Guide Entre poemas y sábanas (Spanish Edition)

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But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread. Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

Translated by Robert Bly. Notify Blogger about objectionable content. What does this mean? Send As SMS. En cualquier caso, pasa con ellas lo que con las mujeres: de alguna manera son necesarias, aunque no todas son perfectas". About this blog. Every word counts, and each sparkles with so many facets.

A | Spanish to English Translation - SpanishDict

Maryam Alikhani, Ph. She holds an M. She is an award winning educator, writing instructor, poet, and translator. How to write one? She writes short stories, poetry and essays, and her work has been published in several anthologies and journals. Proa al viento, lo patinas. Imbatible tripulante del olvido y sus fracasos. Molusco sometido, confecciono la perla que saliva mi dolor y ambiciono sin rodeo el merecido colapso de tu flota. Standing on the crest of the wave You receive triumphal congratulations.

Bow to the wind, you skate along it. Placid, imperious, Returning from a thousand conquests. Deep down below, tasting the harsh inclemency of the sand, There is me, unbeatable creature of oblivion and its fiascos. A subjected mollusk, creating a pearl with the saliva of my pain, and truly wishing you the defeat you so deserve. Through the eye of an anchor, I will calmly observe your inevitable wobbling, and the admirable fragility of the powerful surface that elevates you.

I will pick up the pieces with pure pleasure after your downfall. And I shall cast my pearl before the swine that deal with your remains.

More by Federico García Lorca

Sasha Reiter was born in New York City in He grew up in the Bronx, where as the son of an Argentinian father and a Peruvian mother, he experienced firsthand the metaphorical otherness of being both Latino and Jewish. He attended Public School and received his B. He spent a semester in London studying English history and culture. This is his first book and he is currently working on his second collection of poetry. He intends to pursue a Masters in English with a specialization in Creative Writing.

Sometimes I see you Teetering over the expired garden. I watch you drive away the weeds, As though they were vectors through which [to forget you. Gloom rotted plums and carrots Flood with color as your fingers Slide through corroded leaves, Personifying them with amity. I call to you and you turn.

Your face is absent but ridden with guilt. The leaves turn grey, The frail vegetation embossed with animosity. Deidamia Galan Santo Domingo, Poet, journalist and publicist. She also has studies in broadcasting, radio production, and cultural journalism. Some of her poems have been included in international and local anthologies, and translated to Catalan and Creole.

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Volver a tus manos, por eso, es casi siempre un alivio que me permito a modo de protesta cuando me escapo del mundo sin ganas de salvarme. He has published four novels, twelve books of poetry, two books of short stories and three plays. Conservamos el fuego apagado, hemos rechazado preservar el imperio, sus cuerpos y sus ahogos. El imperio se sosiega en el paso de pocos segundos. I walked alongside the wall, stone after stone… I touched the stones with my hands…… in the silence, the wall seemed alive, over the palm of my hands flamed the joint of the stones I had touched.

Trepaners of craniums in space. Of men who made peace and gave back the kingdoms and lived praying and imploring, their feet closed, their brains closed, of men who did not keep their lips shut, their silence struck us as encouraging. Oblivion recovers its hollows of pleasure, we lack the will to dream and we remain silent in the private space. We keep the fire extinguished, we have rejected preserving the empire, its bodies and distress. The empire calms down in a matter of seconds. Downcast minds bowed for the writing of history, that brilliant sun, to preserve the empire, closer to the impermeable time, and closer to the water.

Old men standing with their shadowy masks, removed the god, from lucid intelligence, where the rotten brevity of the land might remain, and a crowd of small declines, sought to translate the law of the empire. He is a poet, actor, and theater director and considers himself to be an activist for peace in all of his endeavors.


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He has published theater, poetry, chronicle, and essays. Porfirio Barba Jacob. He descendido de otras orillas, mis ojos vuelan en la hondura, mis labios no musitan quejido alguno pero oigo y pienso y hablo pensamientos. Alguien canta y el agua apenas se detiene y tierra abajo besa su canto las rojas orillas. Dios no viaja con nosotros. Dios vaga solo en el alto aire sagrado. Una playa sola. Una roca serena que lenta se disuelva en el viento de los siglos.

This land is very smooth, very warm, not at all fertile, and long rivers of pain nourish it. Others come with me, I feel them and I dream them.

Entre poemas y sábanas’s tracks

I hear the rumor of their spirits and I think them and they think and dream their memories for me. Many have been navigating for five hundred or more years. The insane fanfare of the fish gets tangled up in the fabric of so many mute voices. Someone sings and the water barely pauses and the earth below kisses its song the red shores. The smoke and the flames and the solitary cry of the dogs without owners rise to god, also dead. God wanders alone in the high sacred air.

The dogs chase their tails and growl and howl.

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I hear the many voices of my dog in the dream and my cats purring in the garden. Just as others think and hear the voice of their animals: their lazy cows nestling up to the milking, their stubborn mules climbing and descending winter hills. Next to me the teacher sings new African rounds and the children draw lost maps in the smoke sky. We are a town of water, of burning earth, of loving sea, of the wastelands of light, of the high alabaster lagoons. Some barely remember the rushing water in the clay shore of the river where they were born.

And others keep only a shadow of the lightening of the high lagoons. Or a red light of heat in the midday mirror. But all of us in our river long for a last sand. An empty beach. A serene rock that slowly dissolves in the wind of the centuries. Even those that arrive to the most secret or forgotten river, and we are already only song, rushing water in our useless memory. Rojas has participated in many national and international conferences and poetry festivals and his scholar and literary work has also been published in reviews and anthologies of several countries.