Letters in Music: "Straight to the Bone"

"The pen is mightier than the sword"

Esta famosa frase que se traduce en algo así como que "A pluma é máis poderosa que a espada",  remóntase nas súas orixes ao parecer á obra Cardinal Richelieu, de Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1839). Na obra, nun momento determinado, Richelieu descobre un complot para matalo pero como relixioso, non toma as armas contra os seus inimigos e François dille: "Pero tes outras armas ao teu dispor, meu bo señor" ao que Richelieu responde: "A pluma é máis poderosa que a espada... Quita a espada! Pódense salvar estados sen recorrer a ela!".

E é ben certo... moito poder teñen as palabras, e máis as escritas. Un poder alén da (re)conciliación, pois apela ao corazón dun xeito único e persoal. Emociona, evoca, convoca, move... cun ar case místico. Disto fala Martina McBride (1966) nesta canción "Straight To The Bone".

"Straight To The Bone"

I'm starin' at this empty chair, listenin' for the laughter that went clear up to the ceiling.
It's so long since you were sitting there and now the rust is rustin' and the paint is peelin'
I miss you

I read your letters and I almost break.
They're warm like flannel, I can still smell your after shave.
I don't spend all my time missin' you like this, but when it hits, it hits.

You felt like home, and I feel you now straight to the bone.
I miss you...

This sure can be a lonely place.
I wanna look up and see you there standin' in the doorway.
And I'd give anything to kiss your face and help ya blow out the candles on your next birthday.

You felt like home.
I feel you now, straight to the bone.
I miss you...

I wanna hear you in the kitchen, makin' noise, singin' out a tune at the top of your voice.
I wear these memories, it's a blessing and a curse 'cause when it hurts, it hurts.

You felt like home and I feel you now, straight to the bone.
I miss you... I miss you...

Personal Correspondence: Maruja Mallo - Alfonso Reyes

Fonte da imaxe: http://www.epdlp.com/cuadro.php?id=2161

MOITO lle teño que agradecer a Anxo Vieites Salgado, o meu profesor de arte de COU. Non esquecerei xamais esas clases rigorosas e detalladas, coa arte como única protagonista, as obras maxistrais en filmina iluminando o salón de actos do IES Terra de Xallas: a ménade danzante, O chamamento de San Mateo, o matrimonio Arnolfini, o Partenón, as obras de Christo e Jean-Claude,... Saiamos da clase con síndrome de Stendhal e rematamos o curso coa sensación de ter vivido tanto!

Hai dez anos, volveu ensinarme, esta vez a través de miña irmá. Moito antes de que iso da clase invertida estivese de moda, as alumnas de arte prepararon unha exposición de mulleres artistas verdadeiramente ben feita e fascinante de ver. As rapazas, aparte de elixir as pintoras e as obras, facer o traballo de investigación, redacción e montaxe, eran tamén as guías, falando entusiasmadas de Frida Kahlo, Tamara Lempicka, e outras, entre elas tamén Dona Maruxa Mallo (1902-1995), unha feliz descuberta. Esa sensación de formiguiño ao ver por primeira vez os seus cadros enfeitizantes, cun aquel hipnótico que fai que non poidas deixar de miralos.

Seguinlle a pista a través dalgunha revisión da súa vida e obra como o programa de "Imprescindibles", vendo así a muller libre, independiente, talentosa, transgresora e anacrónica. Dicía que pintaba desde o asombro, desde a sede, desde unha sensibilidade profunda, e será por iso que cando miro a súa obra, se me desnuda a mirada e se me sincopa o corazón.

Quédavos aquí un estudo da súa correspondencia con Alfonso Reyes: trece cartas escritas sobre papel con caligrafía enrevesada, cartas que recollen as súas "pintorescas impresiones" en palabras de Alfonso Reyes, e que "despiertan en mí la viva emoción". Gozade!

Letters in Music: "Soldier's Last Letter"

Ernest Tubb (1914-1984) is a well-known American singer and songwriter, one of the pioneers of country and honky tonk music. This song in particular speaks of a soldier's last letter. 

I find this topic of last letters really appealing and fascinating. Would you consider writing a last letter? What would you write in it? There was an interesting article in The New York Times last year written by Dr VJ Periyakoil, director of the Stanford Palliative Care Education & Training program and founder of the Stanford Letter Project. 

From his experience, Dr Periyakoil says the most common emotion expressed in these last letters is regret, that's why he came up with the Stanford Letter Project to encourage people to write a last letter to their loved ones - not only when someone is ill, but also when one is still healthy, before it's too late.

If you visit the website for the project, you will see a free template for a letter to help people complete seven life review tasks: acknowledging important people in our lives; remembering treasured moments; apologizing to those we may have hurt; forgiving those who have hurt us, and saying "thank you", "I love you" and "goodbye".

Image source: The New York Times

Once finished, you can choose to share the letter with your loved ones right away or store it in a safe place of with a trusted person to be given to your family in the future.

As the article concludes, "it may take tremendous courage to write a life review letter (...) it evokes deep and troubling emotions. Yet it may be the most important letter you will ever write".

"Soldier's Last Letter"

When the postman delivered a letter
It filled her dear heart full of joy
But she didn't know 'til she read the inside
It was the last one from her darling boy

Dear Mom, was the way that it started
I miss you so much, it went on
Mom, I didn't know, that I loved you so
But I'll prove it when this war is won

I'm writing this down in a trench, Mom
Don't scold if it isn't so neat
You know as you did, when I was a kid
And I'd come home with mud on my feet

The captain just gave us our orders
And Mom, we will carry them through
I'll finish this letter the first chance I get
But now I'll just say I love you

Then the mother's old hands began to tremble
And she fought against tears in her eyes
But they came unashamed for there was no name
And she knew that her darling had died

That night as she knelt by her bedside
She prayed, "Lord above, hear my plea
And protect all the sons that are fighting tonight
And dear God, keep America free"

Cards in Poems: Joan Margarit (IV)

Joan Margarit

Platja de setembre
Sota la volta de racola lava que arriba a l'horitzó,
hi ha el mosaic net del mar, i les pinedes
lluents com vidres d'un verd fosc d'ampolla:
la postal de la vida que, al arree,
amb la infantil, difícil lletra tema,
i amb el mata-segells de la mort, diu:
mai més, papà, mai més.
Les ones es cargolen i copleen
amo força i amo el gest
tetinejant d l'orbetat del temps.
La nostàlgia ens envia les teves precioses
postals des de la fosca.

Playa de septiembre

Debajo de la bóveda

de azulejos que llega al horizonte,

está el mosaico límpido del mar,

y pinares que son como cristales

de un color verde oscuro de botella:

la postal de la vida que, detrás,

con tu letra difícil e infantil,

y con el matasellos de la muerte,

dice, ya nunca más, papá, ya nunca más.

Las olas se retuercen y golpean 

con fuerza y con el gesto

de tanteo del tiempo y su ceguera.

La nostalgia nos manda unas preciosas

postales tuyas desde las tinieblas.

En Cálculo de estructuras (2005)

Letters in Music: "The Letter"

The Box Tops (1967) were an American rock band, formed in Memphis in 1963. They are considered a major blue-eyed soul group of the period. 

Ranked by Rolling Stone at #363 on the magazine's list of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time, "The Letter" was reported in July 1979 to have been recorded in over 200 different versions. Among the artists who have recorded the song are Charly García, Bachman–Turner Overdrive, The Beach Boys, Eva Cassidy or Shaun Cassidy.

Enjoy!

"The Letter"

Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane
Ain't got time to take a fast train
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home
My baby, just-a wrote me a letter

I don't care how much money I gotta spend
Got to get back to my baby again
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home
My baby, just-a wrote me a letter

Well, she wrote me a letter
Said she couldn't live without me no more
Listen mister, can't you see I got to get back
To my baby once-a more
Anyway, yeah!

Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane
Ain't got time to take a fast train
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home
My baby, just-a wrote me a letter

Well, she wrote me a letter
Said she couldn't live without me no more
Listen mister, can't you see I got to get back
To my baby once-a more
Anyway, yeah!

Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane
Ain't got time to take a fast train
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home
My baby, just-a wrote me a letter, my baby just-a wrote me a letter

Hands in Poems: Sanober Khan

Sanober Khan

“I keep my kindness in my eyes
Gently folded around my iris
Like a velvety, brown blanket
That warms my vision

I keep my shyness in my hair
Tucked away into a ponytail
Looking for a chance to escape
On a few loose strands in the air

I keep my anger on my lips
Just waiting to unleash into the world
But trust me; it’s never in my heart
It evaporates into words

I keep my dignity upon my chin
Like a torch held up high
For those who have betrayed me
Radiating a silent, strong message

I keep my gratitude in my smile
A glistening waterfall in the sun
Gently splashing at that person
Who made me happy for some reason

I keep my sensitivity in my hands
Reaching out for your wet cheek
Holding you, with all the love
The love I want to share, and feel

I keep my passion in my writing
My words breathing like fire
Screeching against an endless road
As I continue to be inspired

I keep my simplicity in my soul
Spread over me like a clear sky
Reflecting all that I am
And all that’s ever passed me by

And I hope you will look
Beyond my ordinary face
My simple, tied hair
My ordinary tastes
And I hope you will see me
From everyone...apart
As I keep my beauty
in my heart.”

Words in Poems: Kokinwakashū

En cada palabra

y hoja del suspiro,

el rocío que queda

es una lágrima 

que añora el pasado 

(Autor desconocido)

aware chō / koto no ha goto ni / oku tsuyu wa / mukashi o kouru / namida narikeri

En Poesía clásica japonesa [Kokinwakashū] (2008)

Letters in Poems: Bertolt Brecht

 Bertolt Brecht

(1898-1956)

POR CUARTA VEZ ME CONFIESAS

Por cuarta vez me confiesas

Que has quemado todas las naves tras de ti

Destruido todas las cartas, retirado todas tus palabras

Te encuentras en la vorágine de lo nuevo y

Esta vez definitivamente.

Hubiera preferido oír de ti que andabas

Tras lo nuevo, aunque necesitaras tiempo

Que estabas de buen humor y te alegraban

Tus buenas relaciones.

Así te veo pronto

Construyendo nuevas naves, guardando cartas y tomando

la palabra.

Cansancio de la edad es, aunque nada definitivo de nuevo.

En Poemas eróticos (2002)

Libraries (I) Biblioteca Pública e Arquivo Regional Luís da Silva Ribeiro

Para aqueles que nos sentimos cómodos entre libros, visitar bibliotecas e librarías é un pracer. Sempre teño curiosidade por ver o tipo de edificio que a cidade elixiu, entrar a explorar o seu interior e ver se o espazo é agradable e acolledor, o tipo de libros que enchen os andeis... e nun exercicio de puro voyeurismo, ver que tipo de persoas ocupan as cadeiras e sofás e o que están a ler.

O pasado decembro, tivemos a oportunidade de visitar a Biblioteca Pública e Arquivo Regional Luís da Silva Ribeiro, en Angra do Heroísmo, na illa de Terceira (Azores) recentemente inaugurada (o 16 de setembro de 2016) e que leva o nome do açoriano Luís da Silva Ribeiro (1882-1955), xurista, intelectual, político e etnógrafo destacado. O edificio chama a atención pola súa estrutura xeométrica e as amplas cristaleiras, pero alén disto, o interior -luminoso, atractivo- constitúe unha celebración deste pobo e os/as seus/súas lectores/as.

As bibliotecarias explicáronnos orgullosas e entusiasmadas a historia da biblioteca, a mudanza dun edificio antigo e pequeno a este amplo e moderno, a adquisición de novos fondos e o uso continuado que fai a comunidade dos espazos lectores e audiovisuais.

Quedei prendada da clasificación sinxela para o público infantil e xuvenil: seccións nomeadas de xeito transparente e comprensible, que favorecen a autonomía dos/as lectores/as á hora de buscar o que desexan. 

Recunchiños para bebés, para debuxar, para contar, para xogar con monicreques, ... E, ante todo, uns fondos variados e crecentes e un espazo amable para un pobo que ama aos seus literatos e que enche de poesía as rúas, as paredes, e mesmo as servilletas ou as botellas de auga. E así me foron envolvendo os versos tatuados no asfalto do porto de Ponta Delgada de Natalia Correia; os sonetos de Antero de Quental, ondulando os estanques dos parques; e os cadernos de caligrafía na casa natal de Vitorino Nemésio

Namorei.

E enchéuseme a maleta de polisóns.

Pedro e Inés, 2009 (José Nuno da Cámara Pereira)

Espaço bebé

Oficina dos sentidos (1)

Oficina dos sentidos (2)

Words in Poems: Francisco Castaño

Francisco Castaño

II

Cuando tú me miras

Como si supieses,

Tejen mis palabras

Penélope redes.

Tus ojos entonces

Son de luz dos peces

Que aunque fijos huyen

Heráclitamente.

Cuando tú me miras

Como si supieses,

Juegan mis palabras

A que no se atreven.

Tus ojos entonces

Ríen porque advierten

En los míos modos

De amena intemperie.

Cuando tú me miras

Como si supieses

¿Quién dijo que el río

Que pasa no vuelve?

VIII

Cuando tú las dices

Mis palabras tienen

Perfil más amable

Y tono más tenue.

Todas sus aristas

En tu voz se vuelven

Voluntad de pétalo, 

Levedad de nieve.

Mis palabras saben

La escondida fuente

Porque reconocen

De qué labios vienen.

Primicia de aurora

Cuando así amanecen

Como si durmieran

En ti desde siempre.

Pero ensombrecidas

Cuando tú enmudeces

Porque son tus labios

El edén que pierden.

En Corazón alfabético (2003)

Hands in Poems: Maya Angelou (VI)

Remembrance

                                   For Paul

Maya Angelou

Your hands easy

weight, teasing the bees

hived in my hair, your smile at the

slope of my cheek. On the

occasion, you press

above me, glowing, spouting 

readiness, mystery rapes

my reason.

When you have withdrawn

your self and the magic, when

only the smell of your

love lingers between

my breasts, then, only

then, can I greedily consume

your presence.

Our Hands and their Importance

Last year Darian Leader published a really interesting article in The Guardian which looked into the way technology is changing our hands. It analyzed a prediction doctors make that our increasing use of computers and mobile phones will permanently alter our hands, modifying the way we touch, feel and communicate. 

Source: paintings.com

It argued the most obvious (yet neglected) feature of this digital age is that it allows people to keep their hands busy in a variety of unprecedented ways, leading to increases in computer -and phone-related hand problems, which will ultimately lead to us having different hands.

It also went into the need we feel to keep our hands busy, which has always been a part of our human nature: spinning, knitting, Lego and other games... and nowadays, cell phones.

On top of that, another article by CNN also examined how technology is affecting handwriting, specifically going ton the state of handwriting in the United States, which is seeing a dramatic decline in handwriting which is causing "great" deterioration of the mind.

"I have discovered the secret of happiness - it is work, either with the hands or the head. The moment I have something to do, the draughts are open and my chimney draws, and I am happy"

(John Burroughs)

The Heart in Poems: Modesto Fraga (II)

Modesto Fraga (1974)

CORAZÓN DELICIA

A túa pel tan suave é a caricia

que ansío ter nas noites de outonía,

o saboroso celme da alegría

a ensalitrada man que me acaricia.

A pel, o celme, a man. Esa ledicia

que nos devora, amor, día tras día

esta ardente paixón, esa avreguía

que sabe a mar e a exótica delicia.

Eu desexo habitar nas túas ondas

na cálida ambrosía da rompente,

ser lobo para anexarte onde te escondas;

vivir e naufragar na pel gozosa,

ouvearlle á lúa azul libidinosa

por te soñar, inevitablemente.

En Adagio por outono (2016)

Words in Poems: Luis Alberto de Cuenca

Luis Alberto de Cuenca

Conversación

Cada vez que te hablo, otras palabras

escapan de mi boca, otras palabras.

No son mías. Proceden de otro sitio.

Me muerden en la lengua. Me hacen daño.

Tienen, como las lanzas de los héroes, 

doble filo, y los labios se me rompen

a su contacto, y cada vez que surgen

de dentro -o de muy lejos, o de nunca-,

me fluye de la boca un hilo tibio

de sangre que resbala por mi cuerpo.

Cada vez que te hablo, otras palabras

hablan por mí, como si ya no hubiese

nada mío en el mundo, nada mío

en el agotamiento interminable

de amarte y sentirme desamado.

En Los mundos y los días. Poesía 1972-1998 (2012)

Words in Poems: Mario Benedetti (II)

Mario Benedetti

(1920-2009)

Palabras

En cada libro que leo

siempre encuentro  una palabra

que sobrevive al olvido

y me acompaña

son palabras que a menudo

me defienden de la pálida

unas parecen de cuarzo

otras de lata

yo las prefiero milongas

y hasta un poquito canallas

pues si se vuelven decentes

quién las aguanta

Fan Letters to Agatha Christie

We have devoted previous entries to the queen of the roman noir, writer Agatha Christie, who I profoundly admire since she provided many hours of entertainment in my younger years and who died on this day in 1976. The bestselling writer hoarded hundreds of letters from her readers which were published for the first time last year (2015) to mark the 125th anniversary of her birth.

Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Agatha_Christie_plaque_-Torre_Abbey_portret.jpg

A summary of these letters was included in this Guardian article, which I am partially including below:

[The letters] include a note from the author PG Wodehouse and a Polish woman in London, who told how one of Christie’s novels helped her to survive a wartime labour camp in Germany. The woman exchanged a piece of candle for a Polish translation of Christie’s The Man in the Brown Suit.

“I read and reread (it) so often that I almost knew it by heart,” she wrote. “The first few pages were missing so I didn’t know the title or the author but for seven months it was my only link with a normal world.

“I know your writings have given pleasure and amusement to millions of people all over the world but never can one of your books have meant more to anyone than that tattered Polish translation did to me.”

Christie, who penned 66 detective novels and 14 short story collections, also treasured a 1958 letter from a 14-year-old boy in Bristol who started a book club at his school so he could raise funds to buy her work.

“I have bought 28 books by you and this is how I have managed it,” he wrote. “I charge the boys 3d per book to read at school, and 6d if they wished to take them home.

“With the money I obtained... I bought more ‘AC’ books... Now my scheme is bringing in so much money, I can afford to buy one of your books a week.

Letters in Poems: Gabriel García Márquez

Gabriel García Márquez

Viajar

Viajar es marcharse de casa,

es dejar los amigos

es intentar volar

volar conociendo otras ramas 

recorriendo caminos

es intentar cambiar.

Viajar es vestirse de loco

es decir “no me importa”

es querer regresar.

Regresar valorando lo poco

saboreando una copa,

es desear empezar.

Viajar es sentirse poeta,

es escribir una carta, 

es querer abrazar. 

Abrazar al llegar a una puerta

añorando la calma 

es dejarse besar.

Viajar es volverse mundano 

es conocer otra gente

es volver a empezar. 

Empezar extendiendo la mano,

aprendiendo del fuerte, 

es sentir soledad.

Viajar es marcharse de casa,

es vestirse de loco

diciendo todo y nada con una postal,

Es dormir en otra cama,

sentir que el tiempo es corto,

viajar es regresar.

Letters in Poems: Nazim Hikmet (II)

Nazim Hikmet
(1902-1963)

Last Letter to My Son

(translation by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk)

For one thing, hangmen separated us;

for another, this rotten heart of mine

played a trick on me.

It isn’t in the cards

that I’ll see you again.

I know

as a young man you’ll be like a sheaf of wheat

– tall, blond, and lean

like me in my youth – 

with your mother’s big eyes,

and now and then you’ll grow strangely quiet,

your forehead full of light.

You’ll probably even have a good voice

– mine was awful –

and you’ll sing bittersweet, heartbreaking songs . . .

And you’ll know how to talk

– I did okay at that myself,

when I wasn’t too upset –

works will be honey on your tongue.

Yes, Memet,

you’ll drive the girls crazy . . .

It’s hard

to bring up a boy without a father.

Go easy on your mother, son –

I couldn’t make her happy,

but you try.

Your mother is

as strong and soft as silk;

she’ll be as beautiful

when she’s a grandmother

as she was the day I first saw her

on the Bosporus

at seventeen -

she is moonlight and sunshine, a heart cherry,

a true beauty.

Your mother

and I said good-bye one morning,

thinking we’d meet again,

but we couldn’t.

She is the kindest

and smartest of mothers –

may she live to be a hundred!

I don’t fear death.

Still,

it’s no fun

to startle in the middle of work sometimes

or count the days

before falling asleep alone.

You can never have enough of the world,

Memet, never enough. . .

Don’t live in the world as if you were renting

or here only for the summer,

but act as if it was your father’s house. . .

Believe in seeds, earth, and the sea,

but people above all.

Love clouds, machines, and books,

but people above all.

Grieve

for the withering branch,

the dying star,

and the hurt animal,

but feel for people above all.

Rejoice in all the earth’s blessings –

darkness and light,

the four seasons,

but people above all.

Memet,

our Turkey

is one sweet

country.

And its people,

its real people,

are hard-working, serious, and brave

but frightfully poor.

Its people are long-suffering.

But it will turn out good.

You and your people there

will build Communism –

you’ll see it with your eyes and touch it with your hands.

Memet,

I’ll die far from my language and my songs,

my salt and my bread,

homesick for you and your mother,

my friends and my people,

but not in exile,

not in some foreign land –

I will die in the country of my dreams,

in the white city of my best days.

Memet,

my son,

I leave you in the care

of Turkey’s Communist Party.

I go

at peace.

The life that’s coming to an end in me

will survive for a time in you

but will last forever in our people.

1955

Moscow

Words in Poems: Daniel Gonçalves (I)

Daniel Gonçalves

há um lugar submerso en cada poema, uma ilha ao

contrário, enraizando as palavras, até ao fundo da

escuridão, onde chove a luz de deus, e há o lugar

da magnólia, a vez dos outros poetas, como uma 

escadaria admirável, na eternidade da boca, como um

instrumento de sopro, mexendo nas cordas da poesia.

Em Privilégios de ser pássaro (2016)

The Heart in Poems: Antero de Quental (II)

Sepultura Romântica

Ali, onde o mar quebra, n'um cachão 

Rugidor e monótono, e os ventos 

Erguem pelo areal os seus lamentos, 

Ali se há-de enterrar meu coração. 

Queimem-no os sóis da adusta solidão 

Na fornalha do estio, em dias lentos; 

Depois, no inverno, os sopros violentos 

Lhe revolvam em torno o árido chão... 

Até que se desfaça e, já tornado 

Em impalpavel pó, seja levado 

Nos turbilhões que o vento levantar... 

Com suas lutas, seu cansado anseio, 

Seu louco amor, dissolva-se no seio 

D'esse infecundo, d'esse amargo mar!

De Sonetos (2016)

Epitaphs (XI): Posthumous Letters in Moraime

Daniel Gonçalves

"no represado novembro, no céu escutado, no frio

recente, há uma luz que o vento apaga, uma luz

que descore, ou uma palavra, perdendo o vasto

perfil da acentuação, um fruto que cai, um grito que

flui na loucura da terra, há o paraíso inviolável, um

pensamento que o toca, a ilha do sul, o clarão dos

presságios, o precipício encantado, o corpo sem

varandas, as pedras do rosto cegando pulso, há as

flores do mal, o emudecido lamento, e a morte que 

entra na epidemia do esquecimento, um tempo que se 

desfoca no amplexo do outono, e há sobretudo o salmo

do sufoco, a morte anunciada, o poema sobreposto, o

gesto transfigurado, o suspiro."

Em Privilégios de ser pássaro (2016)

"A túa familia non te esquence" 

"Es propiedad de... Párroco de esta feligresía y deja prohibido tanto a herederos como a estraños
el que en ningún tiempo usen y usurpen esta propiedad" (por se acaso, non vaia ser)

"Recuerdo de tus nietos de Francia"

Dous fillos. Mesmo nome. Tráxico final.