tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-345158762024-03-19T04:41:15.473+00:00Ortografia do olharSeleccionar o ângulo de um rosto, sem lhe macular a luz, como se, a meia voz, pudéssemos reter os múltiplos reflexos do júbilo e das mágoas.Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.comBlogger1121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-65564047002258933282024-03-18T09:00:00.000+00:002024-03-18T09:04:15.015+00:00O imenso silêncio dentro de mim<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtgRBags2KERC8Gm9X3k-qzSk7NtQ8B-aQFBxDzXG6ZzqfymtA4m5KRAjPt4QCtP1ZgEUODa251Jd4DroGEto2EgXLW5gJ5NkeQo2N4GJ2j_ZTN6QVprxkZHCrY81-sqx5oVL49YmWtBCNLBvZrtrzx3KrMSytUxVT_YFAM7sT5f-Nnng0FSQ/s497/Dia%20da%20poesia.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="455" data-original-width="497" height="586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtgRBags2KERC8Gm9X3k-qzSk7NtQ8B-aQFBxDzXG6ZzqfymtA4m5KRAjPt4QCtP1ZgEUODa251Jd4DroGEto2EgXLW5gJ5NkeQo2N4GJ2j_ZTN6QVprxkZHCrY81-sqx5oVL49YmWtBCNLBvZrtrzx3KrMSytUxVT_YFAM7sT5f-Nnng0FSQ/w640-h586/Dia%20da%20poesia.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><div style="text-align: center;">A convite da Amiga Rosélia</div></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Procuro o lugar onde começa o silêncio. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">O silêncio transparente do mar, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">dos barcos ao longe, da sombra dos mastros, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">do brilho dos búzios. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">O silêncio das sementes, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">da melancolia das árvores, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">do restolho do trigo, do afago da terra. </span></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">O imenso silêncio dentro de mim, <br />na ansiedade das palavras distantes, <br />quando, sem aviso, ele se afunda <br />no meu peito insensatamente, <br />como se fora um vício antigo <br />transfigurando as sílabas. <br />Como se uma inesperada sedução <br />cristalizasse os poemas que escrevo <br />de dentes cerrados, cativando a voz. <br />Como se a linguagem se evadisse <br />na incompletude dos sonhos. <br /></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">De </span><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Antígona passou por aqui,</span></i></b><span style="font-size: medium;"> 2021</span></span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-14859134451179436132024-03-11T09:00:00.012+00:002024-03-11T09:15:35.597+00:00Em seara alheia<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5ryaxO1w16KjtWL-9VPoB2Ewwe7o1jMmK0BioqXYuO0rWaArvtWxFc57iWclk4i9tKWbgSwEeCTRPQTf1DCqn1qOSFM-BfD4PmKE0bDACbivvrExctR89yB7QIIzBzK7FTF3iO7UEeIl-K0oxAh7ynqgCOLUi8S7-iO4lXqBMuy6RSyxqEpF/s500/Matisse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="500" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5ryaxO1w16KjtWL-9VPoB2Ewwe7o1jMmK0BioqXYuO0rWaArvtWxFc57iWclk4i9tKWbgSwEeCTRPQTf1DCqn1qOSFM-BfD4PmKE0bDACbivvrExctR89yB7QIIzBzK7FTF3iO7UEeIl-K0oxAh7ynqgCOLUi8S7-iO4lXqBMuy6RSyxqEpF/w400-h153/Matisse2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><b>Oração em pleno voo</b></span></p> <span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sem sequer pensar</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Eu ascendo os degraus</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> E lanço-me aos céus</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> E no meu voo nem seguro os cabelos</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Que se soltam ligeiros</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Como flâmulas</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Entre a amenidade das flores</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> E o aroma dos frutos outonais</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Ao subir</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> A paz e a esperança invadem-me</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> E deparo com campos de trigais</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> E cores multicores</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> No devaneio impensado</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Solta-se da boca um beijo</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Rasgando os céus</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sei que na minha oração</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Uma luz celestial</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Tão cândida e serena como</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> O meu rosto</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Se projectará</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Nos confins do universo</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Amanhã não sei dos voos</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> Porque só o hoje prevalece</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"> ©Piedade Araújo Sol </span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">In:</span></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b><i>Olhares em tons de maresia</i></b>, 2013-11-05</span>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-72569499393806752202024-03-04T09:00:00.005+00:002024-03-04T09:02:14.074+00:00Rumo ao sul<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAb8rNGwTbF6mX9K4Ps5E1FI_aS88JzAe5Vry9dLnpUZxS-kxtdq9_0APrmv7CQVfPor9QWZuVkYAswEgFY7MXLlb9xbQHnMtymsP_Lt43hT6fL75akJKK4buCrmbFBffFUCplMSN0b-FXQEhugzO6qhix99HyobZVqqJ5LOqVfNULyjT_V3zx/s700/Aglayan%20Agac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="700" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAb8rNGwTbF6mX9K4Ps5E1FI_aS88JzAe5Vry9dLnpUZxS-kxtdq9_0APrmv7CQVfPor9QWZuVkYAswEgFY7MXLlb9xbQHnMtymsP_Lt43hT6fL75akJKK4buCrmbFBffFUCplMSN0b-FXQEhugzO6qhix99HyobZVqqJ5LOqVfNULyjT_V3zx/w640-h274/Aglayan%20Agac.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;">Aglayan Agac</div></span><div><br /><span style="text-align: right;"> </span></div><div><span style="text-align: right;"><b> <span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Para a Lília Tavares</span></b></span></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Fascinada por árvores antigas </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">escreveste um livro </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e fizeste de cada folha uma jangada. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Num desvio da noite </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">quando a brisa </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">agitava devagar as glicínias </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">fugiste rumo ao sul </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com a escuridão a perseguir-te. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Um sopro salgado dava a todo o percurso </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">um abraço marinho. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Gritaste todos os termos náuticos. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">A força dos braços ganhou </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a firmeza das tábuas. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Atravessaste as vagas com a fúria </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">dos que enconcham as mãos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">para refúgio da pérola perfeita. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 31</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-38301932407022916392024-02-26T09:00:00.001+00:002024-02-26T09:00:04.605+00:00A sugestão de uma reza<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrf6sVyfBg3LzVLbKileth6EuUrtcv5AH0Oe2wNizxqP7se-n-qK0lX9Dvqq0n1QvZ8lS7wfCo134i0vkV5szMU_ZfXDo8awOagUpm03aprl1q2VhRFWcl_0Xz6r7FH_A_P80g-DdYXgJ5ygD4w_gUGM7jOw7Ghu4oP3XAiuNY4tON8xgzVrz/s338/herv%C3%A9%20martijn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="241" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrf6sVyfBg3LzVLbKileth6EuUrtcv5AH0Oe2wNizxqP7se-n-qK0lX9Dvqq0n1QvZ8lS7wfCo134i0vkV5szMU_ZfXDo8awOagUpm03aprl1q2VhRFWcl_0Xz6r7FH_A_P80g-DdYXgJ5ygD4w_gUGM7jOw7Ghu4oP3XAiuNY4tON8xgzVrz/w456-h640/herv%C3%A9%20martijn.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;">Hervé Martijn</div></span></div><br /><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
No lado mais vulnerável da noite, onde me perco,</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">sei que perto de um abismo se pode enlouquecer. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Assumo o risco de cada improviso, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">desarmada perante as minhas próprias vertigens. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Numa viagem interior, num recolhimento, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">regresso a mim própria, asfixiada pelos poros do tempo. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">A sugestão de uma reza ajuda-me a aceitar </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o peso do vazio de cada instante </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">exposto à promessa de uma aventura, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">para que eu não sucumba no lodo que me cerca. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Unidas, as mãos preservam </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a feição das preces mais singelas, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">à espera que a vida passe </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">sem melindrar o rosto das palavras. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>Antígona passou por aqui</i></b>, 2021, p. 34</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-7296311547788908432024-02-19T09:00:00.001+00:002024-02-19T09:06:13.826+00:00Até ao tumulto de um grito<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjcRrMAqKYc1h-jNd1g6ZxoUvMUgLwLF_uUkw0ksHL1pwmsQgpZ9qZ__dLsglRaOEQbtJPQa9WkwNEc_UT4gbtl5MBFVa_1nze5AZHPihdAhk68Z6cOGLuQVKRCqLRrz7suj0DjWYdBT9Sx4AZiw20BgmeRfWVd2jsCRXCOmXhbho6g-D3Z67/s409/refugiados%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="409" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjcRrMAqKYc1h-jNd1g6ZxoUvMUgLwLF_uUkw0ksHL1pwmsQgpZ9qZ__dLsglRaOEQbtJPQa9WkwNEc_UT4gbtl5MBFVa_1nze5AZHPihdAhk68Z6cOGLuQVKRCqLRrz7suj0DjWYdBT9Sx4AZiw20BgmeRfWVd2jsCRXCOmXhbho6g-D3Z67/w640-h514/refugiados%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Prolongo o silêncio </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">até ao tumulto de um grito </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">de um choro </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">de uma desnorteada multidão. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Plano inclinado da voz </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">onde resvala o ruído do mundo </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">dilatado por sons anónimos. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Qualquer pausa reitera </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o murmúrio mudo do verbo. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Sem história. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Tão próxima do presságio de um rosto. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Ou da ferida que a si mesma se rasga. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 47
</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-31597679164261239642024-02-12T09:00:00.008+00:002024-02-12T09:02:01.309+00:00Em seara alheia<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFRWNwxrKBRoj8AA6Q5Yp5xYRpAdGXyTZZwwIzO4mXb_mgqfnpSZmN9stQG58rh0CW_2RZzPpiWJKEYvpRyb8hmnc99o98uVi6G52SrbILmScquamoddBdlcbs1DT8jjXuE-qjD9xVu2OZFigkt52hzdQKuv4XOaQgYSXZC_ZNKHth1VkY3S4k/s500/Matisse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="500" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFRWNwxrKBRoj8AA6Q5Yp5xYRpAdGXyTZZwwIzO4mXb_mgqfnpSZmN9stQG58rh0CW_2RZzPpiWJKEYvpRyb8hmnc99o98uVi6G52SrbILmScquamoddBdlcbs1DT8jjXuE-qjD9xVu2OZFigkt52hzdQKuv4XOaQgYSXZC_ZNKHth1VkY3S4k/w400-h153/Matisse2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><b>12</b> </span></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Sobre o corpo<br />uma azáfama de abelhas<br /><br />Falta ainda um pouco mais<br />para a epopeia das mãos<br /><br />Urge esperar<br />que se ateiem de lume as últimas sombras<br />que invada a tarde </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a fúria do feno<br />despidamente<br />e que venham as línguas do fogo<br />percorrer os veios da mais antiga pedra</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br />que caia a prumo o desejo sobre um mar de vidro<br />que more o coração no azulado dorso de um pássaro<br /><br />que apenas possamos chamar-nos<br />por qualquer uma daquelas palavras<br />ardentes </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">anunciadoras do Verão</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">José Pedro Leite</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In: <b><i>Manual de relentos: I-Explicação dos incêndios.</i></b> Lisboa: Poética, 2023, p. 20</span><br /></span><br /></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-45798369956706706082024-02-05T09:00:00.015+00:002024-02-05T09:03:28.740+00:00Para além das penas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8x_x2IIFVqrh2xFoSOMhqNb4uQcBk8jKRTXPXUzezvYaDFcGzO78fmSn6SmwPBgfzwlTgP9n4CujYzO232rEssjFrbkDWdc9WRvQv5ikAYKOSJf0uPjKexCkkMg1q3vnonJBv0rbLGDhKLkRIlPez-MH-Be9odr5bR536_hBJtaFXuJ2Y_M5W/s624/Duy%20Huynh%20(13).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="624" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8x_x2IIFVqrh2xFoSOMhqNb4uQcBk8jKRTXPXUzezvYaDFcGzO78fmSn6SmwPBgfzwlTgP9n4CujYzO232rEssjFrbkDWdc9WRvQv5ikAYKOSJf0uPjKexCkkMg1q3vnonJBv0rbLGDhKLkRIlPez-MH-Be9odr5bR536_hBJtaFXuJ2Y_M5W/w640-h486/Duy%20Huynh%20(13).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Duy Huynh</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> <span style="font-size: medium;"><b> Para a Solange Firmino</b></span><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
De improviso riscas no ar </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o absoluto equilíbrio </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">dos pássaros entontecidos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">pela precisão do voo. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Pressentes seu gozo </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">num eco de asas </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">abertas ao infinito </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">onde a noite se liberta </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e em cintilação se renova. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Queres voar assim </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">do cume dos sonhos. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Para além das penas. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Para além da vertigem. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Inocente de súbito.
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 16</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> Quem quiser ouvir o poema dito pelo Pedro pode fazê-lo aqui:<br /> <b> </b><b>https://youtu.be/CQNM_J1xg_I?list=UULFp1MkC4fuxOs5HDyHVNGN-A</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-40578103132031857292024-01-29T09:00:00.007+00:002024-01-29T09:23:39.966+00:00Retomo o monólogo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqPaQmW-qfdTYsAt7evsE1CKDNHd5InU3t45-U8mmWRFTjvjiujoFZUB7jZoDD32y6Aq_e0ewPqP_yaJ5pnw7jxIIH8-1cCxvVDSoUFlq1wjwB4gnbZAaHjG5n0WLZlZk8FtumG7PwdoJhhcY8rL8rCSJikh1KjK916ZQoqjCvtA8YzQ2UdTg/s1600/20230907%20Ana%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqPaQmW-qfdTYsAt7evsE1CKDNHd5InU3t45-U8mmWRFTjvjiujoFZUB7jZoDD32y6Aq_e0ewPqP_yaJ5pnw7jxIIH8-1cCxvVDSoUFlq1wjwB4gnbZAaHjG5n0WLZlZk8FtumG7PwdoJhhcY8rL8rCSJikh1KjK916ZQoqjCvtA8YzQ2UdTg/w640-h426/20230907%20Ana%203.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;">Ana Pires Livramento</div></span><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div>
Com a voz a embater no adro da vida, </span><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">retomo o monólogo </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">em linguagem </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">dispersa </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">vinculada à emoção. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Há lembranças embutidas nas pedras </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">cobertas de musgo que assinalam </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">esconderijos improváveis onde aceito ser, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">duplamente, a silhueta de um corpo </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e o barro inquieto por dentro dos sonhos. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Amarro os pulsos nas árvores em flor </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">para atrair os insectos e os pássaros, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com a urgência do verão no tear das seduções. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Imprudentes, as mãos deixam-se doer </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">escondidas nas sombras </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com os dedos curvos de cansaço. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Protagonista do meu destino, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">não cesso de nascer, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">acendida no sangue das manhãs. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>Antígona passou por aqui</i></b>, 2021, p.76</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-7102381821094266952024-01-22T09:00:00.006+00:002024-01-22T09:08:27.258+00:00Canto baixinho<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQkdR2mDm9A5M2M_CbUF2fXgCISglEsGhoP9-holhRpD8UX5Vx6_71nkeVvUdccVrJ2cz9ekPAVEaY1Z9AA5hF0gHBChyphenhyphenxt2QK8c02JQubsXNjPAToBaYjsfoRW520RJENZDPzJocPKlrCyz0L4MwDx39VjtPumykP07eh_FnoIyHhbezkAKU/s560/Whitney%20Hayward%20p.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="373" data-original-width="560" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQkdR2mDm9A5M2M_CbUF2fXgCISglEsGhoP9-holhRpD8UX5Vx6_71nkeVvUdccVrJ2cz9ekPAVEaY1Z9AA5hF0gHBChyphenhyphenxt2QK8c02JQubsXNjPAToBaYjsfoRW520RJENZDPzJocPKlrCyz0L4MwDx39VjtPumykP07eh_FnoIyHhbezkAKU/w640-h426/Whitney%20Hayward%20p.17.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><div style="text-align: center;">Whitney Hayward</div></span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Observo atentamente o que me circunda: </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">as folhas secas coladas no desvão </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">do telhado por um vento impaciente </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o alarido dos pardais a romper </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o silêncio dos mais dispersos carreiros </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o brilho da manhã quase austero </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">de tão límpido a espalhar-se na planura </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a beira dos caminhos alagada de sombras </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">como um excesso fresco agarrado à pele. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">E canto baixinho, com o som amarrado </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">na garganta onde as palavras </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">quase morrem sob a língua. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 17</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-84998196887754727182024-01-15T09:00:00.011+00:002024-01-15T09:08:04.949+00:00Como se voasse entre luas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjATE_WQo8IHpQ9G1RbFKI60IttHyaOCtAPD14pgmiu50bdPTsJ11W5GdCC-UL6LyeUbyQVI3G4vdKLUdkTTGnKgyarq50Z97F1qlNOo6T4osm-wvYYjilxPqKv80z7zOifoPRrY_92GmJsmcs9ucSi9e9xQ2wFs_cJa6ecKa1OEZBqRDvMZFjD/s622/The%20Daily%20Digest%20p.%2071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="622" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjATE_WQo8IHpQ9G1RbFKI60IttHyaOCtAPD14pgmiu50bdPTsJ11W5GdCC-UL6LyeUbyQVI3G4vdKLUdkTTGnKgyarq50Z97F1qlNOo6T4osm-wvYYjilxPqKv80z7zOifoPRrY_92GmJsmcs9ucSi9e9xQ2wFs_cJa6ecKa1OEZBqRDvMZFjD/w640-h428/The%20Daily%20Digest%20p.%2071.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The Daily Diges</span>t </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Como se voasse entre luas, </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">entoo cânticos em clandestina devoção </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e recrio uma tocha luminosa </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">para me baptizar outra vez, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">à tona da claridade, no lume das águas. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Diante de flores tardias, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o meu nome desarticula-se </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">em cores inesperadas </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e sei que a infância </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">fica cada vez mais distante. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>Antígona passou por aqui</i></b>, 2021, p. 71</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-39072088506402344282024-01-08T09:00:00.001+00:002024-01-08T09:11:52.706+00:00Em seara alheia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdAKg_dDJQCeq0WcwQXc6Ytrdz0iNrAc13VqaO4oaa10me5crka3ccamR7DtrhTOpfbOPDdf_iRJRG9_M5qV9nBO55JnAVNNbVWMST36Qxd5OXtX-T3TJ7uoYP_ijhOwfFvmGsHE18INmWur3aXEOuWoZhbdxk_JxTfUa_qQeWMNEiJseQ4vtw/s500/Matisse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="500" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdAKg_dDJQCeq0WcwQXc6Ytrdz0iNrAc13VqaO4oaa10me5crka3ccamR7DtrhTOpfbOPDdf_iRJRG9_M5qV9nBO55JnAVNNbVWMST36Qxd5OXtX-T3TJ7uoYP_ijhOwfFvmGsHE18INmWur3aXEOuWoZhbdxk_JxTfUa_qQeWMNEiJseQ4vtw/w400-h153/Matisse2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><b>Signos do deserto</b></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">O deserto diz</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">com simplicidade</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">a luz</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">o ângulo</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">de cada grão</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">de arreia</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Abre a mão límpida</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">sobre a página branca</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">O deserto grita</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">ao nomear-se</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">pelo próprio vazio</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">Alexandre Bonafim</span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">In: <b><i>O anjo entre o deserto e o não</i></b>. São Paulo: Terra Redonda. 2022, p. 21</span></span></div></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-2305610727376971012024-01-03T09:00:00.010+00:002024-01-03T09:00:51.263+00:00A luz da madrugada<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xpx3XFdibyCkB4bbkD635pNfSi8v0v84Ja3KJFy5SgiPtsWh0Jp7oNBI3XOMyiyLbFHO5RSBXJxTeLSV6Bj8DVNq-Azh6WzzEDqAMA0UuEnX71fiIVih6z6BJvqAk0fjdS5isaL79fVz3DV26TVfc-1USraqkL4ME4WE4Mu8tq7EnBaXYNpp/s1575/Branco%20Cardoso.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1124" data-original-width="1575" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xpx3XFdibyCkB4bbkD635pNfSi8v0v84Ja3KJFy5SgiPtsWh0Jp7oNBI3XOMyiyLbFHO5RSBXJxTeLSV6Bj8DVNq-Azh6WzzEDqAMA0UuEnX71fiIVih6z6BJvqAk0fjdS5isaL79fVz3DV26TVfc-1USraqkL4ME4WE4Mu8tq7EnBaXYNpp/w640-h456/Branco%20Cardoso.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> Branco Cardoso<br /><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><div><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: right;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: right;"><b>Para a Carmo Baião</b></span></div><div style="font-size: xx-large;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">
Nem oração nem lamento. </span></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Apenas a luz da madrugada </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">que a madrugada espalha </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">sobre a giesta o tojo a esteva </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">nas planícies onde o verde e o ouro </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">se fundiram e a paisagem se ajustou </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">à expressão das mulheres </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">em delírio em parto em quebranto </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Para além do tumulto da memória </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a claridade dos trigais em teu olhar </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">tem o ímpeto do sol nas leiras. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">E as casas caiadas de branco </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">guardam o silêncio que lateja em tua voz </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">onde não consentiste nunca </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a inutilidade de palavras escusadas. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 38</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-81614563329991163272023-12-11T09:00:00.036+00:002023-12-11T09:00:52.778+00:00Interação Fraterna de Natal 2023<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> A convite da Amiga Rosélia aqui deixo a minha participação nesta fraterna interacão de Natal</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbleAqoxKk0M8dTAsWqvzEkH3w6qfQxkrIp3U8nvovgGhUX1-JZXCpwxjpzrY3a8BTgWVL_UV3-IqZqMaNm804TToch7vEFyd0qNa8hvcPC7KWRAGyi-fv6m2SLDGo9v-elRQYn410BiXf2lf68P_Q_RBTTvnCdUZu7ifz0W0rJpF6Ons8wOx/s320/Imagem%20do%20Natal.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="283" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbleAqoxKk0M8dTAsWqvzEkH3w6qfQxkrIp3U8nvovgGhUX1-JZXCpwxjpzrY3a8BTgWVL_UV3-IqZqMaNm804TToch7vEFyd0qNa8hvcPC7KWRAGyi-fv6m2SLDGo9v-elRQYn410BiXf2lf68P_Q_RBTTvnCdUZu7ifz0W0rJpF6Ons8wOx/w354-h400/Imagem%20do%20Natal.jpg" width="354" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Escutamos a palavra Natal<br />e com o coração ausente de sombras </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">deciframos suplicantes </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">o ritual de dezembro. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Um intenso espaço de luz </span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">resplandece </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">em prece sobre a terra</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">como dádiva sobrenatural.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">É o anjo que anuncia o Menino do Presépio.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">São anjos de paz a abençoar o mundo. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Natal 2023</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Quero palavras brancas como asas de anjos<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-jUkvSJtfIrWHg8a0k7O2sBEiaqwY_HnZ1IBO152r5p5zUh3rEEztqPv9aeYr3TenorX2pyxKjiCLK-SOeVH-dnSLIDZWjfVKHLTd18wdlU1c9bCxJPtEqwsOyDZYsmBXlxy-ntPKvxL6tsbtSUDvVEcr7mXHTrDYC-lIQIOK23DE9-CUxam/s320/Anjo%20Natal.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="320" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj-jUkvSJtfIrWHg8a0k7O2sBEiaqwY_HnZ1IBO152r5p5zUh3rEEztqPv9aeYr3TenorX2pyxKjiCLK-SOeVH-dnSLIDZWjfVKHLTd18wdlU1c9bCxJPtEqwsOyDZYsmBXlxy-ntPKvxL6tsbtSUDvVEcr7mXHTrDYC-lIQIOK23DE9-CUxam/w320-h162/Anjo%20Natal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">para convocar neste Natal a promessa </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">de uma Luz de P</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">az e Amor.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Quero para todos um ano de 2024 MELHOR.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Até para o ano.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><div style="background-color: #1c1c1c; color: #cccccc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 22.275px;"><br /></div></span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com67tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-51260645707055976062023-12-04T09:00:00.000+00:002023-12-04T09:05:14.450+00:00Tudo é breve<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzt9P0u-PIMVwESkfjrVBg2ls2WtLwb5-6OA7O000LsqVD2mqSfLsrRxydRpulhtX3FH77znQN6NZcXAuffYFUVqz5yziEGF33EYGKHO0-xUx0uvhFkJiLbx6tvnBIGWCrGF5_n76u8ZgyPpqmoks1m53g1TW7GYIoPvgKnvwcvYONMhzwXxAd/s955/monia%20merlo%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="955" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzt9P0u-PIMVwESkfjrVBg2ls2WtLwb5-6OA7O000LsqVD2mqSfLsrRxydRpulhtX3FH77znQN6NZcXAuffYFUVqz5yziEGF33EYGKHO0-xUx0uvhFkJiLbx6tvnBIGWCrGF5_n76u8ZgyPpqmoks1m53g1TW7GYIoPvgKnvwcvYONMhzwXxAd/w640-h408/monia%20merlo%20(2).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Monia Merlo</span></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div>
A cada pulsação </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">perdura a inicial certeza </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">de que tudo é breve. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Se trocarmos os pés </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a deriva será o único caminho </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">porque sabemos de aves cegas </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">que trazem no voo </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o mapa incerto dos ventos. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Por isso alinhamos os dias </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com a respiração. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">E escolhemos o silêncio </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">para nomear as flores </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e partilhar o enigma branco </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">das boninas no hora do crepúsculo. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">E deixamos deslizar a meia-luz </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">no ângulo do olhar tão subornado </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">pela trama dos momentos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">que nos legitimam a existência. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 20
</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-28860435400165234452023-11-27T09:00:00.008+00:002023-11-27T09:00:09.592+00:00Em seara alheia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpGN1dM4gn1UW1NGgTU9uWC4n6AOgN7PQFOt6PWyrVZWjWDFXDbaMwgP5k8O9frYgYYjEgv6r5XMAy3IqyE2sS-H8DP-A_r9ozXzQQD_Z122eE8rWHwr7J4l0D7uAqF5hhmmI2d-VYuENjfyBuXesYWZVTvXcFDrgr_ollHoIffbJJz2f0gOuy/s500/Matisse2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="500" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpGN1dM4gn1UW1NGgTU9uWC4n6AOgN7PQFOt6PWyrVZWjWDFXDbaMwgP5k8O9frYgYYjEgv6r5XMAy3IqyE2sS-H8DP-A_r9ozXzQQD_Z122eE8rWHwr7J4l0D7uAqF5hhmmI2d-VYuENjfyBuXesYWZVTvXcFDrgr_ollHoIffbJJz2f0gOuy/w400-h153/Matisse2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><b>
Onde nasce o silêncio </b></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Quando se abriga na memória dos barcos, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">na superfície inquieta do mar </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e sobrevive na plenitude dos mastros. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Quando se aprende a não perder o rumo </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">no momento em que rema, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">assim que as aves fugazes </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">sopram segredos da noite dolorida. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Aí mora o silêncio. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Quem está distante da infância se guia pelas marés, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">ouve de longe o timbre de sua voz nas águas, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">clamando o próprio nome </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">nas viagens incertas dos marinheiros. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Na solidão da paisagem, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">quando há algum naufrágio, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">sempre volta a novembro, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">onde vê a criança que foi. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Solange Firmino, </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">22 Nov. 2023 </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b>Este poema foi-me oferecido pela minha Amiga do Brasil, Solange Firmino, no dia do meu aniversário. Muito obrigada, Solange</b></span></div><div><br /></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-53044048801234092952023-11-20T09:00:00.020+00:002023-11-20T09:02:27.800+00:00Um dia de novembro<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cwwXtdqGgOnmrYcP2jUopUKXzXDNJdXK3d0dCNNTUJeAHanAhW8RtukAMXKiVelq4dhsdmP38uRvqNQAnMkNyI7jgqKF0A1X1TsMbS6dUpHt0gG8Lxx5mWuDa38-w_j-SqxEydv5oYHT2EuGd38I_b5P2WcoBnS39Ekrd3k5AkQeZc8OXRdZ/s1600/2023%2009%2021%20Ana.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cwwXtdqGgOnmrYcP2jUopUKXzXDNJdXK3d0dCNNTUJeAHanAhW8RtukAMXKiVelq4dhsdmP38uRvqNQAnMkNyI7jgqKF0A1X1TsMbS6dUpHt0gG8Lxx5mWuDa38-w_j-SqxEydv5oYHT2EuGd38I_b5P2WcoBnS39Ekrd3k5AkQeZc8OXRdZ/w640-h426/2023%2009%2021%20Ana.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;">Ana Pires Livramento</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Uma premonição envolve em mistério <br />a manhã de nevoeiro de um dia de novembro <br />e desperta na lembrança os caminhos da inocência. <br />Em passo lento, em via-sacra, <br />assisto calada à passagem de mim. <br />O princípio e o fim dos caminhos <br />desvendam, no código dos ventos,<br />em rigoroso segredo, o meu perfil, <br />a moldar as vertentes que me são voragem <br />e ofício no interior dos dias. <br />Pretendo um idioma insensato <br />para me definir ou pronunciar o meu nome. </span><br /><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>Antígona passou por aqui</i></b>, 2021, p. 63</span></div></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-24201294633954191852023-11-13T09:00:00.002+00:002023-11-13T09:03:48.303+00:00Bebo a própria sede<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCyf0CfiiqmjaBmOqlZk6SLeGDzw0PNEzuVetH5nqrSfsqND5-ymmTOUbvpnpLWCXxZSEO3MNKLRRfm9ARIg5mrpPvO2uhKMu2vwZxOf0a07wp0AaYICVlb8z0W2Jsne-wGUFW89Xb_tbd90yTDe7c5vCNJLQ0rSU8orEs0cTUIPT5qnq6Kubm/s300/Michael%20Bilotta%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCyf0CfiiqmjaBmOqlZk6SLeGDzw0PNEzuVetH5nqrSfsqND5-ymmTOUbvpnpLWCXxZSEO3MNKLRRfm9ARIg5mrpPvO2uhKMu2vwZxOf0a07wp0AaYICVlb8z0W2Jsne-wGUFW89Xb_tbd90yTDe7c5vCNJLQ0rSU8orEs0cTUIPT5qnq6Kubm/w640-h640/Michael%20Bilotta%204.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><div style="text-align: center;">Michael Bilotta</div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Volto às palavras resguardadas no útero dos sonhos. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Uma caligrafia exasperada quer ofuscar o brilho </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">em meus olhos, exaustos de procurar </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a estrela d’alva no infinito do amanhecer. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Dobro-me sobre as páginas em que me escrevo. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Como se fora uma serpente, rastejo as letras </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com sílabas átonas para não desfocar a minha voz, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">quase ilícita, quando me refugio na paisagem </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">para habitar as múltiplas geografias das sedes eternas. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Bebo a tragos longos a própria sede e choro a tristeza </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">extenuada de qualquer melancolia distante. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>Antígona passou por aqui</i></b>, 2021, p. 55</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-64254487291891720442023-11-06T09:00:00.001+00:002023-11-06T09:10:26.131+00:00Nenhuma palavra<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-FFEDzstnAQcMvs5TsQaNKj56_yvuZ8jZqMWG5yj3PH9VqrOixWuEbXa2JxQGa3vsg_2EbhoU95GQ7jSihhlKikbyjMLJSwnYJy78emnWIwWUQ__aiCZN1lyFygMjXSwvBlxpZ91BlFwm_CRc09PkoLf8QMzXFioGsBYjcTNYOVKLb_YFdaw/s1280/Moises%20Saman%209.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-FFEDzstnAQcMvs5TsQaNKj56_yvuZ8jZqMWG5yj3PH9VqrOixWuEbXa2JxQGa3vsg_2EbhoU95GQ7jSihhlKikbyjMLJSwnYJy78emnWIwWUQ__aiCZN1lyFygMjXSwvBlxpZ91BlFwm_CRc09PkoLf8QMzXFioGsBYjcTNYOVKLb_YFdaw/w640-h426/Moises%20Saman%209.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;">Moisés Saman</div></span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Nenhuma palavra destrói um grito mudo </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">um silenciamento em desamparo </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">um muro farpado com arame </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">uma chocante perfídia humana. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Tentamos decifrar gestos confusos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">na turbulência de mãos intermináveis </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">que enfrentam tormentas </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com o olhar cheio de cegueira </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">à procura de um deus no suor da morte. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Nenhuma palavra circunscreve o medo </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">de olhares indefesos a pairar </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">sobre uma paisagem impessoal. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Nenhuma palavra redime as sombras </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">dispersas no sangue de quem conhece </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o chicote da frieza e busca um ponto </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">de fuga para agarrar a vida. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023. p.59
</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-32578809733247624992023-10-30T09:00:00.001+00:002023-10-30T09:00:19.519+00:00Nítidas lágrimas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2d6naQEIceucnliIuehxNCSogZjpVIjU5wtmVT9FiDZp7bVtb6_0QqJTHXdgQl18YJ-AaehXrgBO7KrSGuKzaLOgbsm9UENjpWs05HFuYC8Z2omz_JmbfPG1F_wHkGIAMv8C3g0B4QycOxVVzmZSHQKGQgk7ZGYWnUDBFQHvXp73cpdGrdp7q/s612/mulher%20a%20chorar%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2d6naQEIceucnliIuehxNCSogZjpVIjU5wtmVT9FiDZp7bVtb6_0QqJTHXdgQl18YJ-AaehXrgBO7KrSGuKzaLOgbsm9UENjpWs05HFuYC8Z2omz_JmbfPG1F_wHkGIAMv8C3g0B4QycOxVVzmZSHQKGQgk7ZGYWnUDBFQHvXp73cpdGrdp7q/w640-h426/mulher%20a%20chorar%20(2).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Como se um aviso de luz me purificasse, <br />reconheço o meu vulto na ortografia <br />de nítidas lágrimas onde encontro <br />de permeio a vida inteira <br />e me busco cheia de abismo, <br />cheia de noite, cheia de labirintos, <br />cheia de palavras imperfeitas. <br />Talvez ninguém conheça a violência <br />da luz ao longo do rosto, <br />quando as lágrimas deslizam <br />em pequenas gotas sobre a pele. <br />A forma oculta do choro faz entornar <br />o hálito num estranho vazio. <br />A ferir a indecisão do brilho molhado. <br />A naufragar os olhos tão inundados de vento. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>Antígona passou por aqui</i></b>, 2021, p. 70
</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-31432636201556849322023-10-23T09:00:00.006+01:002023-10-23T09:00:20.130+01:00Oferenda<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6F5jPKztNlT4m-MZqm0nqFsVoiaLqvkwyJGRUnik7l8VDVDfiCeRCMn60LpuYIaQ-GtNK4RcYqAGf1EdV0z57PClxqF_DSOLha9h14NwMzZtLq_QfkiBRvbukkd4aEpeAVhodekySQRQLoYBV0ksppsXB3kNVbfvi57ganqM0modZz7OPB5Z/s1996/Manuela%20Barroso%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="898" data-original-width="1996" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6F5jPKztNlT4m-MZqm0nqFsVoiaLqvkwyJGRUnik7l8VDVDfiCeRCMn60LpuYIaQ-GtNK4RcYqAGf1EdV0z57PClxqF_DSOLha9h14NwMzZtLq_QfkiBRvbukkd4aEpeAVhodekySQRQLoYBV0ksppsXB3kNVbfvi57ganqM0modZz7OPB5Z/w640-h288/Manuela%20Barroso%201.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Manuela Barroso</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> <b>Para a Manuela Barroso</b></span></div><div style="font-size: xx-large; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">
Abres as portadas. </span></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Um brilho na floração do jardim </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">que o amanho dos canteiros harmoniza </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">expõe o teu olhar à contemplação da luz </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a fixar em cada flor o movimento do sol. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">O aroma da seiva alenta-te o dia que começa. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">O fluxo do sangue como uma oferenda. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Improvisas uma oração. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">E procuras a trama verde das sombras</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">para amar a folhagem de árvores frondosas: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">floresta furtiva paisagem mágica </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">presença divina abrigando os ventos. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 23
</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-85721615389906940052023-10-16T09:00:00.015+01:002024-01-07T18:58:29.976+00:00Entre ruínas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-p2g9MKBYi6-8mWWs5Vh7d9tB_RW6YhDWDsqlbwUmNCgp2opxlZMN-0D65SY4fmOqeUnbdsPggafMv1LUbNxrzAEPvSsl_IkMmhuO53y6O6XJaw0MA5QgiUpcRFZ74sr6DSOqVcCECa5wNW_aBCDeK2XkTKTGPBJh_CWwwsnMgp1bG7Kpwake/s2400/Entre%20ru%C3%ADnas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2400" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-p2g9MKBYi6-8mWWs5Vh7d9tB_RW6YhDWDsqlbwUmNCgp2opxlZMN-0D65SY4fmOqeUnbdsPggafMv1LUbNxrzAEPvSsl_IkMmhuO53y6O6XJaw0MA5QgiUpcRFZ74sr6DSOqVcCECa5wNW_aBCDeK2XkTKTGPBJh_CWwwsnMgp1bG7Kpwake/w640-h426/Entre%20ru%C3%ADnas.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Pressentir a morte na desmesura de uma afronta </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">na opressão interminável de cada rua queimada </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">de cada disparo de cada cerco de cada agressão. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">A revolta presa na arma do terror. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">A coragem engatilhada nas mãos. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">O susto das sirenes no rosto dos filhos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e na correria angustiada das mães. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">O clamor sufocado nas lágrimas </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">e no sangue a quem dói violentamente </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">o exílio do chão onde nasceram. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">A exaustão a golpear o corpo. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">A força do silêncio a ensurdecer o grito. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Sem tréguas sem resgate sem sujeição </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">hão-de abraçar-se fortemente entre as ruínas.
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 64</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-27781117426644211662023-10-09T09:00:00.000+01:002023-10-09T09:00:23.183+01:00Para me sagrar de silêncio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh49tYeqjWICj5hA2l-JYMzKjTpvgF58Q5KHZbfq8uI04YVj0td7RMyZMlTyxZz1F4Id8AwLW9aLONSw1zY2bqooxc6xQxuc7Swlt-0X4T32IvmeWvlJv_8CMVRgx9yQ2eRyuFR9y2cu9kHwcAulhEsjHtwi6DqmTbD7zA0SXcb0qkSLbpGguEI/s1246/Ana%2010%20(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1246" data-original-width="1056" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh49tYeqjWICj5hA2l-JYMzKjTpvgF58Q5KHZbfq8uI04YVj0td7RMyZMlTyxZz1F4Id8AwLW9aLONSw1zY2bqooxc6xQxuc7Swlt-0X4T32IvmeWvlJv_8CMVRgx9yQ2eRyuFR9y2cu9kHwcAulhEsjHtwi6DqmTbD7zA0SXcb0qkSLbpGguEI/w542-h640/Ana%2010%20(3).JPG" width="542" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;">Ana Pires Livramento</div></span><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Na linha de qualquer rio passaram águas </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">que deixaram mais sedentos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">os lábios e a garganta. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Cada detalhe de versos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">sem horizontes líquidos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">risca-me na pele o fracasso da voz </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">desarticulando a paisagem. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Rojo-me sobre os nomes que não esqueço, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">na imensa possibilidade de os tornar legítimos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">na precária imortalidade dos dias. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Invento horas extras para me sagrar de silêncio. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De <b><i>Antígona passou por aqui</i></b>, 2021, p. 55</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-40744114036899986452023-09-25T09:00:00.001+01:002023-09-25T09:08:53.115+01:00Nomes sem eco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDZKMQh0UA_U6XeAT-uLmcflboguruSZtggbpZnYHL7Me59PohxKaoTJ518cMEIr3oH6hBY1OYVKKI5OZ_0a5VF6wDYaJYfUrg1fxNhDrFzdFkGPiknExu6NW0BxON1VlXxYFaxjDQ-dLXHZyXyKjpuk-ZZXruH-ikSFraJWOsVncoGo6Ck-d/s434/emigrantes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="434" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIDZKMQh0UA_U6XeAT-uLmcflboguruSZtggbpZnYHL7Me59PohxKaoTJ518cMEIr3oH6hBY1OYVKKI5OZ_0a5VF6wDYaJYfUrg1fxNhDrFzdFkGPiknExu6NW0BxON1VlXxYFaxjDQ-dLXHZyXyKjpuk-ZZXruH-ikSFraJWOsVncoGo6Ck-d/w640-h346/emigrantes.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Sangram nomes dispersos </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">em bocas invadidas por aves migratórias. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Nomes sem eco em infindáveis viagens. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Caminhantes multiplamente estrangeiros </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">submersos em cansaço </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com a fuga a latejar no olhar. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">O ritmo dos passos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">segue com lentidão o som do vento </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">no fio da indiferença </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">que goteja sobre as cidades agrestes </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com esquinas irregulares </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">sem abrigo algum. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">De<b><i> O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 50
</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-85034569593052298012023-09-18T09:00:00.006+01:002023-09-18T09:00:14.031+01:00Em seara alheia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGZe84Hm2JgkwBZeQ8a7tt-7xDnECKzgrUX9td13AVWaxvx0G3i_3WlF_9gS-eMvg_kACbnJwK5vemf2YwG_5XPFccAqL101Dci_NQ70PA4tTfqKLeAsSaIanfJMk38KlYxfyg7JVSmJXhLEMm47wAB7Z5h1xpzJxdBtVw2C799w6QeEQS39oK/s500/Matisse2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="500" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGZe84Hm2JgkwBZeQ8a7tt-7xDnECKzgrUX9td13AVWaxvx0G3i_3WlF_9gS-eMvg_kACbnJwK5vemf2YwG_5XPFccAqL101Dci_NQ70PA4tTfqKLeAsSaIanfJMk38KlYxfyg7JVSmJXhLEMm47wAB7Z5h1xpzJxdBtVw2C799w6QeEQS39oK/w400-h153/Matisse2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><b>
20200416 - Num bairro moderno </b></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Hoje fui passear o cão </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Da melancolia. Saí. Não </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Aguentava já o surdo </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Latir do vírus, o vagir </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Da morte lenta nos ecrãs </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Das reportagens repetidas </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Do sofrimento que sempre vem </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Da natureza sempre cruel </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Digam lá o que disserem </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Os cantares da passarada </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Precipitando a primavera </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Nos líricos beirais. Hoje </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Fui de cão. Não há outro </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">A que dar trela. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><b>Jorge Fazenda Lourenço </b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">In: <b><i>Fim de boca e mais poemas (1981-2023)</i></b>. Lages do Pico: Companhia das Ilhas, 2023, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">p. 273</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34515876.post-63851388108228922842023-09-11T09:00:00.001+01:002023-09-11T09:00:13.954+01:00Dos desejos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTE5RD1BO-dWbxigL34VQq6ZFUlRA0bEEco1GV9tRoGZ-yAsncFTG0Adj_bCw3TWuz7khGvTf259iYN7R0xzHDmxcUL7lRhsEq8pF-C7LMA3jEKBuCQZCEZ3Zkv8ZRCxurnCDTHZ7i-IHJYdiWX13yHtFDoci-psrR7cKEwhPW5w8M1mO1YN8l/s814/noell%20s.%20oszvald%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="814" data-original-width="813" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTE5RD1BO-dWbxigL34VQq6ZFUlRA0bEEco1GV9tRoGZ-yAsncFTG0Adj_bCw3TWuz7khGvTf259iYN7R0xzHDmxcUL7lRhsEq8pF-C7LMA3jEKBuCQZCEZ3Zkv8ZRCxurnCDTHZ7i-IHJYdiWX13yHtFDoci-psrR7cKEwhPW5w8M1mO1YN8l/w640-h640/noell%20s.%20oszvald%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;">Noell S. Oszvald </div></span><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">
Enfrentamos o rosto ansioso dos desejos </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">com o enigma da posse </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">no limite de cada gesto. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Inquietos falamos longamente </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">até a lentidão das mãos </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">insubmissas nos perturbar. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Até recolhermos nas palavras caladas </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">a seda dos murmúrios. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Até que se solte o rio já sem margens </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">tão dono de seu júbilo. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Pode ser nosso o ofício da ternura. </span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">É minha a ânfora da sede.</span></i></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;">Graça Pires </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">De <b><i>O improviso de viver</i></b>, 2023, p. 24</span></div>Graça Pireshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14798220892473509748noreply@blogger.com42