From left to right: Carlos Marzal, Francisco Brines, Federico Martin Nebra and a server IV Meeting encouraging reading of Arenas de San Pedro .
Thanks for the photo, Isabel
Friday, June 27, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
On Vacation Ups Package
time
Fourth Meeting of encouraging reading
ORANGE
What gives joy orange
have you in my hands!
What joy that your volume
sidereal reached,
as one of the night comes
to catch a star!
constellation
If the tree, put on the table
the golden glow
that darkness away,
grief and sorrow.
Orange budding world, sweet
globe
touch this round.
I watch with delight;
with rapture, you feel;
than fruit, you are female
when trouble your wedges. On the balcony
your shell is a golden curl, ringlet
beautiful
light jet,
scandal. Glory
land you in your labor turned to perfume
life, being, the field. Great miracle
prodigy and the maturation of a poem or a fruit. Both require a watchful waiting, but also light and water, sap, breath, before reaching the palate, to give flesh and substance.
But sometimes the fruit is not ripe and fails. Or rot in silence. And back to earth or the origin for the purpose of paying and fertilize the land as not suited for a snack. As we attend to the poem and the board of "The pear green and rotten" Concepción Arenal for the green fruit and adolescents complete their maturation and do not fall from the tree before time:
Iba one day with his grandfather
walking a
college and under a pear a pear
found in the soil.
Look at it, grab it, bite;
more quickly throws the bread, rotten
very
one side and the other was green.
Grandpa, what will, "said the boy
spitting, this pear
I see
rotten, though green, is it?
The old man softly said that evil
Vinolé pear to fall down without it being mature
.
The same happens to the fool
that, being in adolescence,
disregards the wisdom of their parents with contempt;
who trusts in himself and in resource
fruitful and ignoring what the world is engulfed in it without
guide. Who and tries
deny the veneration due
in the field of life rots
unripe
open your eyes. Let us see in the poem mature the seed from which emerged, emotion throbbing in his letters, the life it contains, its protein value. And learn of leaving the field to breathe, to climb the tree branches and fantasy, a dream line by line, stem to stem. And let's try verse and fruit relish. Savor his flesh and juice. Live with intensity the miracle of life. Feel the sap of breath, and intuit the root out, cut roses instantly. Grow our own fruit. Nature-like feel Aníbal Núñez says In his book Nature unrecoverable - germinate in our senses, the science of life in freedom, the fruit of poetry
Go to drink up the entire field area get on the branches
wonder why beat around the branches!
confuse the mouth with cherry smell jara
body tea and chocolate waterfall
trenzarte a crown of reeds of the stream
count the times that the stone touches the water
learn
zoology botany without flexo
unmarked
But
the rector and the janitors are locked
us
the shadow of the Tree of Knowledge and continue watering
ink
Cursed
buffer
fruit that gives it more buts!
Raul and Isabel Brown Cow Field School
"From Brown Cows"
Fourth Meeting of encouraging reading
Fruit of poetry
The nature of creation.
not sing to the rose, oh poets
make it bloom in the poem
Vicente Huidobro's poetry is the result. Fruit of the look and work a slow process of germination and cultivation that has its ultimate meaning in appetite reader. The poet-gardener-manured as the page prepares to receive the seed that gives rise to the poem, looks around, looking for ways to contain the world will turn that little seed, take root, grow and bear fruit .
Gottfried Benn and TS Eliot say about the process of germination: "There is first an embryo or germ inert creative and on the other hand, the language, the resources of the words under the rule the poet. This has something germinating in him for which you must find words, but words can not know what you want until he has found: can not identify this embryo until it has been transformed into a provision of the right words in the right order. "said Jacques Maritain
And:" There is poetic experience without being given a secret germ, however small a poem, "The poet uses own and others' experience to write, read other poets, look around , catches the eye on things, looking for their roots and spreads through the sheet the result of that careful and delicate work, done with love, which is naming things, giving his own life, such As pointed out José Luis Puerto, in his poem "Litany" Way of the roots "of his book Signs :
ROAD roots,
Between light, shadows,
Upstream, upstream,
to find what matters.
to find the seed that we and our names;
to find the garden,
The language generator.
The language creates the world, revealing
The things
And calling
beings with saving syllables. Road
roots,
For the forest, among the woods;
heart's voice says: What we love only
matter
The seed of the poem is the idea itself, the feeling that drives the poet to nominate things. Every idea needs a word that makes effective the pay, that becomes emotion. Life begins at the seed, semen, in the germ:
So says José Ángel Valente in his poem "Rotation of the creature"
In the eye of God
deep green and the first seed is still looking Basically, it's all there
and slime
man for the world to begin yet.
Though seed alone does not guarantee the life and the poem you need the care, attention, constant vigilance for water, light and earth involving the promise of fruit. But do not always have enough calm to organize our hustle and our wait in the same way as does the dying of the poem "Hope" Gastón Baquero:
always remember him dying,
which extended his life contemplating a branch
the end of which there was only one sheet,
nothing but a resisting sheet and the north wind north wind
: a leaf determined not to die.
In this waiting is important to think about farmers who, year after year, sow the land to harvest after a while, or who stocked the forests destroyed by fire with new trees or on the generosity of an ancient tree planting for enjoyment by future generations. Also writing is a permanent reforestation work; an effective way to shape the seeds of our imagination. But the result is satisfactory, to be meaningful and truly natural, we must be patient. All precipitation is bad, and much more in poetry.
The result of this work, of this joint work between man and nature is always worthwhile. And that reminds us Luis Manuel Diaz in "will be worth it," one of the poems that are part of the book of man Labor :
If this fails, nothing to talk
From what we
If a man's life and work were vacant
Just breathe fully and have loved
be worth being fertilizer and soil be
Support and
of others have to follow the same steps.
orchard cultivation and poetry are similar processes, two life cycles that have their overhead in life and death. Organic matter is neither created nor destroyed but rather transformed. Death is the origin of life that gives meaning to our existence. Without the awareness of death, our way in the world would be different, hence the importance of living and make living, year after year the fruits of our garden. That is the message of Leopoldo de Luis in his poem "On the one active living" and part of his book Fair Play :
1 is not true that we must die.
Nobody dies if the land is no longer a clear
gate seed plow
ahínque time.
go running in the other day after day, giving
in love and hope.
If our voice is anchored securely
in truth, it will sound empty. No sound at
naked, useless box,
sound at heart, verse, works, son
to rumors grows.
Arrancad to
shroud life is with your own being
a mass of earth and light sleep and does not perish.
2
of land and light sleep and does not perish
is the meat that we
land because we like green branches
why a tree grows big and vivid.
earth's life enriched,
us his great sea
dies and is born and the bones of lime falling apart in this sea
needed paddles. Small
oars
help move the ship. Life is stranded, sunk
is in a mire indifferent. That
oars each
come and remove the black
standing water and paddle, paddle more upstream.
is the job of the poet and the peasant struggle in this life, deal with the words and the earth, shaping the land and fruit that we love in store. And once collected the kiss or the poem, once tasted the award and mature a dream or an idea, our work of man, our efforts will be compensated. So have a poet and peasant plowing and sing with enthusiasm, always with hope and looking to the fruits of their labor, but the desolation and boredom sometimes overshadow his efforts. It does reflections Gabriel y Galán in this excerpt from his poem "Ara and sings" Peasant book. It invites joy those who think if it's worth so much sacrifice, whether it is better to view other boundaries, beyond the folio or ground work so hard craft carry:
I
Labriego, are you plowing? Well, I doubt there
fall more pleasant and enjoyable to sing the tune
of sweet sowing.
What did you say? What happens to the unfortunate
the eternal day behind a plow
struggling ever sang joy,
if you have sung?
liar is a complaint that I've given
Do not know till I know? Well let me
the handle,
and hey, I'll sing.
II
"Labriego little patient:
if you think only your front
copious sweat poured
sipping innumerable people,
out of your error, farmer.
He says he is your brother, who sings
your brave fight;
who says his own hand harvested
summer and winter garden cava.
What do you know
tribute to the work that the world pays,
or do you know about the fruit,
if you have not transposed the edge of the soil
tiny?
If you impose the world that imposes the Yokes
better
thought your handle,
if not the most bearable,
the cross is not greater. [...]
What
or clumsy trickster spirit wanted to tell you:
"Cries and sweats, farmer,
that the world is a paradise
watered with your sweat"? [...]
Ara tranquil, peasant,
and do not think so blind
was your target you,
that the field is a good friend and the sweet honey
his calmness, and greeting
pure day, and these deal are
force
and this environment is harmony, and this light is
joy ... Ara
and sings, farmer! "
I have insisted that the poem and the fruit are The reward for the effort of the poet and man of the field. The earth is a marvel and mother, as is the imagination. Nothing is beneath the earth, "says Claudio Rodriguez in his poem" Eternal Harvest "- which does not come to light. So also is the genesis of the poem that eventually emerges on the virgin land of the page and is revealed as a result:
And nothing, nothing will
underground
not leave the light and see it , to our regret, it's time
how threshing
and tend the mounds, so we will
August, the fertile
carry,
and break into the sun our faithful grain because someday
land will rise.
Who with his hand planted eternal
us clear and thick picks us? What other seasoning
but his
curdles our harvest? What brave
begins to flavor our fruit? In this,
parad this, to me, let's stop all:
our seed to the wind!
But who cares. Behold, behold our groove
forward as the wave breaking
See him against the huge rock
time! But who cares. To earth, this woman
bad lambing, demos
our health, water
of human health! Let your children
we feel well, we feel no pain
belly heñirla safe!
And how well you know the result of the effort, the fruit made poem with the words "in the mouth of Carlos Edmundo de Ory-the poet stole the tree, the sweet celestial divine word.
Here is a brief sample of results: a potato grown by Domingo López Torres in his book Unexpected , a watermelon from the garden poetry of Salvador Rueda and a beautiful orange tree torn titled Book of praise Antonio Oliver:
POTATO
rested seized, numb, blue
your indecisive teenager, green
distracting chores,
in your house, your sex, your fortune.
Land, white, black or red, and put a stigma
your destination
of soft, hard, bitter or sweet
meat. You could navigate
heights of the deepest seas,
or lost in the dull din of the flow
dumber by the normal course of habit.
So, without knowing the jubilant cry
delivery without why or how, when,
that multiplies in 7 which is 1, a 16
any, between my hands,
trembling, indecisive, dirty, black, fell
.
The sharper edge of desire, bloody
my love, my bad
courage
I tore the skin between my fingers,
and screams, moans and sighs
lost without echo in my hands a murderer
inexperienced.
When your white body, maimed,
fell on the water in your sky, gray tin
your misfortune,
broke into pieces. WATERMELON
What if suddenly opened a little the day
The nature of creation.
not sing to the rose, oh poets
make it bloom in the poem
Vicente Huidobro's poetry is the result. Fruit of the look and work a slow process of germination and cultivation that has its ultimate meaning in appetite reader. The poet-gardener-manured as the page prepares to receive the seed that gives rise to the poem, looks around, looking for ways to contain the world will turn that little seed, take root, grow and bear fruit .
Gottfried Benn and TS Eliot say about the process of germination: "There is first an embryo or germ inert creative and on the other hand, the language, the resources of the words under the rule the poet. This has something germinating in him for which you must find words, but words can not know what you want until he has found: can not identify this embryo until it has been transformed into a provision of the right words in the right order. "said Jacques Maritain
And:" There is poetic experience without being given a secret germ, however small a poem, "The poet uses own and others' experience to write, read other poets, look around , catches the eye on things, looking for their roots and spreads through the sheet the result of that careful and delicate work, done with love, which is naming things, giving his own life, such As pointed out José Luis Puerto, in his poem "Litany" Way of the roots "of his book Signs :
ROAD roots,
Between light, shadows,
Upstream, upstream,
to find what matters.
to find the seed that we and our names;
to find the garden,
The language generator.
The language creates the world, revealing
The things
And calling
beings with saving syllables. Road
roots,
For the forest, among the woods;
heart's voice says: What we love only
matter
The seed of the poem is the idea itself, the feeling that drives the poet to nominate things. Every idea needs a word that makes effective the pay, that becomes emotion. Life begins at the seed, semen, in the germ:
So says José Ángel Valente in his poem "Rotation of the creature"
In the eye of God
deep green and the first seed is still looking Basically, it's all there
and slime
man for the world to begin yet.
Though seed alone does not guarantee the life and the poem you need the care, attention, constant vigilance for water, light and earth involving the promise of fruit. But do not always have enough calm to organize our hustle and our wait in the same way as does the dying of the poem "Hope" Gastón Baquero:
always remember him dying,
which extended his life contemplating a branch
the end of which there was only one sheet,
nothing but a resisting sheet and the north wind north wind
: a leaf determined not to die.
In this waiting is important to think about farmers who, year after year, sow the land to harvest after a while, or who stocked the forests destroyed by fire with new trees or on the generosity of an ancient tree planting for enjoyment by future generations. Also writing is a permanent reforestation work; an effective way to shape the seeds of our imagination. But the result is satisfactory, to be meaningful and truly natural, we must be patient. All precipitation is bad, and much more in poetry.
The result of this work, of this joint work between man and nature is always worthwhile. And that reminds us Luis Manuel Diaz in "will be worth it," one of the poems that are part of the book of man Labor :
If this fails, nothing to talk
From what we
If a man's life and work were vacant
Just breathe fully and have loved
be worth being fertilizer and soil be
Support and
of others have to follow the same steps.
orchard cultivation and poetry are similar processes, two life cycles that have their overhead in life and death. Organic matter is neither created nor destroyed but rather transformed. Death is the origin of life that gives meaning to our existence. Without the awareness of death, our way in the world would be different, hence the importance of living and make living, year after year the fruits of our garden. That is the message of Leopoldo de Luis in his poem "On the one active living" and part of his book Fair Play :
1 is not true that we must die.
Nobody dies if the land is no longer a clear
gate seed plow
ahínque time.
go running in the other day after day, giving
in love and hope.
If our voice is anchored securely
in truth, it will sound empty. No sound at
naked, useless box,
sound at heart, verse, works, son
to rumors grows.
Arrancad to
shroud life is with your own being
a mass of earth and light sleep and does not perish.
2
of land and light sleep and does not perish
is the meat that we
land because we like green branches
why a tree grows big and vivid.
earth's life enriched,
us his great sea
dies and is born and the bones of lime falling apart in this sea
needed paddles. Small
oars
help move the ship. Life is stranded, sunk
is in a mire indifferent. That
oars each
come and remove the black
standing water and paddle, paddle more upstream.
is the job of the poet and the peasant struggle in this life, deal with the words and the earth, shaping the land and fruit that we love in store. And once collected the kiss or the poem, once tasted the award and mature a dream or an idea, our work of man, our efforts will be compensated. So have a poet and peasant plowing and sing with enthusiasm, always with hope and looking to the fruits of their labor, but the desolation and boredom sometimes overshadow his efforts. It does reflections Gabriel y Galán in this excerpt from his poem "Ara and sings" Peasant book. It invites joy those who think if it's worth so much sacrifice, whether it is better to view other boundaries, beyond the folio or ground work so hard craft carry:
I
Labriego, are you plowing? Well, I doubt there
fall more pleasant and enjoyable to sing the tune
of sweet sowing.
What did you say? What happens to the unfortunate
the eternal day behind a plow
struggling ever sang joy,
if you have sung?
liar is a complaint that I've given
Do not know till I know? Well let me
the handle,
and hey, I'll sing.
II
"Labriego little patient:
if you think only your front
copious sweat poured
sipping innumerable people,
out of your error, farmer.
He says he is your brother, who sings
your brave fight;
who says his own hand harvested
summer and winter garden cava.
What do you know
tribute to the work that the world pays,
or do you know about the fruit,
if you have not transposed the edge of the soil
tiny?
If you impose the world that imposes the Yokes
better
thought your handle,
if not the most bearable,
the cross is not greater. [...]
What
or clumsy trickster spirit wanted to tell you:
"Cries and sweats, farmer,
that the world is a paradise
watered with your sweat"? [...]
Ara tranquil, peasant,
and do not think so blind
was your target you,
that the field is a good friend and the sweet honey
his calmness, and greeting
pure day, and these deal are
force
and this environment is harmony, and this light is
joy ... Ara
and sings, farmer! "
I have insisted that the poem and the fruit are The reward for the effort of the poet and man of the field. The earth is a marvel and mother, as is the imagination. Nothing is beneath the earth, "says Claudio Rodriguez in his poem" Eternal Harvest "- which does not come to light. So also is the genesis of the poem that eventually emerges on the virgin land of the page and is revealed as a result:
And nothing, nothing will
underground
not leave the light and see it , to our regret, it's time
how threshing
and tend the mounds, so we will
August, the fertile
carry,
and break into the sun our faithful grain because someday
land will rise.
Who with his hand planted eternal
us clear and thick picks us? What other seasoning
but his
curdles our harvest? What brave
begins to flavor our fruit? In this,
parad this, to me, let's stop all:
our seed to the wind!
But who cares. Behold, behold our groove
forward as the wave breaking
See him against the huge rock
time! But who cares. To earth, this woman
bad lambing, demos
our health, water
of human health! Let your children
we feel well, we feel no pain
belly heñirla safe!
And how well you know the result of the effort, the fruit made poem with the words "in the mouth of Carlos Edmundo de Ory-the poet stole the tree, the sweet celestial divine word.
Here is a brief sample of results: a potato grown by Domingo López Torres in his book Unexpected , a watermelon from the garden poetry of Salvador Rueda and a beautiful orange tree torn titled Book of praise Antonio Oliver:
POTATO
rested seized, numb, blue
your indecisive teenager, green
distracting chores,
in your house, your sex, your fortune.
Land, white, black or red, and put a stigma
your destination
of soft, hard, bitter or sweet
meat. You could navigate
heights of the deepest seas,
or lost in the dull din of the flow
dumber by the normal course of habit.
So, without knowing the jubilant cry
delivery without why or how, when,
that multiplies in 7 which is 1, a 16
any, between my hands,
trembling, indecisive, dirty, black, fell
.
The sharper edge of desire, bloody
my love, my bad
courage
I tore the skin between my fingers,
and screams, moans and sighs
lost without echo in my hands a murderer
inexperienced.
When your white body, maimed,
fell on the water in your sky, gray tin
your misfortune,
broke into pieces. WATERMELON
What if suddenly opened a little the day
firing an intense blaze,
torn by shining steel
showed red watermelon flesh. Carmine Glow
seemed long and glittering knife,
as the mouth on and unleashed
in fresh gush of joy. Slice after slice
, noting
, noting
the knife business was separated,
alive as no illusion.
The hand suddenly separated,
The hand suddenly separated,
and suddenly decorated the source
a circle of red crescents.
ORANGE
What gives joy orange
have you in my hands!
What joy that your volume
sidereal reached,
as one of the night comes
to catch a star!
constellation
If the tree, put on the table
the golden glow
that darkness away,
grief and sorrow.
Orange budding world, sweet
globe
touch this round.
I watch with delight;
with rapture, you feel;
than fruit, you are female
when trouble your wedges. On the balcony
your shell is a golden curl, ringlet
beautiful
light jet,
scandal. Glory
land you in your labor turned to perfume
life, being, the field. Great miracle
prodigy and the maturation of a poem or a fruit. Both require a watchful waiting, but also light and water, sap, breath, before reaching the palate, to give flesh and substance.
But sometimes the fruit is not ripe and fails. Or rot in silence. And back to earth or the origin for the purpose of paying and fertilize the land as not suited for a snack. As we attend to the poem and the board of "The pear green and rotten" Concepción Arenal for the green fruit and adolescents complete their maturation and do not fall from the tree before time:
Iba one day with his grandfather
walking a
college and under a pear a pear
found in the soil.
Look at it, grab it, bite;
more quickly throws the bread, rotten
very
one side and the other was green.
Grandpa, what will, "said the boy
spitting, this pear
I see
rotten, though green, is it?
The old man softly said that evil
Vinolé pear to fall down without it being mature
.
The same happens to the fool
that, being in adolescence,
disregards the wisdom of their parents with contempt;
who trusts in himself and in resource
fruitful and ignoring what the world is engulfed in it without
guide. Who and tries
deny the veneration due
in the field of life rots
unripe
open your eyes. Let us see in the poem mature the seed from which emerged, emotion throbbing in his letters, the life it contains, its protein value. And learn of leaving the field to breathe, to climb the tree branches and fantasy, a dream line by line, stem to stem. And let's try verse and fruit relish. Savor his flesh and juice. Live with intensity the miracle of life. Feel the sap of breath, and intuit the root out, cut roses instantly. Grow our own fruit. Nature-like feel Aníbal Núñez says In his book Nature unrecoverable - germinate in our senses, the science of life in freedom, the fruit of poetry
Go to drink up the entire field area get on the branches
wonder why beat around the branches!
confuse the mouth with cherry smell jara
body tea and chocolate waterfall
trenzarte a crown of reeds of the stream
count the times that the stone touches the water
learn
zoology botany without flexo
unmarked
But
the rector and the janitors are locked
us
the shadow of the Tree of Knowledge and continue watering
ink
Cursed
buffer
fruit that gives it more buts!
Raul and Isabel Brown Cow Field School
"From Brown Cows"
Poster: Marc Taeger
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