( my just ordered ) secret garden

  

"Secret Garden is not only a colouring book...", it's wonderful . by the talented Johanna Basford.

guess the story

by Christian Jackson. tites (and more) here. 

 

         You don't have a soul.

You are a soul.            You have a body.

Walter M. Miller, Jr. 
img. Maria Louceiro

shrinking women

Lily Myers, performing for Wesleyan University at the 2013 College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational. 

The poem was awarded "Best Love Poem" .

pele

quanto mais me dispo menos nu me sinto
jorge sousa braga
img. amy friend 

on (alternative) education

um livro infantil....

Um decálogo pensado antes do nascimento da editora Libros Únicos, 
uma espécie de manifesto para fundamentar o seu trabalho, súmula 
perfeita sobre a essência do livro infantil.

foco

Pues lo que importa no es la luz que encendemos día a día, 
sino la que alguna vez apagamos 
para guardar la memoria secreta de la luz

Jorge Teillier, "Los domingos perdidos".
grata a maria josé ferrada
img. elspeth diederix

Varðeldur

anéis

Semear é dar o que Queremos receber.
Querer é obrigar os desejos a fazer ginástica. 

Espreitar é o que fazemos quando os  nossos olhos são maiores que O Mundo. 

mundo é uma bola tão grande que se torna difícil jogar com ela.
Eugénio Roda in O Quê Que Quem (formatação minha); img. Yamamoto

Lil' Red

by cale atkinson

again and again

again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again among the flowers, 

face to face with the sky.

rainer maria rilke (img. unknowed)

vital voices

vital voices. org

Pós-Graduação em Livro Infantil: nova edição

Outras informações académicas e contactos encontram-se no site da Universidade Católica.

máximos

K V E T A  
p a c o v s k a 


"Gosto de todas as cores mas, sobretudo, gosto de escolher aquelas que produzem um máximo de contraste: o máximo contraste significa máxima beleza, uma espécie de sentimento supremo com uma grande tensão."                                                     

oda a una estrella

Asomando a la noche
en la terraza
de un rascacielos altísimo y amargo
pude tocar la bóveda nocturna
y en un acto de amor extraordinario
me apoderé de una celeste estrella.
Negra estaba la noche
y yo me deslizaba
por la calle
con la estrella robada en el bolsillo.
De cristal tembloroso
parecía
y era
de pronto
como si Ilevara
un paquete de hielo
o una espada de arcángel en el cinto.  
La guardé
temeroso
debajo de la cama
para que no la descubriera nadie,

pero su luz
atravesó
primero
la lana del colchón,
luego
las tejas,
el techo de mi casa.
Incómodos
se hicieron
para mí
los más privados menesteres.
Siempre con esa luz
de astral acetileno
que palpitaba como si quisiera
regresar a la noche,
yo no podía
preocuparme de todos
mis deberes
y así fue que olvidé pagar mis cuentas
y me quedé sin pan ni provisiones.

Mientras tanto, en la calle,
se amotinaban
transeúntes, mundanos
vendedores
atraídos sin duda
por el fulgor insólito
que veían salir de mi ventana.
Entonces
recogí
otra vez mi estrella,
con cuidado
la envolví en mi pañuelo
y enmascarado entre la muchedumbre
pude pasar sin ser reconocido.
Me dirigí al oeste,
al río Verde,
que allí bajo los sauces
es sereno.
Tomé la estrella de la noche fría
y suavemente
la eché sobre las aguas.
Y no me sorprendió
que se alejara
como un pez insoluble
moviendo
en la noche del río
su cuerpo de diamante.

 
Neruda e Elena Odriozola,
num belo livro-poema
da Libros del Zorro Rojo.

essence

img. brian wildsmith

a linguagem das coisas

A chilena maria josé ferrada, ilustrada por pep carrió. 

- obrigada, afonso -

ps. acenda a imagem

fumo (ainda)

OQO 

pygmalion (and hughes)

(...)

So he had made a woman

Lovelier than any living woman.

And when he gazed at her

As if coming awake he fell in love.

His own art amazed him, she was so real.

She might have moved, he thought,

Only her modesty

Her sole garment – invisible,

Woven from the fabric of his dream –

Held her as if slightly ashamed

Of stepping into life.

Then his love

For this woman so palpably a woman

Became his life.

Incessantly now

He caressed her,

Searching for the warmth of living flesh,

His finger-tip whorls filtering out

Every feel of mere ivory.

He kissed her, closing his eyes

To divine an answering kiss of life

In her perfect lips.

And he would not believe

They were after all only ivory.

He spoke to her, he stroked her

Lightly to feel her living aura

Soft as down over her whiteness.

His fingers gripped her hard

To feel flesh yield under the pressure

That half wanted to bruise her

Into a proof of life, and half did not

Want to hurt or mar or least of all

Find her the solid ivory he had made her.

He flattered her.

He brought her love-gifts, knick-knacks,

Speckled shells, gem pebbles,

Little rainbow birds in pretty cages,

Flowers, pendants, drops of amber.

He dressed her

In the fashion of the moment,

Set costly rings on her cold fingers,

Hung pearls in her ears, coiled ropes of pearl

To drape her ivory breasts.

Did any of all this add to her beauty?

Gazing at her adorned, his head ached.

But then he stripped everything off her

And his brain swam, his eyes

Dazzled to contemplate

The greater beauty of her naked beauty.

(...)

in tales from ovid by Ted Hughes