o elogio da sombra » citações & poemas

Flood: years of Solitude

mário venda nova — Thu, 05 May 2011 20:30:15 +0000

To the one who sets a second place at the table anyway.

To the one at the back of the empty bus.

To the ones who name each piece of stained glass projected on a white wall.

To anyone convinced that a monologue is a conversation with the past.

To the one who loses with the deck he marked.

To those who are destined to inherit the meek.

To us.

Dionisio D. Martínez

Anything

mário venda nova — Sat, 29 Jan 2011 15:00:44 +0000

When did you decide that the chill would never leave your bones
and none of the coats you wear would ever keep you warm
Liquor and pills
See your pain far away in the mirror
Why do you only see yourself when you’re looking back
through the eyes of a stranger

Your mother always worried you’d be a sad old maid
Alone and sour as a glass of lemonade
But you’re not alone – you should know that by now
I’d give anything to be where you are right now

Have you lost so much
that none of your tiny wishes can find a toehold
Have you been recast
as some odd character that has no story to unfold

My mother always worried I’d be a sad old maid
Alone and sour as a glass of lemonade
I’d give anything to be where you are right now

A citação da semana (ou talvez do verão inteiro…)

mário venda nova — Mon, 03 May 2010 05:00:19 +0000

“Prince of Persia”: Every time I see this trailer, I think to myself — is the box-office genius of Jerry Bruckheimer his ability to make sure there are never any original ideas in any of his movies?

Summer-movie mania: What trailers have the most heat?

Al Weber

mário venda nova — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:00:37 +0000

“No artist can reach every person out there. It is common knowledge that the most successful artists are those who have a known audience and can communicate directly. Trying to please or talk to everyone would be the same as making post cards to look at while eating a TV dinner.”

Al Weber

Medo.

mário venda nova — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 17:00:25 +0000

Quem dorme à noite comigo?
É meu segredo, é meu segredo!
Mas se insistirem, desdigo.
O medo mora comigo,
Mas só o medo, mas só o medo!

E cedo, porque me embala
Num vaivém de solidão,
É com silêncio que fala,
Com voz de móvel que estala
E nos perturba a razão.

Que farei quando, deitado,
Fitando o espaço vazio,
Grita no espaço fitado
Que está dormindo a meu lado,
Lázaro e frio?

Gritar? Quem pode salvar-me
Do que está dentro de mim?
Gostava até de matar-me.
Mas eu sei que ele há-de esperar-me
Ao pé da ponte do fim.

Reinaldo Ferreira (1922-1959)