Let them drum our dented pots, let them screech happy carols, let them dance with tin spurs on their little feet. Como un vientoen la noche. Somewhen a boy is counting stars.Somewhen a man is photographing light.Somewhen his finger strokes the stubble on another’s cheek,and for a moment everything is relative. Metals, clay and feathers celebratetheir silent triumphs over dates.Only some Egyptian flapper’s silly hairpin giggles. Poema para niños - Las cinco casas - Poesía infantil de César Gómez - Duration: 1:59. The trees? Even what was beyond uswas recast in our image;we gave the country a heart,the storm an eye,the cave a mouthso we could pass into safety.”Alive Together: New and Selected Poems1996Lisel Mueller, Faràs dos trucs i t’obriré la portai no em sabré avenir que siguis tu.Et faré entrar al meu pis, que desconeixesi que només és fet per subsistir-hi.Però m’hi trobaràs, qui sap per quindesigni inescrutable. This video is unavailable. en el nidode antaño oí silbarlas balas. Pero llegaste a tiempo”. (Y ordené el fusilamientode mis años sumisos.) Watch Queue Queue. No hi hauràni passat ni futur. A moth surprised us through the blinds,its wings in fuzzy flutter.Its silent path – see how it windsin a stubborn holding pattern. Leave them alone, I say to my mother, who wants to cleanse the house with carvacrol, trapping these children’s souls in beehives, then stringing them up with kites so they fly to the moon. Here are plates with no appetite.And wedding rings, but the requited lovehas been gone now for some three hundred years. Traffic holding its breath,Sky a tense diaphragm:Dusk hung like a backclothThat shook where a swan swam,Tremulous as a hawkHanging deadly, calm. Me llamo Marta, tengo 29 años y desde hace más de once años colecciono “frases filosóficas”. Work & sweat will set you free, you said, just like Fidel on the radio. The smoke of the cigarettes he does not smoke kicks at his lungsmixing with the buzz of the booze he doesn’t ever drinka convivial pint after the ride into the country gave him such a thirst.And afterwards they lay on their back in the stubblestaring up at the stars. ¿Quién dirá que te vio, y en qué momentoen campo de batalla convertidoel íbero solar? Here we are, naked lovers,beautiful to each other – and that’s enough –the leaves of our eyelids our only covers,we’re lying amidst deep night. All rights reserved Unauthorized reproduction is a violation of applicable laws. But they know about us, they know,the four corners, and the chairs nearby us.Discerning shadows also know,and even the table keeps quiet. So, chary and excited,As a thrush linked on a hawk,We thrilled to the March twilightWith nervous childish talk:Still waters running deepAlong the embankment walk. Our teacups know full wellwhy the tea is getting cold.And old Swift can surely tellthat his book’s been put on hold. EL PATIO DE MI CASA, Mi casa sobre la orilla del abismoal lado de las nubesterritorio del vientoes una confortable mansión de precipiciosSu patio: el largo vuelo del pájaro. Despertétarde. El patio de mi casa "En algún lugar de un libro hay una frase esperándonos para darle un sentido a la existencia" (Miguel de Cervantes) Me junté al hombre,y abrí de par en par la vida, en nombrede la imperecedera juventud. “What happened is, we grew lonelyliving among the things,so we gave the clock a face,the chair a back,the table four stout legswhich will never suffer fatigue. Since eternity was out of stock,ten thousand aging things have been amassed instead.The moss-grown guard in golden slumberprops his mustache on Exhibit Number…. César Gómez 517 views. Al teu davant,espiaré els teus ulls, el dolç somriuredel teus llavis amables, mig oberts,i tot acabarà en una abraçadaque serà la primera. Together. Retirement will never be an option.The gruff gentleman with the cap who understandswhat the numbers meanremembers a bicycle ride when he was younger. So space and time were now undonereality was undisguised.We found the many in the one. Her scarf a la Bardot,In suede flats for the walk,She came with me one eveningFor air and friendly talk.We crossed the quiet river,Took the embankment walk. (Tan grave ha sido,que murió antes de su nacimiento.). Cut me out of those sepia photos on the wall, burn those baby braids you keep in porcelain, toss my first communion gown into the sea. )Oh grave juventud. (Llevaba un ataúdal hombro. El Patio de Mi Casa, 1990, by María Brito. Pasó sin darme cuenta. “Cuando te arreglas el pelocon la mano, distraída,se me enreda por completolo que pienso de la vida”. So we run,as gravity reclassifiesthe stars we saw behind the sun. Eight. Light bends around us. The author of several poetry... My patio was once a schoolyard, or maybe a barracoon, perhaps both, & the ghosts of children nest under the pink sink, mouths agape for flakes of rust, or they creep to the ceiling, sucking on the five taps of blue water, their little lips abuzz like cicadas. Introduce tu dirección de correo electrónico para seguir este Blog y recibir las notificaciones de las nuevas publicaciones en tu buzón de correo electrónico. Las llamo así, porque son frases especiales, tanto por su significado como por la forma en la que están escritas. Let them play cat’s cradle with spiderwebs, let them rummage in your armoire of moths, let them lurk in your shadows of ill will & tease you to laughter. Maybe it sees where our eyes failwith an insect’s inborn sharpness.I never sensed, nor could you tellthat our hearts were aglow in the darkness. In Transit (homenaje al astrónomo Arthur Eddington)The Universe in VerseNeil Gaiman2019. (Y yo seguí dormido. ¡Ay! Follow El patio de mi casa on WordPress.com. You can read the rest of the PINTURA : PALABRA portfolio in the March 2016 issue of. "En algún lugar de un libro hay una frase esperándonos para darle un sentido a la existencia" (Miguel de Cervantes). Unfucked, or anyway retiring,in the awkward sense. Our JuveniliaHad taught us both to wait,Not to publish feelingAnd regret it all too late –Mushroom loves alreadyHad puffed and burst in hate. I wish I’d been born into a brood of mice, quick to grow, quick to breed, quick to die among the kapok trees. Not with a sword, or knife, or gun,a simple picture severed ties.He found the many in the one. Even the birds are in the know:I saw them writing in the skybrazenly and openlythe very name I call you by. Mother, I don’t care if they nibble our family photos, soil your heirlooms of lace, or steal what few grains of rice (more like gypsum ants) you hoard in the pink pantry. He earned a BA and an MA at the University of Florida and a PhD at the University of Illinois at Chicago. A vacuum of needCollapsed each hunting heartBut tremulously we heldAs hawk and prey apart,Preserved classic decorum,Deployed our talk with art. Poema EL PATIO DE MI CASA de Hernando Guerra Tovar. Ghosts are unruly, free to be fickle, unlike me, the pig-tailed girl you kept strapped to the sewing machine in the shed of planks by the mango tree too old to fruit. All the stars. Me lavé (el alma); en fin, bajéa la calle. We fitted our shoes with tonguesas smooth as our ownand hung tongues inside bellsso we could listento their emotional language. In the moonlight I see them bounce on my feather bed, bowed like an old donkey’s back, or they teeter-totter in my wicker chair darned with burlap string. Debí haberte encontrado diez años antes o diez años después. Countable as the words in a Bible,countable as the hairs on his friend’s head,all accountable, and that is why they never truly touched.The shadow of prison or disgrace perhaps moving between themlike the shadow of an eclipse. To see the world beyond the skies,to know the mind behind the eyes,To find the many in the onehe showed us stars behind the sun. Sonarà el nocturn.Fullejaràs potser Virginia Woolf.Vindré darrere teu amb el desigde sentir els teus cabells damunt la galta.Amb tota la tendresa, et faré asseureen un dels vells seients que compartíem(durant els últims temps hi estudiavesel llarg monòleg d’una dona solaque tu no vas ser mai). And, in another life, at another time,to see the stars behind the sun,he takes his photographsfighting the cloud cover. Este blog nació con el fin de poder reunir todas estas frases con las que me voy cruzando y que no me gustaría perder u olvidar. My patio was once a schoolyard, or maybe a barracoon, perhaps both, & the ghosts of children nest under the pink sink, mouths agape for flakes of rust, or they creep to the ceiling, sucking on the five taps of blue water, their little lips abuzz like cicadas. Peruvian-born Cuban poet, editor, and translator Orlando Ricardo Menes immigrated to Miami with his family at age 10. Tatiana-El patio de mi casa Fonovisa- UMG (P) (C) 1995 UMG Mexico Latin. The crown has outlasted the head.The hand has lost out to the glove.The right shoe has defeated the foot. Bienvenido/a a este espacio. Tot serà lògic.I aquest poema mai no haurà existit.Cançoner1976Feliu Formosa. To find the many in the onehe sweated under foreign skiesto see the stars behind the sun. Becomingthe thing that happened in Principe.when he proved that the German was right,that light had weight,half a year after the Armistice.A populariser, but not courting popularity. There is no photograph, not one,that shows the mind behind the eyes.He saw the stars behind the sun. Gloria Fuertes nació en Madrida los dos días de edad,pues fue muy laborioso el parto de mi madreque si se descuida muere por vivirme.A los tres años ya sabía leery a los seis ya sabía mis labores.Yo era buena y delgada,alta y algo enferma.A los nueve años me pilló un carroy a los catorce me pilló la guerra;A los quince se murió mi madre, se fue cuando más falta me hacía.Aprendí a regatear en las tiendasy a ir a los pueblos por zanahorias.Por entonces empecé con los amores,-no digo nombres-,gracias a eso, pude sobrellevarmi juventud de barrio.Quise ir a la guerra, para pararla,pero me detuvieron a mitad del camino.Luego me salió una oficina,donde trabajo como si fuera tonta,-pero Dios y el botones saben que no lo soy-.Escribo por las nochesy voy al campo mucho.Todos los míos han muerto hace añosy estoy más sola que yo misma.He publicado versos en todos los calendarios,escribo en un periódico de niños,y quiero comprarme a plazos una flor naturalcomo las que le dan a Pemán algunas veces.AutobiografíaGloria Fuertes. and because we loved graceful profilesthe pitcher received a lip,the bottle a long, slender neck. 1:59 . El Patio de Mi Casa, 1990, by María Brito. As for me, I am still alive, you see.The battle with my dress still rages on.It struggles, foolish thing, so stubbornly!Determined to keep living when I’m gone!Salt1962Wisława Szymborska. Could you explain to metheir unrelenting whispering?The wind may know, you say to me,but how is just a mystery. Watch Queue Queue Lo arrojé.) Here’s a fan–where is the maiden’s blush?Here are swords–where is the ire?Nor will the lute sound at the twilight hour. Així que et fiquisal menjador, veuràs el teu retrati els nostres llibres.