Gigantomastia Planetsuzy

Josefina Garcia-Marruz Badía (Fina García Marruz) (Havana, April 28, 1923) Biography and bibliography of

SILENT CINEMA


Not that it lacks sound
, is that it has

silence.




***** THE AWAKENING


Waking

you become that which it was

the name by which we are called, on waking

one becomes
insurance
lossless
to self
the
one
recalling what they forget the tiger


dove into her sweet awakening.


*****

LOVES CASTA SURFACE AND SAD

know who you are. Pindar

surface Ama caste and sad.
The depth is what is says. Lilac
Beach, the dress that the poor and happy holiday
than now exists.
know who you are, that is to be the one you were,
to yesterday, not tomorrow, insists time,
know anything knowing that when you're
has to be what you wanted.
God does not look you know you're
-light is an illusion, madness,
but also the image of you that prefer
what you love becomes valid, and since
so, only seeks
your mask is true.


*****

AND I KNOW YOU ARE BUT DARKNESS


And yet I know they are dark
house lights that I hold, I grabbed
a screen, a deep iron
and yet I know they are darkness.
Because I've seen a beach that is not forgotten,
the hand of my mother, inside a car,
understand the meanings of the night,
because I've seen a beach will not forget.
When suddenly the world goes that accent
different foreign intimacy becomes surprised, not omitting
is hidden, let alone reveal,
understand that is the heart of those days
extinct spotted tremor coming
the reason of my time on earth.


*****

AY, CUBA, CUBA ...

Ay Cuba, Cuba, that little music now, from the heart, I know a secret that was mine and not yours, you who you are because you do not 've ever met, listen, do not leave behind those strange as a provincial actor excited by a step that dazzles with costumes worn in theater, remember the blue cover hilly back away, remember the "rocked" like a cradle on the leaf, and "go and see" in and out like a sea the smell of jasmine at night, remember your neat dress "evening": do not go after those strange, when you open your eyes and you have dried the soul and haggard face I loved. Upright, modest, brave, alas, will not be our only daughter's mother never, Cuba, Cuba, crazy me, gentle madness? Alas, I could protect your own sounds cantándote knowledge "color of arcane", could protect your own slow speed your sling! I could tell you: do not upload to that high mountain that has to foot all the goods of the earth glittered unlucky, you have nothing knew, secretly and alone as high palm desert flower. Sounds that could protect me and now I hear rocked as if it lacked a little longer for you to go to die. Escape, escape, ball fish, hummingbirds, fly away, all possessions, all certainties, all denials to all doubts, escapes, cefirillo, the deep blue black cloud. Blue is your poise and your secret blue. Escapes, inmate like look, air and space yours! 0 jumps, crazy, taunt, "My goodness," are soft, get lost, rush, bee, honey, mockingbird, Jilguerillas, to Savannah mottled crimson, the "verdeclaro." Not touch you, glorious body home. Because you were always "Eden" of the first looks I saw you, "Eden" of the trova humble beginning and end, paradise: nothing but grabbed it, nothing but this understanding, distance, nothing but that this was not just another something you could not understand well. Dreaming modest, do not touch. I know you leave and come back, swing! MECES you and me MECES, cadence! You go "away, but not very far", here in there. I know that your palms are not paid homage to the Son, but its Escape! So I ask now: recognizes ! Returns, Ave, with the Salutation!

*****

VISITORS


1


When Time is gone, one returns
as the childhood home, some
days, faces, events that were able to tour the
path of our heart. Let us return
weary steps
ever simpler and slower,
the same day, the same friend, same old sun
. And we have the wonder
blind to the other, our eyes clear, wherein the memory
stopped
as a painter, a hand gesture,
a smile, a short way of greeting. Then slowly
the world becomes impenetrable,
eyes do not understand, the hand and does not touch the food
unnameable, the real.


2


One goes up the stairs of his house lost
(
are no longer any place), someone called in a voice
dear, familiar .
But you do not need to answer.
The single voice calling, enough
as if nothing could harm you in the hallway
immense.
rain can not get wet, never tires
surround a favorite day.
One knocks on the door of the house that was
might hold in our hands
mortals, like a shy comfort.


3


who used to visit, which was
most beloved of all, soft
the room becomes simple, everyday
more real and more mild and smoke.
When knocked on the door?
can not remember. I was there it was!
and will never go away or you can go.
No memory brings
words of farewell.
can only become the door of a noise, a call that world
delete, ignore and defeat.


4


What
whimsical and exquisite hand-plotted, chose this gesture enduring
him out of nothing, like a god to shine forever
other joy? Do you participate
give you the eternal
you left hand full
humble treasure? In its neglect
happy teenager "spilled the oil? What mystery was
yours, pure instant, silent
chosen day?
For they are becoming blurred
and you stay as a fixed star with higher power
eternity.


5


And when the weather becomes unclean face,
a life we \u200b\u200blove in their time
some to give, for ever more real than your present truth
, we will see
when that fire around him,
when the weather was just a fragment of a body
more splendid, invisible.
Every man is the guardian of something lost.
Something that only he has only seen. And that buried
world, that mystery
of our youth, we defend
as a great hope.


6


And reality is what has not been! All

appearance is a mysterious apparition. In the autumn branch
not just the result but in the evening
promise as long as its intact form
offered a moment to our happiness. For every full
is the promise
splendid death, and visitation of the angel
in the face of the youngest
we all knew it would go before
smile I chose the night.


7


In that vague delirium
room and brought the blue portal
people from your childhood, your silence you opened
a distant mysterious dinner.
fell the thick veil of
eyes and waited all night to open.
broke bread with a blanket of snow.
With the shoulders of the pastor ran away, turning his face
when it was night, everything had changed
yet
in quiet sleep sheep farm.


8

Were not burning
your heart when he told us the Scriptures?
(The pilgrims Enmaús)

word mysterious guest was me. Guest
is coming from far away,
some people will never be seen. Guest
the next night,
touches the latch of the door and the threshold
all sparkles like snow. Guest
is someone sitting at our table
only for one night, and no hits
but already heard what his mouth said. Guest
is that rejoices in his face and shining
our bread with your hands, and fail to remember
his name. Guest
is to be based at dawn.


9

There is a wind rose Where the WAS.
Walter de la Mere

Oh ye lamps fall
more fragrant than all the summers! Why
has to be that we become
over time, more real, less ephemeral than the one who went
your lights pale? Why
desert dust, the agony with weapons
beautiful, there are only
the glow of victory? Far
is all due. In another case
space beyond the face that sunk
dying glory and blinded
with the wind carrying the flags
splendid fleeing. Fiera is any victory.


10

Friend, I most loved,
come to light of dawn.

How has the fixed time that a smart look

strange tenderness, like a sun, blurred!
music as possible around your face,
time as a thief took only the plunder, our faithful tenderness
met you in
as the fire burned, not the livid
ash finishes. And where others see
wrinkle of scorn, I played
teen costume, child
snow almost at hand, it was only
our privilege to watch you
with the face of your resurrection.


11

Since I Have walk'd with you-through shady lanes ...
Keats

Who does not know that path in shadow,
that continuous talk
interrupting each other friend, in the joyful
dialogue to the door of the house ,
and dinner served? Who has not heard the night
footprints in the sidewalk
become more opaque as they cross the grass
brings us to the friend, the good yet? Who
, late, does not cost much and whispers goodbye
generous desires, inexplicable
such, under the cold stars?


12

... laetificat Juventutem meam qui ...

Only you, beasts, clear trees,
can follow! But man is eternal. Wild
privilege of death, our only inheritance
while the sun pours its light
survivor on that face
proud to be fleeting, with canned cycles, and that green
, eternal! It was going
the glory of the most beloved faces,
and tornadoes, as blind wave, while Incorruptible body

waited and we could not hold, crying in the loss
light, voices,
believed and what I find is heading. Oh
real, the world
mystery of our youth, that awaits us!
We have been promised joy.
We are promised to return.
returns are what you, oh always knew.
But not like now, my friend.


*****

A FACE, A RUMOR, A TRUE MOMENT ...


A face, a rumor
instantly deafen a faithful suddenly what looked
and then live
first time that has already been distant.

is like a slow and lazy lover who is always late
time, my
and soft golden rain or loathing
sum dazzling purple night.

And I return a quiet house,
sweetest couples dancing, artisans fingers
abyss.

And blind me rapt gaze at the magical light

question of a sound that is different and that is the same.


*****


IF MY POEMS


If my poems were lost
all the small truth that shines
they stay the same in a gray stone on the water
or on a green grass.
If all were lost poems
naming would fire endless
clean of all dross, and the eternal poetry
roaring back again, with the dawns.


*****


NO, NO, MEMORY ...


No, no,
memory of the last day you come on this sun and sod saint.
not I come to rely on both
refuge of what grows well in dismissal.
But I remained your weather and my stubbornness
fall, returning again to rise up, not worn braids

my dust and boosting your light breaks.
sick of me I'm not that much
glut does not support my little light up. More
me yesterday was your day: find no sorrow.
Back to the past is my prayer ...
But what about the smell of life?
Hold your promise, not the fire.


*****


THE HEROES OF THE RESISTANCE

( In the plain, in cities:
to all who were martyred.)

God, you'll will not to those who suffered terribly
for justice, the buried alive
those who gouged eyes or testicles were ripped
, the
threatened in the most vulnerable, women or children, do not you'll
the ephemeral glory of a name is repeated
vaguely patriotic commemorations,
a day that served to go to beaches or the student
meet with his girlfriend,
you do not put his portrait on the door of the workshop or
you shall call his name to a school, you do not
these awards will give them beautiful, but certainly
definitely insufficient,
a glorious banner that moves crowds
new heroics necessary
as this, to be both, it is still so little
to the irrepressible demand of the heart,
and still would be indebted to them for justice
of love must be another,
the you want the wife to the husband,
the friend for friend,
brother for sister,
mother to child, you'll
you all able to satisfy the highest requirement
and nothing less than this,
When will the infinite sweetness unrequited love
disappointed a thousand times, you'd expect
vaguely in the face of every teenager,
the time of burning love, time
which he said the poet of war amputees
they will return home healthy, comfort
be profound, revealing surprising
how comforted we had not been before,
the time to fill the void of content and emptiness of unfulfilled
, when the said
always waited for the heart,
because at the time of the agony
could not be comforted enough to know that would not be in vain, and all these phrases
example that does not die
and that the hero is not dead,
because the hero dies and dies
always alone because he had to have a moment of utter loneliness, agony
agony of body and spirit, which
a moment had nothing to offer
history or parties, the sacro instant
why have you forsaken me,
but that moment, my God, you will not forget, Love not
forget the love, the Beloved
the beloved, one to one
you saved your steps, do not hide your face, you will do
lay next to your chest the day of return,
death of heroes you do not
the commemoration with a day of mourning
but eternity of joy, I'll
not bliss that offers pure
and they would see God in its purity,
or the peaceful
who promised they would possess the land,
or the weeping of those who said they would be comforted
,
but the highest bliss, the last
the promise, but blessed
those who suffered for justice
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

My Hasband Rape My Sister

One does not forget us

As I commented in a previous post, the Megustaloquehaces we have grown.

We extended family, and now we are 3 characters.

Here you have a small presentation for you to know something more about us.

- Manu - Our computer and passionate about new technologies.

- Miquel - Our photographer and kitchenettes.

- and I, Asun, the girl in the group, which writes, reads, learns, and collects information, which opened one day, this your home for you, for us to enjoy your learning do.

all know that when a family grows, represents a series of changes, improvements, restructure, sort, clean ... and many more finish-AR.

All these changes need: desire, time, effort, investment, good friends, love ...

But we also believe that unity is strength and good times. So let's have fun.

We admire, displaying, and advertising all you can your work, but we had to celebrate our 1 st anniversary with you all, making experiments handmade-(mother responsibility of mine) wanted to do things and realize what happen to us, and do, what is said to do, we are in the stage slowly and hope that you like.

We have everything needed: ideas, enthusiasm, material, some knowledge of computers and photography, eat well and get enough rest, and have many friends in social networks.

to our growth, the month of April has been chaotic, with almost no posts and accumulating things to tell, but has helped us realize why nosgustaloquehacéis.

always have time for us.

Here you have an example of our adventures as craftsmen, we have drawn, cut and paste, thread has cost us, we stuck with needles (still difficult to use the thimble), we have discovered the fun of felt and we bought our first patterned fabrics.

In short, the gifts and the draw. Let us not forget
;).

Community Service For Court Sample

Josefina García-Marruz Badía (Fina García Marruz)

Where Can I Find South Park In Japanese

Achilles Nazo (Caracas, May 17, 1920, between Caracas and Valencia, 25 April 1976) Biography and bibliography

THE STORY OF A HORSE THAT WAS PRETTY GOOD

I met a horse that is fed gardens. We were all very happy with the custom of horse riding and also because they eat garden, when one looked at her eyes things looked in all the colors in the horse's eyes. The horse also liked to look at you with eyes of colors, and best of the matter is, that in the eyes of the horse that ate gardens, were all things that the horse looked, but of course more beautiful, because they looked like if they had seven years. I sometimes hope that the horse was looking for where my school. He understood things and saw that, and then my sister Elba and I went to school through the eyes of the horse.

What so nice horse

to us when more we enjoyed seeing were those Sunday morning they were playing the tattoo and that horse came around colored carpet dressing was happening everywhere.

I think this horse was very affectionate. That horse had a face that would have liked him for a walk in one, but who was going to ride in that town on a horse like that, because the people there he was sorry, there was no apparent clothing.

How nice would that horse with that horse was Miranda who rose against the government because was inspired by the tricolor of his lips and the blonde from her eyes.

That horse did look nice, they were playing there that tattoo and the President of the Society of Gardeners who brought him to breakfast with the public square.

What horse so considerate. That horse could be very hungry, but when brought to gardeners ate the square, he knew that the people had a lot of people in need of everything that was served there, and did not eat but to the musicians. And the musicians, delighted. As the horse was filled with flowers inside, there they were inspired and played the music went inside the horse.

Well, as the horse was fed gardens and had all the colors of the flowers they ate, people passing by and saw him waiting for his food gardeners cast , said, look at me that horse is so beautiful butterflies there being frightened out of the corner.

and the horse knew that said all that, and stayed there very still without moving to also say that the horse was too good to live in a village so ugly, and some doctors who spent what they said is that what seemed the horse is that it was painted in the village.

was so beautiful that horse!

Everyone was very kind to the horse so beautiful, and more ladies and girls of the village, they were very happy with the horse that fed gardens. Do not see that as a result of that power so that the horse threw after the ass were pink?.

So when the ladies wanted to decorate your home or a marriage, had nothing but leave the middle of the street and pick up some of the beautiful roses that the horse returned to the village gardens.

Once in the town was declared World War and a general watching the beautiful gardens ate horse, mounted him and took him to the world war was there, telling : looking horse, forget those gardens and seafood and get the service of such and such, I am going to defend the principles and such, and institutions and so on, and legacy I do not know who, and good horses, all those enemas that you know what you defend.

just got there a world war, another general who also defended the heritage and other things and threw a shot into the general who was on this side of the checkpoint (*), and who killed the horse was fed by gardens, which fell to the ground throwing a lot of birds in the wound because the general had struck to the heart.

The war had finally come to an end because if it had not been to sell to the battlefield.

After the war ended, at that point that the horse fell dead eating gardens, the land was covered with flowers. After coming back around for a village that had no name and was very lonely and had gone to travel the world looking girlfriend because she was quite sad, do not you see even the dog was killed with that of defending the principles and such?, and had found a girlfriend she was very poor and had no grace.

Seeing this mess flower that was there in the field where the horse had died eating gardens, the man took one that was to his liking and put it in the chest.

When he came to town he found his way to a girl who saw him with his flower on the chest, said to herself: how young so delicate that is placed on the chest so that flower nice. There are things that are pretty sad too, as the flower which stood in the chest that young man who comes there. That should be a very decent person and maybe a poet.

What she was saying in it on this matter, the man did not listen with the ear, but as I heard it was with the flower on his chest.

That's not grace anyone can hear things through a flower that has been placed on the chest. The point is that one is a good man and recognize that there are no major differences between a flower placed on the chest of a man and the wounding of innocent dying in the field a poor horse.

should he do, he gave a pretty girl that the only thing he had in his life, gave him the flower the girl she used one to hear things: who with a gift as well not immediately falls for a girl?.

The day we were married, as her father was a man very rich because he had a shave for sale, gave him about 25 old boards, two-wheeled cart and a gold coin .

With twenty-five tables of the flower man was made a cart and he painted a horse cart and the gold coin bought a basket of flowers and gave them to eat the horse painted on the wagon and that was the source of a story that I think I have ever had and began: "I met a horse that fed gardens."

(*) Excise: police checkpoint.

*****

THE CHILD I WAS

My childhood was poor, but was never sad was rather calm and thoughtful in many ways was in reality as beautiful as I relive the memory. To populate the fantasy I had the dear friend of my grandmother in Castilian of colorful island of El Hierro, so extraordinary could tell stories like his journey from Tenerife to La Guaira in a sailboat lashed by furious winds of the Atlantic.

She lived with my two uncles who were bakers and had to sleep during the day because they worked at night, so the house was always plunged into a silence of siesta, suitable for My grandmother told in low voice their long histories and also hear old songs from other lands, that she had while stripping his parents, his voice almost whispered. With it I also had my father, who was a simple and poetic temperament, cyclist who loved the Sunday excursions to the countryside to which I always accompanied him.

Some Sundays we would walk to Avila and evening were returning laden with flowers, berries, peaches or plants of anise and rosemary. Sometimes the rides were in the city.

In the morning we would walk to the Plaza Bolivar or to the Mercado de San Jacinto, drank ice cream in "La France''and if we bored the tattoo morning, we climbed the tram Central or Paradise, or we were going to Sabana Grande, which was my favorite ride because the route from Central Station made a fantastic double-decker tram. In the days when I was six years had many English in Caracas, the birthday of King Alfonso XIII was mine, the English put their big red and yellow flags in the windows. My father then took me to walk and told me that the houses were feathering because it was my birthday. By the time I entered the school of Misia Rosa where I learned to read. When I was bigger, I went to school Mr. Paul Meza, who was next to a candy store when they leave school to seek cuts we got into that sweet pastry generously gave us. In that school I made friends with Hector Poleo inseparable and his brother Manuel Antonio. With them and other boys sometimes we retired to the Guaire, in whose waters it was still possible to swim, and whose banks were planted with vegetables by Chinese gardeners who we stole the most spicy radishes or lettuce as those fluffy. At that time I learned the secret life of Caracas, in daring excursions along the creeks and Catuche Caroata, under whose bridges, tunnels and vaulted nearly stabbed entire city, discovering the most mysterious meanderings of privacy. Other evenings after leaving school, I went to the Bakery Solís, where my uncles worked bakers many years where I became a "pet" of the bakers. There I spent hours watching them work on the lathe and the trough, or out of the oven the big strokes "hot bread" falling in a basket, filling the atmosphere of the most noble of all odors. I helped in small ways and browsing in the pastry department, I learned many secrets of the office, and I also often indigestible.

Since the time, when my grandmother and my aunt and uncle lived in a large apartment building inhabited by almost all Arabs, Martinicans and Trinitarians, I attracted foreign languages. I soon made friends with a black candy popular Trinidadian origin who put his basket of candy every day in the 1st corner of partners, and with it in my house without knowing it, I learned my first lessons in English, also rescued by a seller toast he had his car with wings steps of El Calvario, (Dad was stunned with surprise to find an afternoon in the mail talking to some American tourists who had taken me as cicerone. Would I then twelve years.). Still I have some beautiful memories. I remember for example the hazy afternoon when Lindbergh flew over Caracas and how I ventured to come alone to Paradise to see the airplane, it was said, had landed at the Hippodrome.

that was also one of the most bitter evenings of my life, because a police officer following the most long-standing tradition of the Caracas police of all time, climbing to surprise one of the gates Hippodrome to see the airplane, I was arrested and almost dragged me to the Chief of San Juan, where with seven children locked in a room full of junk, I was crying until night, when after lashing the civil own boss with a foetid, let us all. I also remember the events of 1928. I lived then in front of the train station on a street parallel to rails, but at a higher level than the trains could see the top. I have a sister, Justina, who was then a girl flapper fashion in 1928, when the low-waisted, short skirts, and cut hair to Garçonne. That was my sister and also a great dancer in charleston at dances enlivened with player piano or gramophone.

That was the year of the great student uprising. The students were arrested en masse, and for livestock wagons, carriages of those who are homeless, they were sent in bulk to Valencia to then refer them to the castle of Puerto Cabello. When students train stopped at the station in Palo Grande, while the machine is changed, all the girls in our neighborhood would gather on the street where we lived, for from that height entertain students crammed into their cars. I remember my sister Justina throwing candy and flowers, and dedicating them from below the loudest blowing kisses. When the train was leaving, they put a mourn and boys choir singing goodbye to them.

Another attraction of my house at that time was the emergence of radio in Caracas. My father became a fierce radiófilo and was one of the first Caracas to hear American Schenectady station (the first was established in the world) using a crystal set of his own making. The radio passion and generosity of my father that everyone who taught him to ask the simple technique for making a receiver, attracted to our house to many people young and interesting, full of new ideas and knowledge, with I discovered the world of books.

Interlux Brightside Car Painting

Achilles Nazo

BIOGRAPHY:

was a writer, journalist, poet and humorist Venezuela. Son of Rafael Nazoa and Micaela González and brother of Hannibal Nazoa poet. His works express the values \u200b\u200bof Venezuelan popular culture.

attended the Federal School now known as the School Zamora April 19 St. John Parish. He spent much time in the streets of his parish and used to stay a long time thinking about the Capuchin Plaza.

After exercise began working various jobs in the newspaper El Universal as a packer. Then it was a proofreader and in parallel began to study French and English, which allowed him to become a tour guide at the Museum of Fine Arts. Was a correspondent for El Universal in Puerto Cabello. He was under arrest in 1940 for "defamation and insult" to criticize the authorities of the municipality. He worked at Radio Tropical, had a column in El Universal called "Spearhead" and was a reporter for the newspaper Últimas Noticias. Collaborated in the weekly El Morrocoy Azul and in the newspaper El Nacional, was director of the Word of Puerto Cabello Democratic publication, founded humorous bodies as "La Pava Macha", "The ladies room" and more. Wrote for Saturday from Colombia and spent a year in Cuba where he was director of "Zig-Zag." In 1945, he assumed the editorship of the journal puppet. In 1956 he was expelled from the country by the regime of Marcos Pérez Jiménez, but returned in 1958.

A poem of his, "Polo Mourner" was set to music by José Seves of the Chilean group Inti Illimani. Another of his works, entitled "Importance and Protection NEMA Columbus" was turned into an opera titled "The Martyrs of Columbus" by Maestro Federico Ruiz.

Xulio Formoso in 1976 recorded the album Arise Rosalia based on the poems of one of his books, which in turn has become one of the most popular publications in Venezuela: "Humor and love ". It is the only album entirely devoted to the poetry of Nazoa.

Nazoa won the National Journalism writer specializing in humor and manners in 1948. He also received the 1967 Municipal Prize of the Federal District, Award for best book published.

died in a car accident between Caracas and Valencia on 25 April 1976.

*****
BIBLIOGRAPHY (Selected Works ) :

color Anniversary (1943)
The passerby smiled (1945)
Catuche The Mockingbird (1950)

Creole Red Riding Hood (1955) Poetry
Coloring (1958)

The donkey Piper (1958)

drawings Leo (1959)

Horse lard (1960)

Poems (1961)

Marti Cuba's Fidel Castro (1961)

While the stick back and forth (1962)

Poetry customs, humorous and festive (1963)

Bread and Circus (1965)

Comedians of Caracas (1966)

physical and spiritual Caracas (1967)

music legend told by a listener (1968)

Humor and Love (1970)

discussed matapalo Portrait (1970)

his Venezuela (1971)

No account The use of electricity (1973 )

Taste and aftertaste of Venezuelan cuisine (1973) Privacy

of rag dolls (1975)

Raul Santana with a town in the pocket (1976)

Great and Clever: The work of the great literary and graphic artist Leoncio Caracas Martínez (1976)

Achilles and Christmas (1976)

Fake Letterhead For Community Service

which have more than 50


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hit that memory is HOPE and path
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6 years is nothing hard architecture
6 years and it was not
architecture was nothing?
again throw me against what I am?
is about the neurosis that, Robertito, sure I would say my psicolgoa
eludes me and watch my favorite villain and I cry with my favorite villain in the part where the girls will touch the heart
in fb are talking about whether something is or is not ista ista and if you're not ista're the worst and get sick and close the fb because I can not believe the time is now asshole asshole
as a friend passed me photos a friend with the ex-wife and I realize that your friend is unhappy because I see him face to face
woman his wife and his father's face and it is obvious that this kid is unhappy
stay with my friend Obviously we have to write everything estoTENEMOS write what we say but try to write something and I get hit
I remember that I have to finish today if you or the correction of the novel so it happened to my friend that I correct errors the spelling and do not finish yet but I'm desperate
chatting about how bad you going in life insurance, a friend of this friend of mine
analyze the hair of the former wife of his friend
a friend speaks to me on msn and tell me that he fought with a friend
tells me he loves me because he wants to tell I stretch my opinion
and spine still hurts me tell dale
'm an expert in former friends and I give you all an explanation re hodgepodge of many cases of ex-friends I have
thousand because I think mine took me out of msn fb
your my friend can explain your problem and derives all again in a dialog or ist ist, ism ism or not and I have the balls to bowl badly
NOT UNDERSTAND HOW PEOPLE DO NOT ENTIENDEEEEE violet and suddenly I want everyone watch the zeitgeist and feel a contradiction between the "isms, Poronga ist or what is and the great Bible which is the zeitgeist
hit the zeitgeist is everything to me except the architectural design proposed by the old man with the mustache lip finite or rare flash
send a mail to say that I'm laburar over there to that because it is a cutting-edge urban design need not have a counterpart in the architectural design futuristic not innovate THERE DAD but I think I want to say again that wall e is the continuation of the zeitgeist and then nothing makes sense because it is obviously not going to happen what this man proposed
then there is no revolution, say on channel 26 or csn or cnn or channel 9, do not understand are all red and I do not
THE REVOLUTION IS ZEITGEISTTTTTTTTTT sleeve to and by god I'm stretched
all sounds like old-fashioned and I say this on msn and I get angry because I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE GREAT REVOLUTION THAT IS HAPPENING
no, I do not understand
love me eh, I'd understand
eye but I do not understand
not understand the Chinese remainder theorem, always give the same example
like shit was the Chinese remainder theorem?
I care more about the Chinese remainder theorem qeu the revolution do not understand?
the representative system, they say on TV
150mil million, they say on TV journalists
contribute in many nosequé say on TV, because I get to hear what the proposal
say on TV CHECK OUT THE ZEITGEISTTTTTTT 3 mongos manga god, do not see is the bible
qeu me with the zeitgeist 3 fanatics
who have over 50 years, they say on TV
traveling at 151 to Congress and there is a certain contingent of idiots who fall into Niceto
3 idiots argue over the year 80 or year 70 or year 90
discussed fanatics like me to speak with absolute conviction about what happened in the 1310
canchera I want the kid that did not understand anything but I look at the hand and has a ring on every finger

I'm sorry I look good and have their nails painted as calcium
untidy nails but I'm sorry I look kind
mother and I, and will learn and I'm the type that TV says that we more than 50
we keep breaking, they say on TV we
standardized
say on TV today is the glory, they say on TV

Nadine Jansenbares Pool

Seamus Heaney (County Derry, Northern Ireland, 1939) Biography and bibliography

UNION ACT

I

Tonight, a first movement, a pulse,
as if the rain to accumulate in the marsh
to break and flood, a dam bursting,
opening a gash the bed of ferns.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
and arms and legs
extend beyond your gradual hills. caress
the province where he grew up beating our past. I
kingdom high above your shoulders
to flatter or you can not ignore.
Conquest is a lie.
get older your bank tolerating semi-independent
within which borders now my legacy culminates
inexorable.

II

imperially am a man still
leaving for you all the pain,
the accountability process in the colony,
the ram, the barrier which operates from within.
The act sprouted an obstinate fifth column
whose stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a war drum
calling for military force. Its parasitic
ignorant little fists and beat
know your boundaries and pointing me
above water. I see no treaty put
completely safe
trodden and stretching your body, the great pain
that, as an open field, leaves you raw, once more. *****



SUMMER HOUSE

I

wind Was
landfills or something in the heat

we followed the steps, with the summer souring,
and stinking incubating a nest somewhere?

Whose fault was it?, I wondered, inquisitor
owned air.

To suddenly discover
to lift the mat

had larvae, moving-
and boiling, simmering, boiling.

II
While
under the door with my arms full
wild cherry and rhododendron,
through the entrance I hear her whining
lost that, clearing his throat, tinkles
my name, again and again.

love Oh, here's to blame.

Flowers loose among us
meet,
up an altar for the month of May.
These frank and fallen blossoms
soon stained the color of a sweet balm. Assists

. Anoints the injury.

III

Oh we attended our wounds with correction under the sweetness


home and we lie as if the cold surface of a sheet
had left us breathless.

postulate more and more priests
thick, as now

when you bend in the shower
lives falling water the font of your breasts.

IV

With a final push music nothing

long grain
start to open and separate


forward and back exhausted
white , kicked
way to the heart.

V

My children mourn the Foreign warm night.
walked across the floor, my mouth was rotten
vent with you and we lie rigid until the dawn comes
the pillow, and corn, and grapes

holding full charge into the light.
rocks sang yesterday when
banged in old caves stalactites, dripping dark -
our small love calls like a tuning fork. *****



NIGHT DRIVING

everyday odors were new
in the night travel through France:
rain forests and hay in the air
warm air currents created in the open car.

poles constantly bleaching.
Montreuil, Abbeville, Beauvais
promised, promised, came and went,
each location ensuring compliance with its name.

A thresher late growled along the path seeds
bleeding through the light.
A forest fire was extinguished.
One by one small cafes closed. I

continuously in you
a thousand miles south where Italy
supports his back in France in the area obscured. Your
there was renewed everyday. *****



WEDDING DAY

I have fear.
The sound has stopped in the day
and images
repeated endlessly. Why these tears,

wild sorrow on his face
outside the taxi?
grows juice regret our guests
greeting.

After the big cake
're singing like an abandoned bride
persists, insane,
and passes through the ritual.

When I went to the toilet
had a heart with an arrow
and words of love. Let
sleep lying on your chest, the way to the airport. *****



THE METRO

There were running through the vaulted tunnels,
you fast forward, with your coat Release
and I, I then really making a god superfast
ground before you became a junk

or some new white flowers dotted with red
while savagely beating his coat and button after button
jumped and fell, leaving a trail
between the meter and the Albert Hall.

honey moon, luneando, too late for the prom,
our echoes die in that corridor and now
Hansel coming as it did on the moonlit stones
touring the path again
collecting
buttons to finish in a draughty station and light lamps
when the trains are gone, the wet way
tense as I bare all
care if your steps follow me, but dead before looking back. *****



THE MESSAGE

"Go, go now! Son, run like the devil
and tell your mother to try to find a
bubble spirit level
and a new knot for this tie. "
But still I was happy, I know, when I planted face
blaming him
with a smile that exceeded his smile and his custom jester
waiting for the next movement in the huego. *****



THE DIFFICULTY OF ENGLAND

I moved like a double agent between the concepts.

The word "enemy" had dental efficiency of a lawn mower. It was a mechanical noise and distant past that dull safety that ignorance independently.

"When the Germans bombed Belfast Orangemen were the most bitter parts which were worst hit."

I was gone to someone's shoulders, carried across the courtyard illuminated by stars to see how the sky was burning on Anahorish. The biggest let down their voices and
resettled in the kitchen as if they were tired after an outing.

After the blackout, Germany convened in the kitchen lit by lamps through cloths worn dry batteries, wet cell batteries, cables capillaries, valves offenders who squeaked and bubbled as the tuner acquitted Stuttgart and Leipzig.

"an artist, the Haw Haw. You can safely leave it inside. "

I stayed with the "enemies of Ulster", the fucking walls. Adept at black market, crossing the lines with carefully enunciated passwords, making them work
every speech in controls and did not tell anyone. *****



WEST STATIONS

On my first night in the Gaeltacht the old woman spoke in English: "You'll be fine."
I sat on the edge of a bed illuminated by the sunset, listening through the wall of an Irish
fluid, and the nostalgia of a speech that had to be removed.
had come west to inhale all the time. Visionaries blew me in the face a soup kitchen smell, mixed dust from the tombs of harvesters with saliva
fasting our creed and anointed my lips. Ephete, urge. I blushed but held only a few words.

not dropped any tongues in my days in that upper room when everyone around me seemed to prophesy. But still remember the seasons of the west, white sand, hard rock, light climbing and its definition on Rannafast and Errigal, Annaghry and Kincasslagh: names portable as altar stones, items without yeast. *****



DEATH OF A NATURALIST

Throughout the year the flax dam
oozing in the heart of town, green and heavy head
rotted linen there, crushed by huge terroirs.
Daily dripping under a blazing sun.
gurgling bubbles gently blowflies
wove a strong gauze of sound to take the smell. There was also
dragonflies, butterflies with spots,
but best of all was that hot, thick baba
frog eggs in the shade of the banks, grew like
coagulated water. Here, every spring I would fill
jam jars with jelly
spots to line up on the windowsill house,
and at school, on shelves, and wait and look
until bursting into agile fatten points
tadpoles swimmers. Mrs. Walls
tell us how the frog father was called
bullfrog croaked and how and how the mother frog
deposited hundreds of small eggs and that was
frog spittle. It also could predict the weather by frogs
they were yellow and brown sun
in the rain.
Then one hot day when fields stank
to cow dung on the grass the angry frogs
invaded the flax dam, I crossed the marshes
are crouched and not a harsh croak
heard before. The air thickened with a chorus of bass. Just
foot dam bellies fat frogs were kept on alert
terroirs, their loose necks beat like candles. Some hopped:
the slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
arranged like mud grenades, their bald heads farting.
I felt sick, say the turned and ran. The great kings slimy
gathered there for vengeance and I knew
if my hand got the grab him drool. *****



SIBILA

My tongue moved, a relaxing rolling hinge.
I told her, "What will become of us?"
And forgotten in a well water can be stirred
after an explosion under morning

or fracture runs through a roof,
began to speak. I
that our form itself must change. Dogs
siege. Relapse of dinosaurs. Ants.

Unless the voice to find forgiveness and nerve
unless the bleeding trees and
hull can be green and to shoot like a child's fist
and incubate magma putrid

bright nymphs ... My people think money
but talk about the weather. Calming oil wells
future as mere acquisition issues. The silence becomes
shoal echoes with the sound of throwing the trawlers.

The land to which we applied our ears for so long
is skinned and very horny, and its inner
tempted by a wicked omen.

Our island is full of noises nothing comforting. *****



A DREAM OF JEALOUSY

you and another lady walking
by a forest park, the grass whispering
ran her fingers through our silence suspect
and trees opened onto a shaded light
unexpected where we sat.
candor I think the light discouraged us.
talked about desire and be jealous,
our conversation just a loose gown
or a picnic tablecloth white
deployed as a book of manners in the wilderness.
"Show me," said our companion, "what
much I wanted, your chest mauve star."
And she consented. Oh and these verses
and my prudence, love, can heal the wound of your eyes. *****


CALL


"Wait," she said, "I'll go out and just go for it.
The weather here is so good that takes
to weed a little. "
So I saw
supported on hands and knees at the side of the rake,
touching, inspecting,
separating a stem of the other, gently pulling everything
not narrowed, fragile and without leaves,
pleased to feel how it opened each root of weeds, but also
sorry ...
Then I found myself listening
the broad and severe tic input clocks
where the phone was unattended in a quiet
pendulum mirror and illuminated by the sun ...

and then I found myself thinking: if it were today,
is how anyone would call Death.

Then he spoke and I almost said I loved him.