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The Short Life of 'Safe' and 'Cazorla'

Gypaetus Foundation and the City of Castril go to court for killing two vultures in the valley of Castril.

Source: Journal Ideal

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o5 17 5 to 17 May 2008



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Procure Rare poetry



Serigraphs Paul Obelar



under a night light with yellow lanterns
your skin gains reflexes
unexpected brightness.
Under your brow brown brush
an intimate summer

burn your eyes clear and the glass of your lenses
like an echo, transform
that gaze that not all
resist or celebrate when slash-and-leave fence and waiting

a huge secret that could prove
or phrase cut like an exacto knife.
're finally here
your body is accommodated in a vacuum as
old who wears a suit
have made for him, ripping silences your voice


sand becoming what could be high as a stone block covered

the ice one winter after another scenario
the width of this plain, this moor

of opaque opaque circumstances and subject

hovering between ties of rough

weed that thrives at night
endless shadow.

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verses about events do not.
There is no creation or death to poetry.
face it life is a single static
not heat or light.
affinities, anniversaries, incidents do not count.
not do poetry with the body,
that excellent, comfortable and complete body, as an enemy of lyrical effusion. Your
drop of bile, your mask of joy or pain in the dark are indifferent.
not reveal to me your feelings, which is prevalent
of misleading and tempt the long journey.
What you think or feel, that still is not poetry.

not sing to your town, leave it alone.
The song is not the movement of machines or the secret of the houses.
It is the music heard in passing, sound of the sea on the streets next to the line of foam.
Song is not nature or men
society.
For him, rain and night, fatigue and hope mean nothing.
Poetry (do not remove things poetry) eludes
subject and object.

not dramatize, do not invoke them
not pursued. Do not waste time lying.
not hate you. Your
ivory yacht, your shoe diamond
mazurkas and your superstitions, your family skeletons,
disappear in the curve of time are useless.


not recompose your buried and sad childhood.
not oscillate between the mirror and memory
dissipation.
dissipated That was not poetry. That
broke, glass was not.

silently penetrates into the realm of words.
There are poems waiting to be written.
are paralyzed, but there is despair,
is calm and cool on the surface intact. Helos
there alone and mute, in a state of dictionary.
coexists with your poems, before writing.
Be patient, if dark. Quiet, if you cause.

hopes that each is made and consumed
your word power
and power of silence.
not force the poem to let go of limbo.
not pick on the ground the poem that was lost.
not flatter the poem. Accept
as he accepted its final form and specified
in space.

Come and contemplate the words.

Each stage has a thousand secret
on the neutral face and asks, uninterested in response
poor or terrible, that you give:
Did you bring the key?

Repair:
barren of melody and concept,
them refuge in the night, words.
still wet and impregnated rolan
sleep in a river and become difficult to disregard.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade

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Dear


Telemachus
the Trojan War has ended. I forget who won.
The Greeks, it should be: the Greeks, who else,
can leave many dead in a strange land ...
Anyway, the way I bring home is that lengthens
too.
Like Poseidon, while wasting our time, had dilated
space.
I do not know where I am and what I see before me.
Apparently, an island, dirty, shrubs,
houses, grunting of pigs, a garden
abandoned, some Queen, grass and stones ...
Telemachus, dear, indeed
all islands resemble one another
when the journey is so long: the brain and
loses track of the waves,
the eye, both smeared horizon, begins to mourn,
the meat of the water seals the ear.
no longer remember how the war ended,
or how old you are today, I remember. Become

man, Telemachus, and grows. Only
gods know if we are to find. Nor
now there are the boy stopped
to which those bulls.
Today, but for Palamedes, would be by your side.
But maybe it's better that way because without me you have escaped
evils Oedipus
and in your dreams, Telemachus, ignore sin. Joseph Brodsky


From "Do not come after us the deluge" (Anthology 1960-1996)
Ricardo San Vicente version

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It suddenly appeared Aspid

A many years of your death Death

think the
smooth white mask equal

which touches on spreading
in the air

filing his black-powder in the dust-

think well of a common ossuary
when surrender or run away for ever the guardians of symbols


legacy ashes
letters.

and I think the word I write and

closing the densest silence
boiling cauldron where possible and
bolts, rust

charging what I say. The passages open


suddenly light as of late, the street in the spotlight

and then, a more accurate shot fades

what the undressing
sun on black-white-
that pure, very brief

true noon.

The tongue is poison.

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A scene that should be planted during her childhood

when the world is just an idea, a perfect image

enclosed contours
-Byzantine mosaics.
Like a blind man, searching for words

investigating things with wet fingertips, loading the universe


closed and quiet in your little back, deploying

angel wings
one that is all the good
met and interviewed another horror


prey on a flight around the body,
on Your dark hair matted

hand that tortures your head, very dark nest
,

final storm where
strips alone. Towards the ends

day endless night wounded by
close your eyes glow an ominous power

your wings can take you to the limits of sky brightness
sacred purple indelible stain
or the shameful


blood of your blood.

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The truth the dead know

For my mother, born in March 1902, died in March 1959 , and my father, born in February 1900, died in June 1959. is over, say, and walk away from the church, refusing the stiff procession to the grave, leaving the dead travel alone in the hearse. is June. I'm tired of being courageous. drove to the Cape. grow where the sun pours down from heaven, where the sea swings like a gate and we were excited. Is in another country where people die. Dear , wind and rock falls from water and gentle when we touch completely penetrate us. No one is alone. Men kill for it, or things like that. What happens to the dead? lie without shoes in their boats stone. They are more like stone than it would if it stopped the sea. refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knuckle. Anne Sexton

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Lyrics Last Blues, to Be Read Some Day One of a kind

was a courtship only,
surely knew, someone

was shot long ago.

Everything is the same, time has passed
-
one day arrived,
one day die. Someone died

long ago someone tried but failed
. Cesare Pavese

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take your shoes off and walk


jumping to avoid the heat in the skin of your feet tired
get close to the edge of what looks

happens to the other side: Afternoon
apart on a straight line
an unreal color, distressing,
diffuse, as the concert
acute streets

for those who leave the hotel room where loved
or
hospital where he has been persuasive
dance of death

breathing in unison with a useless mask.

dirty clothes on the body weight yesterday, so it weighs
all
what day does not eject the constant flow
see deformed faces of the other unrealistic

distant
yours and you would see if facing
a mirror that comes without warning. They say

noting that the edges of your feet
looks backward
who walks quickly to suppress

with a silly gimmick
trip time
as if time, while there were no

as
had died a lapse, a burst of faint faint

consciousness from one place to another.
Some believe that the journey is a unfinished

in which there is, to go is abstract,
be carried, dragged

suddenly abducted by the light of some impossible-mother ship
and so we investigated, we are concerned
these short scenes from the subway
behind
of swift dark car windows, or even

endless terminals where trains depart
between the metal and smoke and a small hand
stirring.
I, however, would increasingly

force to stay in that space that lies between the tracks I want for myself

fervently every day
the hollow walls of two grueling
iron if that is where late
the beginning of what I expect.

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Meanwhile Luc The book of timeless genius


The humor is definitely a Weltanschauung, a way of perceiving and head towards the world. In that line that extends and rises at the ends as a smile, grimace that accuses the blow of a lost paradise and projecting into a possible state of affairs that might not stop the pain, but at least tolerable again be able to he writes Rosana. As a witch potion that makes his alchemical mixing the most diverse substances, combining them, until an unexpected event, planetary ordering of the sequences and the philosopher's stone of the golden glow bathes sought, so happen, lighting, amidst the thick shadow over us, us and the world. Because humor is a strategy for not surrendering unarmed armor to hit the many pains that life keeps us (the very turra). It is also an elaborate form of love, a touch that is presented as distracting maneuver, but with serious purpose. They say the Chinese (who have the eyes and something for little ones) that bitterness and joy is contracting instead of expansion. As a wave covering ever wider circles, including us, grouping, approaching the heat of others, and operate these tutiplenes. Here is a poet who sings praises to the moon and a moon that is tired of his baroque embellishment and says, there is a destiny marked cockles, fantasies that travel on trains at peak times, a Greek tragedy set in the suburbs of Buenos Aires, songs that give new meaning in new associations, gloating polysemic, because of family reunion, dedications, frustrations which have become gags, criticism that deviates from the heart to think alone, to no avail, ironies about the very illusion of romance in the afternoon, neighborhood memory, childhood, reading, loves. There is a woman's eyes with paint run and sandals, verses that are written in the kitchen, alternating boom with the bucket. And yet, in this apparent chaos, there is systematic, persistent who takes action, providing hands full his genius. A genius who dwells in a bottle with satin ribbon, available to all budgets but only a few hearts open and sensitive. Leanlón, not agile, they'll thank me.


present the April 9, at 19:30. in the room Jacobo Laks Cooperation Center

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I am not young enough to know everything.

Oscar Wilde

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Who, when, what



The dark ocean is pushing towards your bottom.
were all of me
its fragile boats, said naming

what awaits in the gaps
crouched at the expense of meaning.
Was I the substance of your weakness

flooded
foam wound tight rope to imprison or servile

pain
loose from the moorings that waves are

as if they were tiny and dead fish? Would you know
float in the large surface, or
face, behind the dim
chagrin
broken mirrors,
fixed with certainty and wisdom of the executioner
at the ends of the tree? Would
after
find some way back
where
nothing you can give back, or take?
Would we have a remnant of that
air in the cells of the lung petrified
or so, without more, a passage of time

vain pure

leave us, cyanotic, and links

discontinuous along a groove
which will be erased, as the brand slowly

water on the banks?

doubt. I do not know.
The sea, as love
love
is always dark.

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opens to the trembling daylight

soft corolla

his furious purple tiara

tense from the cold in the dark dark sky
zeal

gives a sweet crown
the Don you spill

gives its transparent sap. This is all possible

wisdom and love
,

branch to branch.

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A posthumous Aguirre



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field and the silence of the fair

The practice of poetry always will be a tragedy, and on top of a lonely tragedy: bad read and least-understood, the true poets, despite appearances, are (from the point of view of the public) posthumously. The poet's fortune is another: is done in his supreme act of communication (which is always a gift, a gift of self to others), made in the supreme act of the poem. And there ends the main thing. The rest is circumstance, chance, noise or silence in the show, and nothing else.

No longer will keep

no longer keep you, broke music
Where I thought you were.
were broken glass, or sand, do not really know: I stepped
and understood.

realized with astonishment that time stretched
desperate and senseless
and I was nobody except
loved you.

were broken glass, stones or misfortunes,
were huge bodies or ashes, I dunno.
I stepped and understood.



Raúl Gustavo Aguirre

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Missed Cazorla in "Look at life" (Canal Sur)? The transfer of the Guadalquivir

Click on the link below and you will see the "Look at life," starring Cazorla City through Internet:

Source and link to the program: Look life. Canal Sur.