Armando Taborda's photos

Sitting on the lake's esplanade you say something I do not hear. Light fascinates me more than sound. There are reflections of your smile and the waving of the late afternoon in your eyes. Why listen to you? /// SORRISO DE AMOR - LI Sentada na esplanada do lago dizes qualquer coisa que não ouço. A luz fascina-me mais do que o som. Há reflexos do teu sorriso e do ondular do fim da tarde no teu olhar. Para quê ouvir-te? by Armando TABORDA, 2017

Nothing to do with me. I'm only 75 years old!

WE COULD REBUILT THE WALL BUT COLLAPSED BRICKS ALSO HAVE THEIR BEAUTY /// PODERÍAMOS RECONSTUIR A PAREDE MAS OS TIJOLOS DESMORONADOS TAMBÉM TÊM A SUA BELEZA by Armando TABORDA, 2015 (1st edition, 2015; 2nd edition, 2017)

"Dying is easy life is one enormous concentration camp that God has established here on Earth for mankind and that man has refined yet further as an annihilation camp for his own kith Taking one's own life amounts to outwitting those who stand on guard escaping deserting those who are left behind laughing up one's sleeve In this big Lager of life the neither-in-nor-out-neither-forward-nor-back in this wretched world of lives held in suspended animation where we grow decrepit without time moving any further forward... this is where I learned that to rebel is TO STAY ALIVE The great insubordination is for us to live our lives to the end and equally the big humiliation that we owe ourselves The sole method of suicide that is worthy of respect is to live to commit suicide amounts to continuing life starting anew every day living anew every day dying anew every day I don't know how I should continue." by Imre KERTÉSZ, in "LIQUIDATION" (excerpt) (1st edition, 2015; 2nd edition, 2017)

Gulbenkian Foundation, Lisbon (press z to sea in the lightbox)

God exists, but He will not give reason, wherefore or cause why He should. Death is close and salvation far. Suddenly my arm is numb from the shoulder down. My writing arm, drinking arm, for a night on the town. My paws are dead in their joints. My clenching paws, my fists. My world is a lobster and comes with claws. I raise my tingling arm and the numbness lingers in my wrist, my palm, my soft white trigger-fingers. /// Deus existe, mas sem dar explicação, justificação ou razão para isso. A morte está perto e a salvação longe. De súbito meu braço fica dormente pelo ombro abaixo. O meu braço de escrever, de beber, pela noite na cidade. Minhas mãos estão mortas nas articulações. As mãos que apertam, os punhos. O meu mundo é uma lagosta que avança com pinças. Levanto o braço entorpecido e os dedos dormentes do meu punho, na palma de minha mão, meu pálido dedo no gatilho. by Howard WRIGHT, in "POETRY REVIEW", Volume 103:4, WINTER 2013 (Portuguese translated by Armando TABORDA, 2017) (1st edition, 2014; 2nd edition, 2017)

press z to see in the lightbox

and played the spinning top with God while my mother held out clothes and my father was begging bread and that time my joy was very close to that of boys and of God who always won and I don't know who I first lose: the spinning top or God I only know that God continues playing together with other boys and that by Autumn when I go out to the square we sit down and speak a lot upon the gente swirl of leaves /// e jogava ao pião com Deus enquanto minha mãe estendia roupa e o meu pai mendigava pão e minha alegria nesse tempo era muito próxima da dos meninos e de Deus que ganhava sempre e não sei quem perdi primeiro: o pião ou Deus apenas sei que Deus continua a jogar com outros meninos e que no Outono quando saio à praça nos sentamos e falamos muito do suave rodopiar das folhas by Daniel FARIA (1971-1999), in"OXÁLIDA" - included in "POESIA", Porto Editora, 2ª Edição, 2015 (Engish translated by Armando TABORDA, 2015) (photo taken from Internet; edited by Armando TABORDA) (1st edition, 2015; 2nd edition, 2017)

Too proud to die, broken and blind he died The darkest way, and did not turn away, A cold, kind man brave in his burning pride On that darkest day. Oh, forever may He live lighttly, at last, on the last, crossed Hill, and there grow young, under the grass, in love, Among the long flocks, and never lie lost Or still all days of his death, though above All he longed all dark for his mother's breast Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed. Let him find no rest but be fathered and found, I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed, In the muted house, one minute before Noon, and night, and light. The rivers of the dead Moved in his poor hand I held, and I saw Through his faded eyes to the roots of the sea. Go calm to your cricifixed hill, I told The air that drew away from him. /// ELEGIA Orgulhoso por morrer, morreu desesperado e cego Da maneira mais sombria, e não fugiu, Homem frio, amável e corajoso no seu ardente orgulho Naquele dia fatídico. Oh, possa para sempre Viver despreocupado, finalmente, na última colina Percorrida, e lá crescer jovem, sob a relva, apaixonado, Entre grandes rebanhos, e nunca perder, Nem sequer os dias da sua morte, acima de tudo Desejar a escuridão no seio de sua mãe Que é sossego e pó, e na terra leve A mais sombria justiça da morte, cega e maldita. Deixem-no não chegar ao descanso mas que se adapte e o encontre, Chorei no quarto acanhado, em seu leito de morte, Na casa silenciosa, um minuto antes Do meio-dia, e noite, e luz. Vi os rios da morte Correrem da sua pobre mão que apertei Para o fundo do mar através do seu moribundo olhar. Vai calmamente para a tua colina de crucificação, disse-lhe A aragem que dele se afastou. by Dylan THOMAS (1914-1953), in "SELECTED POEMS", Edited by The Folio Society Ltd, 2014 (Portuguese translated by Armando TABORDA, 2017) (photograph copied from the book: Dylan Thomas in Brown's Hotel, Laugharne, 1938)

press z to see in the lightbox