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Two poems, by Katherine Pierpoint

The Twist in the River

At the clear, beer-coloured and bubbleshot twist in the river --

Every stone a speckled egg spawned in that deep lap,

Every pockmarked, pitted pebble ap lanet, blindly seeing through its own evolution --

The shallows, and the tall air, are filled with sound and light.

This part of the river expects to be seen, for it has drawn you there,

And the trees, selfless, introduce the sky into your love for the water.

If this place were a person, It Would Be making up a paper hat while humming,

Entirely self-contained, absorbs radiant yet -

A family moment, appearing nonrmal Until Years Later in retrospect,

When Fully Are STI depths felt, Beyond blunt experience.

Underwater, the light thickens

Slightly

But never sets And the River Runs Through Its Own fingers, careless.

The bend in the river

In the clear, bubbly bend, color

beer - each stone a freckled eggs spawned in the deep bosom, every pebble

pockmarked and breaking a planet than blind looking through their own evolution -

low and the high air, are filled with sound and light.

This part of the river aspires aspires to be seen, for there you have attracted

and trees, humble, up to heaven in your love for water.

If this site were a person, make a paper hat while singing.

completely full of himself, absorbed more radiant

- a time of family, who seemed normal until years firing, looking back,

fully feel their Honduras, beyond the peel experience.

underwater, Light thickens slightly, but never rests

and the river running between his fingers, casual.

Katherine Pierpoint, born in 1961 in Northampton, England. Poet, editor, researcher and translator. The version of the poem was included in the lamb generation. Anthology of contemporary poetry in the British Isles . Translation of Pedro Serrano and Carlos López Beltrán.

Angel Wings Footprints

selection of some aphorisms, or wits of Joseph Hill, published in the blog of Letras Libres:

Romanticism was a leap of history to hysteria.

poet returned to the life giving breath
scholarship to scholarship [or, I should think of others, meeting to meeting.]

to ruin his eternal plagiarist, deliberately began to write badly. [Are you going to GGM
YCF?]

There essayists Marx Marxists ranging from less.

At the Academy, the then daring writer got canned.

A writer with no fear of the gerund is a writer, an editor is only [This should be at the entrance of any hall of FFyL]

Chapeau.

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Aphorism of the hill the traveler's responsibility

GF

wander the streets of Florence
wandering
you and your delicate arms

your ridiculous beliefs who can not or will not
know that God amorhambre
Storm causes
and dark flasks
slowest staggering

wander through the streets of Florence

wandering meditation and foreign languages \u200b\u200b
smoke clinging to the fleeing outlaw
your nostrils bitter
the color of your tongue tastes like snuff


Turkish coffee and wander the streets of Florence wandering
your hands crumpled
the rough accent your back
sun naked in the very short

football matches your urination and swollen abdomen
in the halls of opium and save superstitious

momentary erections in front of me like pigeons
points-
to raise its voice in flight

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A light Artaud, a cheesy Conrad. Quick

H. says

Yepez, yesterday in his column Labyrinth:

Okay, beloved Swedish Academy, American literature is a Texas ranch. But, ah heck, why Le Clézio?
The Academy says that Europe remains the center of literature. " A response to Time magazine predicted in 2007 death of French culture, as his prime minister left view when he said that this award devoted to France and showed that the rooster is still alive.
According to the announcement of the Academy, read by the controversial Professor Engdahl, Le Clezio won the prize for being a proponent of "new destination (departures), poetic adventure and sensual ecstasy." Do not think of this description, perhaps, the promotion of a tourist cruise?
is true: Le Clézio was marked by his trips to Africa, Mexico and South America. And is true that Le Clézio is idealistic and romantic. A light Artaud, a cheesy Conrad. Awarded to the exotic: the other colorful primitive beings.
"explorer of a humanity beyond and below (below) the reigning civilization." By any criterion, the official reason for the Academy grieves. A Le Clezio was given the Nobel why innovative?, How deep? No. As a Crocodile Dundee counsel. The European Good friend of the noble savage.
His relationship with the Third World is key. What was rewarded intellectual tourism, colonialism so sorry and empathetic cultures there "down." Ecomoralista multiculturalism was awarded. His autonostalgia of Rousseau.
If you want to reward a writer who has to do with the Indian, why not reward better León Portilla (which did change our understanding of these cultures)? And if, as hacérsenos wanted to believe, is awarded to an author beyond "Existentialism and the new novel," why not appointed Ernesto Sabato (who actually took the novel beyond)? Neither Gandhi nor
Borges. The Nobel is due to the outdated ideals of the Old World.
In recent decades, almost all the winners are traditional novelists, the most decrepit kind of writer! This award is given for political reasons, almost always well behaved writers, whose election is a tactical international sign.
Another thing, however, is real literature, nor is fashionable or idealizing the past, nor the easiest or the most isolated, but the most profound effect of self-criticism.
What award was the idea that European literature is self-sufficient. You only need the Third World as pre-text to prove that the Christ and remain masters of the world.
Paradoxically, the 2008 Nobel given to an Indian friendly French is a message that the Europeans themselves are massaged, and which says: United States is not yet beyond us, the truth of the Third World is written in European languages, we are the best , los más buenos, ¡somos la Gran Autoconciencia de este planeta!

En cambio, D. Miklos , lanza un elogio a este escritor out-of-mainstream :

Hace poco menos de diez años, mi primer editor me dijo "Hay libros que abren (y cierran) puertas". Tras esta sentencia, me tendió una amplia obra: La cuarentena (Barcelona: Tusquets, 1998), de J. M. G. Le Clézio, quien hoy ha sido galardonado con el Premio Nobel de Literatura. La portada era, sin lugar a dudas, un muy buen umbral: la costa de lo que imaginamos una isla, todo en tonos amarillos. Comencé a leer el libro. Y no lo solté. Novela search of adventure and quintessential literary pedigree, Quarantine, I found, was, and is one of those books that, as I wanted Aurelio Major, "open doors." Ie open doors to literature. A future creation. I have no doubt that much of what he wrote Le Clezio has had an impact on my (at that time postponed) own creative process. Anyway. A decade later, the Nobel for Le Clezio. Almost unknown author (decided to escape from the Parisian publishing literary life: the hated), JMG emigrated. Lived, among other countries, Mexico (has a book called The Mexican dream, published under the seal of the FCE, the French version I watched from the bookshelves of my parents) and the United States, where he finished to become an expert on Mesoamerican cultures. It is, yes, an author close to us. And it is curious that the press, so dumbed-down by the new publications and the names chosen for large groups, do not know what to do with him, with his work, or who to interview. So it is with the unchecked and with real literature, which almost always are not meat media. No open doors, though. So Le Clézio and things.

Addenda October 21. Now G. Sheridan bitterly rants French Nobel on the caller (gulp!) "Nobelito." So, and the Nobel.

Does JMG Le Clezio Nobel? Well ... the guerita Kate Leslie and Harriet Winslow has a new friend, thanks to a goofy academy so happy about its good conscience and so determined not to read too much (if it was French novelists ... have even heard of Michel Tournier? .)
I feel good on the emotion felt by hanging from Extranjía nationalists, commentary on Le Clezio Christopher Dominguez in his column in the Sunday supplement of the Reformation. After reading The Divine Conquest of Michoacan and the Mexican dream, concludes that "the reading of this pair of books will give the curious, whether Mexican or foreign, a rather poor impression of the new Nobel essay talent and maybe not leave much enthusiasm for his streak of thinker." The Mexican dream it seemed "a real book or dilettante aficionado," plus a university paper an essay, "when much recommended as a" good introduction to ancient Mexico and its myths "to a" tourist illustrated in its first trip to Mexico. " Although he considers that his preface to The Book of Chilam Balam of Chumayel is better, as an expression of interest for Le Clezio by the "meeting of literature and myth," concludes that "as an interpreter of Mesoamerican myths and survival among contemporary Indian ... Le Clézio is a small thing. "

Instead, it seems to me as an interpreter of modern Mexican myths work is far more significant. Daring the reader to peek eloquent summary provides in Diego et Frida (Stock, 1993), a Guide of sentimentality and a rehash of the silly cliches and predictable more about Mexico, its revolution, its art and culture, embodied in the characters archetypal. Reinforced the myth of the familiar premise that the painter and the painter were "turned revolutionary faith by the glorification of Mexico's Native American past, and therefore

devoted their lives to seek the ideal of the Amerindian world. It was that ideal
which gave them their revolutionary faith that shone amid
a country devastated by civil war, the only flash past like a light that turns heads
the whole of America and symbolizes the promise
a new height. (P. 20)

This ideal, of course, is not highly profiled, for that is ideal (although it seems between the thighs of the goddess Tlazolteotl, according to M. Le Clézio in any time, grab and revive and give birth). Yes, same, worn, europeizante resurrection of the Aztec idols in Tablada was parody and ideological fantasy Lawrence ... Facing
Amerindian powers, the rest is horrible: the Porfiriato is just shameful scene of some monkeys that mimic "Western" as contempt for indigenous cultures, its taste is a "pompiere both sinister and ridiculous" writers flee to Europe to find "the air of freedom", the Madero revolution is a wave that is "born of the conquerors abuse and violation of indigenous consciousness" Villa and Zapata, "violent uneducated, hard-liners, are the true symbols of the Mexican people "Mexico City is" synonymous with a beacon for the oppressed peoples of America "while his culture reinvents Mexican values, art and thought of the prehispanic civilizations" and, of course,

In the history of Mexico, Diego and Frida continues to shine as live coals, and her red flashes
are pure gems of poor children ...

And so on.

No, never been played better modern Mexican myths. Why seek the truth if myths are so hospitable? Thanks to Le Clézio and his clientele of tourists in the coming months (including local), such myths take on a new, rejuvenated, stolid strength ...

Wow. In La Jornada must be retristes ...

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I remind you, though moyoría of my readers should already be aware, that this week held the National Meeting of Youth Literature in the Historic Center "Sea of \u200b\u200bDizziness" . The program is interesting and, although worth commenting on it (for better and for worse, see the recent influx of good Conde ), I have enough time to do it with calm and serenity, as expected of any dialogue. Finally, the invitation is made. The league is in the small sign above.

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golonrisa of indumentum Khalo
column is twisted .........
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By Sergio Loo, of His arms lips in my mouth rolling, Mexico, FETA, 2008.

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CENTRORILLAS

SAMPLE OF YOUNG WRITERS AND EDITORS OF MEXICO
FROM 22 TO 24 SEPTEMBER
EX-CONVENT DEL CARMEN AV. 638GUADALAJARA JUAREZ, JALISCO


MONDAY 22 4:00 - 4: 20
Opening Ceremony Speakers: Jorge Souza, Karina Falcón, Neri Tello

4:20 to 5:30 Reading: Xe
hal Mendez, Zahira Rico, Jorge Platas (Nayarit), Enrique Carlos, Sergio Nunez, Israel Soberanes (Mexico State), Ingrid Valencia (Mexico City)

5: 30 to 6: 15 Presentation of Samsara a publishing project Santiago by Sergio Madariaga

6:20: -7:10 Presentation of the magazine La Manzana by Ingrid Valencia

7: 15 - 8:25 Reading:
Angélica Maciel, Iliana Avalos, Alejandro Zapa., Dora Morrow, Fabian Muñoz (Aguascalientes), Roberto Cruz Arzabal, Mauxi Ornelas, Omar Sanchez Villegas (Tepic)

8:30 Presentation of the journal ARCA:
Roberto Cruz Arzabal, Diana Villarreal and Jose Neri Tello.

Reading: Authors of the Americas that have been published in the journal CHEST, by Edgar Omar Avilés and Israel Soberanes.


TUESDAY 23 4:00 to 4:50 Reading:
Patricia Mata, Federico Jiménez, Diana Villarreal (Mexico State), Karina Falcón (State of Mexico), Cecilia Magana Sanchez

Nallely 5:00 - 5: 50 table discussion Why and what to publish a magazine
Ingrid Valencia ( La Manzana ), Carlos Vicente Castro ( Metropolis), Karina Falcon ( Ark), Arturo Alvar ( Wisdom), Alfredo Carrera ( The subway ) Moderator: Federico Jiménez (Fedra )

6:00 - 7: 00 Reading:
Víctor César Villalobos, Fernando Carrera, April Medina, Fanny Enrigue, Carlos Vicente Castro, Leticia Cortes.

7: 00 - 8: 00 Presentation of the magazine Metropolis by Carlos Vicente Castro

WEDNESDAY 24

4: 30: 4:50 Closing: Zahira
Rico, Maggie Torres, Karina Falcón, Neri Tello.

5: 00 - 5:50 Reading:
Cástulo Aceves, Rafael Sánchez Villegas (Tepic), Alfredo Carrera (Michoacán) Edgar Omar Avilés (Michoacán), Marino Gonzalez, Ana Carolina Corvera (Zacatecas), Diego Villaseñor.

6: 00 - 6:50 Table explanation why and what to edit (Independent Publishers): Jorge
Orendain ( Zonámbula ), Felipe Ponce (Ediciones Harlequin), Rafael Sanchez Villegas ( Limbo ) Luis Armenta Malpica ( Mantis) and Sergio Santiago Madariaga (Samsara ) Moderator: Karina Falcón

7: 00 - 8: 15 Reading:
Juan Antonio Cervantes, Ricardo Solis (Sonora), Sergio Loo (Mexico City) Jair Javier (Oaxaca), Luis Alberto Arellano (Querétaro), Miguel Angel Aguilar

Presentación Leos of this book Largo viaje de Javier Acosta (Mantis) a cargo de Luis Alberto Arellano, Luis Armenta y el author.

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Montale / Fernandez / Morábito

A great poem of Eugenio Montale.

often the bane of life I met:
was strangled gurgling brook,
was the wrapping of the leaf parched
was the horse fell.
Well I did not know, outside of the miracle
which opens the divine indifference

drowsiness was the statue in the afternoon, and the cloud, and the hawk lifted high.

book De Bones Sepia

Translation Guillermo Fernández

Many times I have seen the pain of living:
was strangled gurgling brook,
was the wrinkling of the leaf burning
, was the horse down.

I did not know rather than to endow them with divine miracle
Indifference was the statue
drowsiness
nap, and the cloud and the high standard Falcon.

In The time and place. locked, pres. José Francisco Conde Ortega, Mexico, CNCA, 1991 (Col. Lecturas Mexicanas, 3rd series, 68)

Morábito Fabio Translation

Often the pain of living I found:

was the river that bubbles up in the narrow,

was

leaf curl

dry, the horse was busted.

I did not know rather than wonder

enclosing the Divine Indifference:

was the statue in the drowsiness of siesta,

and the cloud, and the detainee hawk on high.

In Hundred Poems of Eugenio Montale , trans., Pról. and notes by F. Morábito, Mexico, UNAM-IIFL, 2008 (Special Editions, 48)

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"The caress useless" Armando González Torres

Morena, almost dry by the sun, tightly bony hand of my grandmother guided by the light ridge nfancia lai, I was preparing tasty trifles, I clung to the strangeness that is home to a race not expected. Just remember his words, if they spoke, although I understand that his toothless mouth only served to rehearse gestures of mourning or of resignation and to issue the insults of hyenas that she and my mother sometimes torn. Buela mia hand, he prepared a simple and nutritious food, but there was a time, fussy child, he no longer to cook because I forgot aba washing and the dishes tasted like dirt and included some insect. The hand that caressed roughly the scalp with the comb, begging, asking for a glass of water while he was prostrate in the bed of his prolonged agony. The hand of my grandmother who seemed delirious, with its cautionary hand wobble reminded me that, by playing football, I had forgotten administrarl medicine. That hand whose fingers many times the cross in farewell and yet still childishly digging in vivo, with his strength and his curiosity diminished. Weak hand, and not brown, yellow, no longer skinny, almost stiff that rested on my forehead without recognizing who stroked.

Armando González Torres, Theory de la afrenta , México, CNCA, 2008.

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Das ist mein Streit (RMR)

That's my argument is:
longing consecrated
wander through every day. dig deep
Then, strong and wide, with a thousand roots
strip
in the life-
and the suffering
far from life, mature
far out of time!
................................ 1897

Esta es mi lucha:

consagrado al anhelo

andar a traves de los días errante.

Y después fuerte, and large,

a thousand strands of

foothold deep roots in the life-

through pain and

mature far beyond life, beyond

time.

.

.

anthologized poem in Forty-nine poems by Rainer Maria Rilke , selection, translation and introduction of Antonio Pau, Madrid, Trotta, 2008.

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Reflections II / Invitation

I continue with Steiner. I still have many ideas about contemporary poetry, the logocracy, hermetic poetry and its influence in Mexico, difficult issue not so much by the authors (who appear, but only seem obvious) but intertexts and original influences (ie . that gave rise) ... the biggest problem is that I think we have a completely logocrático poet, but moments of light scattered in many authors, fragmentary of Mexican poetry, "or reaction condition? ***

Steiner says:

We are ashamed to admit any modal inhibition, closed confess any expressive act no matter how remote is of our own time and space. But this is spurious receptive ecumenism. Deliberately confuses, with a genuine understanding, with a penetrating look inside, familiarity reconstructive achieved under archaeological knowledge and feeling.

* The secrecy of the post-Mallarmé poetry is an attempt, not without a tinge of irony, to shake off the limitations of the influence and public-academic expectations based on the canonical. ***

On Friday I'll be at a poetry reading in Donceles 66, to go with close friends and contemporaries admired among some of them: Aurelio Meza, Santiago Matías, Karina Falcón, Balam Rodrgio, et al.

A pair of reading tables, a discussion board on the recent Mexican poetry and a book presentation. It all starts at 16:30, but I do not know for certain times of the tables, it seems that I will be the last at about 20:00, then music and something to soak the gullet. (Thanks, by the way, Karina, the mastermind of this, remember a server).

hope we meet there.

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reflexes I homeland

I been reading some articles George Steiner to refine my masters project. His essays, samples of clarity and intelligence is no waste anywhere, texts whose main foundation is courtesy humanist, even those with whom one may not agree with courtesy, good nature (what a beautiful word so unusual) of give us the tools to cope. Steiner is at the same time, the guard and the objector of his ideas, Europe, books, literature, high culture, Heidegger, de Maistre ... This is the humility of humanism, to know that anyone can respond and listening with respect, this is also the courage of the humanist, sitting in front of the opponent, the student, who that is, with really bright eyes, ready to educate, to close, with love for the Other and the Word, with an irony so fine that betrays a love for the Word, not contempt for the listener ... Reading

Steiner project ideas come to me, long projects that could devote a lifetime of careful search. Many ideas come to mind, many I land it, others simply ignore them because life is never enough. Many projects, many want to read, to read the world, reading life.

While I still think, I present a poem by the great Colombian poet William Ospina. In its way, the poem has to do with some ideas that are around, surround redound my head.

All life is a journey, all life is a book, a lifetime in a verse and a verse from the air that gives life.

"Where they burn books today, tomorrow will burn human beings"
H. Heine

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Father, I say, give me three grains of barley to wake the sleeper.
But my father did not respond;
is a huge bronze rider, high on hills and synagogues.
Mother, I say, away so much fog,
show me a sweet face, which sprout naïve words.
But she lost in the alleys of stone and only find in their ojosi nmensos mirror.
Grandpa, tell By then, most do not fight with the angel, come tell stories with lfuego, while freezes the Elbe.
But the old man looks at me with eyes absent, and understand that my grandfather is but an old gypsy who wants to sell me a memory.
sister, beautiful sister, I say, take my hand
pscuro in this house is huge.
But to me goes a Polish countess
monumental and arrogant and you hear a violin, and closes a door.
Brother, I say, what a fine ride the horse of wood and lacquer,
where do we take these evenings uncertain?
But he is just an image, a gray picture in my hands, and far
, atrocious, cannons resonate.
Goethe, I say, sing me a song Roman
make me feel in my heart this ancient sadness.
But the tomb is silent and gray doves flying over it and I can not open this book because the pages are of ash. Millennium
I say then, maybe you can finally save me, tell me
sot of flesh and blood, that what torments me is a desire.
But she loved afantasma thousands of emaciated and barely perceive two flames that far off.
So is all this madness? Who I can call to save me?
His kingdom is of this world. All are accepted and cleared.
are human too, are very tight, and not
managed to talk to my sound of elytra,
and never learned to cross the gates, and I can not defend
.
If you see two gray eyes on the night of Prague Gothic
understand that I am afraid to die if I fall asleep.
If you hear a song on the night of Prague Gothic
understand Quei ntento know where I stand.
If you hear a heart on the night of Prague Gothic
understand who holds the whole dream.

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Here I am. Back after many months. I would plead work, thesis or many things ... however, I must say that the main thing was the boredom, the better, the spleen . It was not fatigue NDA, were simply the desire to say nothing, or words that were and would not let me say anything. He spent a lot and all I write, I did not and is not the time to do so, are those things that after a while, ceased to be current, they lose some of its meaning. Many things, unamitas in Ecuador, consultation, reforms are not reached, the deceptions, deaths ... many things, after a long process, I graduated with a thesis on the ballads, a thesis I wrote with taste, flavor, a thesis with which I met a literary world that I never imagined such a complex and rich, and yet I wrote a thesis without the passion with which I was accustomed to do things ... many things, a horrible introductory course to enter the master classes in automatically, without rhyme or reason, without a clear, intellectual platitudes and an underestimation insulting (to some) ... lot, the entrance to the master, back to my project, return to the passion, emotion and thinking of making poetry from deep intellectual, visceral from the hypothalamus, from the desire to read widely and write what is necessary .. .
.
I'm happy, I feel half but in the process, as I like to feel. I will use the break to rest, resume writing and reading what I like. I will take vacation and think you, idle reader, will suffer.
.
[By the way, good old Alfredo Carrera has sent me a prize. Thanks, man, by the cebollazo, reading and patience after time. Will a hug.]
.
And to continue, not my voice, but Francisco:

The resignation of the witness.

And how I've matured. In this light
'm dead and fall. There is a light, which is cold,
........................................ ......................... black, black. They waited

my eyes here that the sky was always grilled
and the stars appeared, pure, live,
in the same place (and before the man was
and that was the flower and bird), the exact
beauty of the eternal birth.
Nothing mattered then go.
remained light and was eternal.
The world's youth, his joyful beat, was itself testimony
demi life.
Who could extinguish the flames in my eyes?
flashed to live, and I bore witness
existence.


Now watch this sky and see its light tamibén has aged.

The stars were not young. Or eternal.
And I've witnessed,
with my life, no permanence.

black Spirit will give me his wing, and the Spirit
white born of it, know the essence of Light,
their absence.

Francisco Brines, The last shore

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First. Blog blogging.

.

Rafa Idea. It would be great to build a blog where we deposit all this other blog that we seem fascinating, accomplished, interesting, fun [something like menename , but more intimate]. Here are three suggestions of what to read in net life :

Jesus Silva-Herzog Márquez raises blisters and revives the discussion about the paraphernalia, validity and farces of cultural studies to recall the famous incident Sokal, wherein the physical upended many academic institutions gringo (and other Western glancing ) in an acidic parody and polemic, but no less poignant. Link to an article by Steven Weinberg , published more than ten years Back on the validity of the experiment sokaliano. It's worth reading the post , responses and testing for all that we can leave the unveiling of a charlatan ... Or not? Rogelio Villarreal

(the editor of the distinguished Replicante ) launches a fierce and well-argued critique against this monster called The Chamuco little to do with the logradísima antisalinista magazine that published some of the cartoonists of today. Of course, that made it without the shadow of the Enlightened One of Macuspana cacique.

Although not a blog, you can read on-line : Gabriel Zaid has just published the latest issue of Letras Libres an erudite essay on the origin of the human obsession with productivity, its effects and causes rehash. Here the link . Despite the sudden progressive (in the sense masl iteral, not political) Nosi nvade that for 500 years, always lucid Zaid intends to recover another productivity, mental conversation. Chapeau , maestro.

.

.

Segundo. Invitation.

.

My dear friend and admired poet Santiago Matías invites us to an intergenerational reading at home as always, the Casa del Poeta. As usual, will be at the Café-Bar (euphemism) "Ants", at 19:00. The appointment is on Thursday March 6, share a table with the editor of B or n or b or s poets Eduardo Ernesto Lumbreras Milan.

.

. Third

. What I read.

.

Cormac McCarthy. highway. A father and son. Devastation. The loneliness. The other is me. The powerful simplicity of a great storyteller.

.

"The boy sat tambaleba. Man not beat watched the flames. Made some holes in the sand to accommodate the hips and boy's shoulders when they go to bed and sat hugging him as he ruffled his hair before the fire to dry it. All this is in an ancient anointing. So be it. Evokes the forms. When you have nothing more infúndeles invented ceremonies and life. "

.

" He had made the boy a flute from a piece of cane from the curb and knocked it out of the parka to give it . The boy took it wordlessly. After a while he was a little behind and minutes later the man heard it touched. A formless music for the next era. Or perhaps the last music in the Earth, emerging from ashes of devastation. The man turned and looked. Was highly concentrated. The man thought he seemed a sad and lonely orphan boy to the county announcing the arrival of a traveling show, a child who does not know that background, the actors have been devoured by wolves. "

They

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In three parts The wreck of the Deutschland, Gerard Manley Hopkins

17

Fought with God's cold - And They Could not
and
Fell to the deck (Crushed them) or water (and Drowned them) or rolled With the sea-
romp over the wreck.
Night roared, with the heart-break hearing a heart-broke rabble
.
the woman's wailing, the child Without craying of check - a lioness Til
Arose breasting the babble,
A Prophetess towered in the tumult, a virginal tongue Told. ***


17

in fight against God's cold on deck fell due

(crushed) and water (and drowning) or swept
to the tomb of the waves on the ship aground. Ruge
night and groans the disappointment in the desolation of the crowd:
the screams of women and the incessant crying of children, but a lioness
stands still the murmur,
prophet stands on the vague language speaking crowd virgin
.

Salvador Elizondo version published by the UAM in its collection Windmills. First appeared Back in in 1978.

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Notes Invitation

Finally. The old chief islander has left the post vacant. Remain a sensible man, but later learned to leave the political power (not of fact, so popular in these parts) with delusions of old age, unless of course you get a judge and rescue the dignity of the world and policy of suing him, like Pinochet, just the same. The trouble, as in the worst and most stupid monarchies (the European, African, the banana) inherit power to his brother, a puppet and pseudodirigente nonexistent revolutionary army. The roads to the islands (that is Cuba, really) are more, the better, the people take the sovereignty and decide what to do with it, which is allowed to grow freely, move, sell, buy or whatever you want to do, the worse the communistic oligarchy will attempt to give a final twist, look for the soundtrack of his rattle in the executions and persecution, as in the sixties, as in the eighties ... as they have always been the cowards who have guns.

the other hand, a fledgling nation is the scene of a struggle which neither have learned their habotantes. Like a hundred years ago (1914, sound familiar?) A global sphincter is the receiving center of the world shit, Putin, Bush and his cohort of satraps in search of who knows what ... Is the third? ... What Fukuyama and Huntington that will swallow the end of history and struggle of civilizations? ... everything is back to the same, nothing new under the sun ... In this regard, a caricature of the ever-present Calderón

what about me? I forgot the world and hear the amazing black album of Metallica ... what else could cause our apathy, our spleen videotaped, but a brutal riffs, simple and pissed night. Chutzpah!

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irreversible. Chat with Thomas Segovia

My dear Mariana Ozuna organized the visit of the poet Tomás Segovia to the Casa del Poeta Ramón López Velarde. The date is Wednesday 23 at 19:00 in the Café-Bar Las Hormigas. The teacher, generous as described Mariana, chat with the public than the respectable choice.

An opportunity like few others to recover the beautiful and healthy exercise of dialogue, no less than one of the most important poets of the language.

The slogan attend, ask questions, listen.
an appetizer, a poem by Don Thomas, stolen copy & paste your blog :

At bedtime

The day is sometimes a bit dry Difficult to scale

With persistent and corners fords reluctant
But in the end is always the same
always end up just sinking into rest
This head heavy with life

acceptance of gratitude and about to let go and drop the beautiful
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Imantada
still a dense and vibrant as compass.