Sunday, 21 February 2010

C Is For Cookie...

Biscuits du samedi avec mon fils...

À Antoine... xxx

[Now what starts with the letter C?
Cookie starts with C
Let's think of other things
That starts with C
Oh, who cares about the other things?]

C is for cookie, that's good enough for me
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me
Oh, cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C

C is for cookie, that's good enough for me
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me
Oh, cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C

[Hey you know what?
A round cookie with one bite out of it
Looks like a C
A round donut with one bite out of it
Also looks like a C
But it is not as good as a cookie
Oh and the moon sometimes looks like a C
But you can't eat that, so ... ]

C is for cookie, that's good enough for me, yeah!
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me
C is for cookie, that's good enough for me
Oh, cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C, yeah!
Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C, oh boy!
Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C!

(Cookie Monster eats the cookie)
Umm-umm-umm-umm-umm


Joe Raposo, C Is For Cookie... (Sesame Street)


Saturday, 20 February 2010

On a lone winter evening, when the frost has wrought a silence...


The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.


John keats, On the Grasshopper and Cricket...



Henry Purcell, Suite No.2 in G minor:Saraband

Friday, 19 February 2010

Que una caricia podía borrar el color de mi ciudad…


Una inquietante mirada de Amor Porteño
Cálida y cruel
No, no puedo creer que pasó
Que el misterio sensuel de tu risa canyengue
Se apagó

Brindo por esa ilusión de Amor Porteño
Loco puñal
Dulce y fatal, la nostalgia
De un tiempo pedazo de
Nosotros dos

Y yo que pensaba que no me importaba
Que una caricia podía borrar el color
De mi ciudad …

El código oculto de esa mirada
Es como una señal
Y no puedo zafar
Un deseo sutil que temblando me viene a buscar


Eduardo Makaroff, Amor Porteño...



Gotan Project, Amor Porteño

Tuesday, 16 February 2010

Dans cette grande plaine où l’autan froid se joue...


Ô fins d’automne, hivers, printemps trempés de boue,
Endormeuses saisons ! je vous aime et vous loue
D’envelopper ainsi mon cœur et mon cerveau
D’un linceul vaporeux et d’un vague tombeau.

Dans cette grande plaine où l’autan froid se joue,
Où par les longues nuits la girouette s’enroue,
Mon âme mieux qu’au temps du tiède renouveau
Ouvrira largement ses ailes de corbeau.

Rien n’est plus doux au cœur plein de choses funèbres,
Et sur qui dès longtemps descendent les frimas,
Ô blafardes saisons, reines de nos climats,

Que l’aspect permanent de vos pâles ténèbres,
— Si ce n’est, par un soir sans lune, deux à deux,
D’endormir la douleur sur un lit hasardeux.


Brumes et Pluies, Charles Baudelaire


Henry Purcell - The Fairy Queen - If love's a sweet passion

Saturday, 13 February 2010

Et dans 150 ans, on s'en souviendra pas...


Et dans 150 ans, on s'en souviendra pas
De ta première ride, de nos mauvais choix,
De la vie qui nous baise, de tous ces marchands d'armes,
Des types qui votent les lois là bas au gouvernement,
De ce monde qui pousse, de ce monde qui crie,
Du temps qui avance, de la mélancolie,
La chaleur des baisers et cette pluie qui coule,
Et de l'amour blessé et de tout ce qu'on nous roule,
Alors souris...

Dans 150 ans, on s'en souviendra pas
De la vieillesse qui prend, de leurs signes de croix,
De l'enfant qui se meurt, des vallées du tiers monde,
Du salaud de chasseur qui descend la colombe,
De ce que t'étais belle, et des rives arrachées,
Des années sans sommeil, cent millions d'affamés
Des portes qui se referment de t'avoir vue pleurer,
De la cours solennelle qui condamne sans ciller,
Alors souris...

Et dans 150 ans, on n'y pensera même plus
A ce qu'on a aimé, à ce qu'on a perdu,
Allez vidons nos bières pour les voleurs des rues !
Finir tous dans la terre, mon dieu ! Quelle déconvenue...
Et regarde ces squelettes qui nous regardent de travers,
Et ne fais pas la tête, ne leur fais pas la guerre,
Il leur restera rien de nous, pas plus que d'eux,
J'en mettrais bien ma main à couper ou au feu,
Alors souris...

Et dans 150 ans, mon amour, toi et moi,
On sera doucement dansant, 2 oiseaux sur la croix,
Dans ce bal déclassé, encore je vois large,
P't'être qu'on sera repassés dans un très prochain naufrage,
Mais y a rien d'autre à dire, je veux rien te faire croire,
Mon amour, mon amour, j'aurai le mal de toi,
Mais y a rien d'autre à dire, je veux rien te faire croire,
Mon amour, mon amour, j'aurai le mal de toi,
Mais que veux-tu ?


Raphael, Et dans 150 ans


Friday, 12 February 2010

Take me on your flight...


Bird of Prey
Bird of Prey
Flying high
Flying high
In the summer sky
Bird of Prey
Bird of Prey
Flying high
Flying high
gently pass on by
Bird of Prey
Bird of Prey
Flying high
Flying high
am i going to die
Bird of Prey
Bird of Prey
Flying high
Flying high
take me on your flight


Jim Morrison, Bird of Prey..


Jim Morrison, Bird of Prey

Monday, 8 February 2010

Free as a bird...


Free as a bird,
it's the next best thing to be.
Free as a bird.

Home, home and dry,
like a homing bird I'll fly
as a bird on wings.

Whatever happened to
the lifes that we once knew?
Can we really live without each other?

Where did we lose the touch
that seemed to mean so much?
It always made me feel so...

Free as a bird,
like the next best thing to be.
Free as a bird.

Home, home and dry,
like a homing bird I'll fly
as a bird on wings.

Whatever happened to
the life that we once knew?
Always made me feel so free.

Free as a bird.
It's the next best thing to be.
Free as a bird.
Free as a bird.
Free as a bird.

Free As A Bird
, Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, Starkey


The Beatles, Free as a Bird (1977/1995)

Sunday, 7 February 2010

Apelo...


Ah, meu amor não vais embora
Vê a vida como chora, vê que triste esta canção
Não, eu te peço não te ausentes
Pois a dor que agora sentes só se esquece no perdão
Ah, minha amada me perdoa
Pois embora ainda te doa a tristeza que causei
Eu te suplico não destruas tantas coisas que são tuas
Por um mal que eu já paguei
Ah, minha amada se soubesses
Da tristeza que há nas preces
Que a chorar te faço eu
Se tu soubesses num momento todo arrependimento
Como tudo entristeceu
Se tu soubesses como é triste
Perceber que tu partistes
Sem sequer dizer adeus
Ah, meu amor tu voltarias
E de novo cairias
A chorar nos braços meus!


Vinicius de Moraes


António Zambujo, Apelo (Trindade)

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

Honey pie, she was a working girl...


She was a working girl
North of England way
Now she's hit the big time
In the U.S.A.
And if she could only hear me
This is what I'd say.

Honey pie you are making me crazy
I'm in love but I'm lazy
So won't you please come home.

Oh honey pie my position is tragic
Come and show me the magic
of your Hollywood song.

You became a legend of the silver screen
And now the thought of meeting you
Makes me weak in the knee.

Oh honey pie you are driving me frantic
Sail across the Atlantic
To be where you belong.

Honey pie, come back to me.

I like it like that,
Oohh, I like this kinda, hot kind of music.
Hot kind of music, play it to me,
Play it to me Hollywood blues

Will the wind that blew her boat
Across the sea
Kindly send her sailing back to me.

Honey pie you are making me crazy
I'm in love but I'm lazy
So won't you please come home.


Paul McCartney, Honey Pie | The White Album


The Beatles - Honey Pie

Monday, 1 February 2010

Où l'esprit flotte, où l'oeil s'enfuit...


Et dans ce charmant paysage
Où l'esprit flotte, où l'oeil s'enfuit,
Le buisson, l'oiseau de passage,
L'herbe qui tremble et qui reluit,
Le vieil arbre que l'âge ploie,
Le donjon qu'un moulin coudoie,
Le ruisseau de moire et de soie,
Le champ où dorment les aïeux,
Ce qu'on voit pleurer ou sourire,
Ce qui chante et ce qui soupire,
Ce qui parle et ce qui respire,
Tout fait un bruit harmonieux !


Victor Hugo, Bièvre


Dmitri Shostakovich, Romance