"Pongáio" was the name my Aunt Mona gave to a long, green, cool room where we gathered at her home —
replete with comfy chairs, a rocker, sewing machine, sewing goods, beautiful beads, shelves, books, bibelots, photographs, odds'n'ends, mementos of a life, treasures —
a gathering of all the useful & 'useless' things that so make life a pleasure.

Monday, January 27, 2003

Solo for a Saturday Night Guitar

for Day
Solo for a Saturday Night Guitar

Time was. Time is. Time shall be.
Man invented time to be used.
Love was. Love is. Love shall be.
Yet no man never invented love
Nor is love to be used like time.
A clock wears numbers one to twelve
And you look and read its face
And tell the time pre-cise-ly ex-act-ly.
Yet who reads the face of love?
Who tells love numbers pre-cise-ly ex-act-ly?
Holding love in a tight hold for keeps,
Fastening love down and saying
"It's here now and here for always."
You don't do this off-hand, careless-like.
Love costs. Love is not so easy
Nor is the shimmering of star dust
Nor the smooth flow of new blossoms
or the drag of a heavy hungering for someone.
       Love is a white horse you ride
       or wheels and hammers leaving you lonely
       or a rock in the moonlight for rest
       or a sea where phantom ships cross always
       or a tall shadow always whispering
       or a circle of spray and prisms ---
       maybe a rainbow around your shoulders
               Heavy heavy is love to carry
               and light as one rose petal.
               light as a bubble, a blossom,
               a remembering bar of music
               or a finger or a wisp of hair
               never forgotten.

                           Carl Sandburg,
                           American, 1878-1967

Raízes — Roots

for Marigold
         (Renato Teixeira)

Galo cantou
madrugada na campina
Manhã menina
tá na flor do meu jardim
Hoje é domingo
me desculpe eu tô sem pressa
nem preciso de conversa
não há nada prá cumprir

Passar o dia
ouvindo o som de uma viola
Eu quero que o mundo agora
se mostre pros bem-te-vi
Mando daqui das bandas do rural lembranças
vibrações da nova hora
prá você que não tá aqui

é uma lição do universo
Que nos ensina
que é preciso renascer
O novo amanhece
O novo amanhece

Já tem rolinha
lá no terreiro varrido
e o orvalho brilha
como pétalas ao sol
Tem uma sombra
que caminha pras montanhas
se espalhando feito alma
por dentro do matagal
E quanto mais
a luz vai invadindo a terra
o que a noite não revela
o dia mostra prá mim

A rádio agora
tá tocando Rancho Fundo
Somos só eu e o mundo
E tudo começa aqui...

Saturday, January 25, 2003


… And delight in being here on earth * For one more moment * here on earth * to celabrate our tiny, tiny my-ness. — Czeslaw Milosz

Started a blog! This is it: my first post!
Hurray! Hurrah!

I managed to get all the steps done. Hurray for me, as I'm rather cyber-challenged!
Tried first at weblogger. There though, lots of things don't work.... may be my computer? I don't know!
So gave up there and came here to Blogger.

I've been following some blogs since around the middle of last year, when I finally figured out what they were! : ))))

Inspired by some new blogging-friends, here I am.
A blog to celebrate my part of  "our tiny, tiny my-ness".

My parents, my husband, my brother, my sister.
I am listening in a cafeteria at breakfast.
The women's voices rustle, fulfill themselves
In a ritual no doubt necessary.
I glance sidelong at their moving lips
And delight in being here on earth
For one more moment, with them, here on earth,
To celebrate our tiny, tiny my-ness.

Czeslaw Milosz,
            Polish, b. 1912