre Israel e os países árabes nos últimos vinte anos, do que todo esse bando de pombinhos pretenciosos e idiotas úteis.
Eles são amados pelos jovens de todos os países árabes, receberam passaporte turco e são oficialmente homenageados quando fazem tours por lá.
Os jovens palestinos ouvem escondido dos pais, e o grupo tem fã-clube oficial até em Gaza.
A qualidade deles é incrível: música, letra, figurino, capas, cenários, um primor de bom gosto em todo sentido. Eles têm domínio total da técnica vocal e instrumental, fazem o que querem com a voz e a banda toda.
Espero que gostem e espalhem por aí.
Aproveito para desejar a todos que as luzes de Chanuká continuem iluminando os lares e as famílias de todos os Amigos deste grupo ao longo de todo o ano.
domingo, 13 de dezembro de 2015
sábado, 28 de novembro de 2015
domingo, 22 de novembro de 2015
Mallarmé
"Je dis: une fleur! et, hors de l'oubli où ma voix relègue aucun contour, en tant que quelque chose d'autre que les calices sus, musicalement se lève, idée même et suave, l'absente de tous bouquets."
domingo, 20 de setembro de 2015
segunda-feira, 31 de agosto de 2015
domingo, 23 de agosto de 2015
domingo, 2 de agosto de 2015
sábado, 1 de agosto de 2015
domingo, 12 de julho de 2015
quinta-feira, 9 de julho de 2015
sábado, 27 de junho de 2015
sexta-feira, 26 de junho de 2015
sábado, 13 de junho de 2015
sexta-feira, 12 de junho de 2015
domingo, 31 de maio de 2015
sexta-feira, 29 de maio de 2015
quarta-feira, 20 de maio de 2015
Walt Whitman
A Child Said, What Is The Grass? - Poem by Walt Whitman
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
Walt Whitman
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
Walt Whitman
quarta-feira, 13 de maio de 2015
domingo, 10 de maio de 2015
Alphonsus de Guimaraens
Ismália
Quando Ismália enlouqueceu,
Pôs-se na torre a sonhar...
Viu uma lua no céu,
Viu outra lua no mar.
No sonho em que se perdeu,
Banhou-se toda em luar...
Queria subir ao céu,
Queria descer ao mar...
E, no desvario seu,
Na torre pôs-se a cantar...
Estava perto do céu,
Estava longe do mar...
E como um anjo pendeu
As asas para voar...
Queria a lua do céu,
Queria a lua do mar...
As asas que Deus lhe deu
Ruflaram de par em par...
Sua alma subiu ao céu,
Seu corpo desceu ao mar...
segunda-feira, 27 de abril de 2015
quarta-feira, 22 de abril de 2015
sábado, 11 de abril de 2015
quinta-feira, 9 de abril de 2015
terça-feira, 7 de abril de 2015
Bach Missa em Si Menor - referências
segunda-feira, 6 de abril de 2015
domingo, 5 de abril de 2015
sábado, 4 de abril de 2015
sexta-feira, 3 de abril de 2015
domingo, 22 de março de 2015
The world’s best falafel recipe comes from Alexandria
"Once a cosmopolitan city filled with louche Europeans, Alexandria is no longer a place of beauty. Its neo-classical and art deco villas, in melancholy decay since the Westerners fled during the Suez crisis in 1956, are now squeezed between the square shoulders of concrete high-rises."
sábado, 21 de março de 2015
domingo, 8 de março de 2015
sábado, 7 de março de 2015
domingo, 22 de fevereiro de 2015
sábado, 21 de fevereiro de 2015
segunda-feira, 9 de fevereiro de 2015
sábado, 7 de fevereiro de 2015
quinta-feira, 5 de fevereiro de 2015
sábado, 31 de janeiro de 2015
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