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Goodbye, Mario Merlino

Yesterday I met the news of the death Mario Merlino, professor of language and literature, writer, poet, playwright, Performance, organizer of literary workshops and above all, a translator.
I was lucky enough to attend one of their workshops ("Writing: Treasures in the abyss") in the Carnival XIX Gençana Literary School. There I met, from his hand, the work "Mediations" by Gary Hill, one of the pioneers of video art. It was an unforgettable workshop. The high school kids overcame their initial shyness and were pulled to write on sheets of paper Mario, prior to the workshop, had crumpled (as a ball) and deposited on his desk.

reflected in the workshop and invited us all to do on the concave and convex on the empty and full, on silence and sound. While writing "Incited by him, the song sounded " Silence is sexy " of Einstürzende Neubauten. It was a beautiful experience.

And I had the pleasure of knowing him more closely and listen for three years in meetings Animation Reading Arenas de San Pedro, organized by Frederick Martin Nebra and Pizpirigaña Association.

There, next to Jesus Marchamalo (and Noni Benegas, in one case), we did enjoy his humor, his intelligence and poetic intuition in successive tours of the prepositions, conjunctions and adverbs. In Riocantos forest still exist, between the trees, many of those words.

Mario Merlino translated, among others, to Jorge Amado, Clarice Lispector , Ana Maria Machado , Nelida Pinon, Eça de Queiroz , António Lobo Antunes , Gianni Rodari and Allen Ginsberg . In 2004 he received the National Award for best translation Auto convicted of António Lobo Antunes . His last work as an author was, in fact, with Jesus Marchamalo, a great friend and companion of lectures and conferences. No adverb you convinience, illustrated and edited by Isidro Ferrer Eclipse, includes the lecture he gave in 2008 in Arenas de San Pedro.
You can learn more about Mario Merlino in an interview published in the magazine Consumer
And you can read the lines that he devotes Clara Obligado in his workshop blog. Both, as well as friends were pioneers in the implementation of creative writing workshops in Madrid and shared many projects.

leave here a fragment of No adverb well you come in memory of a great lover of words, a kind loving, affectionate and a great sense of humor, which I am proud have learned so much. Thanks, buddy:

"I like words. I like to go down in the morning to buy and choose them one by one, like ripe apricots.

never know what words will be needed over day. You never know what out of the bag house, or to pack, travel. many adjectives-white, fragrant, fertile, "how many and how to conjugate verbs: I love you, drive, opening, I've been, I supposed. .. many indefinite articles. many prepositions. I like words. I like to treasure them, but also let them escape, at times, as if they were not mine. Fog is so lightweight, it is so inert, just move your lips to a low gust of wind takes her.

There are tens of thousands of words. Or more. Words constructed of steel, cutting, or wood, heel, words on paper cut onions, or preliminary sylph, and rough words as an old cloth: ridge, cloth, fulling ... Says John Berger, the writer, that words must chewing, as if they have nerves, double, irreversible. Words that make you a ball, like a bad dining steak: sacramento, pigmentation, geo ... And there are others that will melt in your mouth, like the lines of a Romantic poet: flash, dragonfly ...

I've always liked howl. I do not like, nothing or almost nothing, Abencerraje. I like merengue, and I hate channel. I like to say loop, and I hate to say cut.

My friend Luis Mateo Diez, with whom I was one morning, tall and thin, cross as a quixotic, in the bar The Staircase, Plaza Mayor of Madrid, told me that he's least favorite word is scrofula. I never knew exactly what it means but it is a horrible word. Scrofula. The words of the doctors always sound fatal, terminal diagnosis, to eviction: mesenteric lymph swollen ...
However
are those beautiful eye doctors: iris, pupil, shortsighted. Another word I hate is spitted. Sounds like explosive device, he snapped. A hand grenade: you take the word, hold it firmly in hand, you remove the pin with his teeth, throw it as far as possible, protect yourself and wait. One, two, three, four ...

has not been heard because I pulled away. But do not kid yourself: he broached "

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Gredos rob us of the Ghetto

just arrived in my mailbox the next call. I sends Sol Mari Garcia. I hope you difundáis:

Given the unfair and inexplicable works being undertaken within Gredos Regional Park, which is zoned SPA and SCI of the European Natura 2000 network, tolerated by the Junta de Castilla y León and the Tagus River Basin, where it is deriving water from the Sierra to promote private interests an alleged macrourbanización of 431 villas and a large hotel, at the expense of destroying the only protected area, and ruining a large area of \u200b\u200bnative forest, vital for the environment Candeleda Township. And because the water
all Candeledana it are being blatantly commercial benefits for private and entirely illegal, from the Platform Against Speculation Candeleda Urban and Environmental We called a demonstration for next Friday, the 28 this month of August at 20.30 hours in the town of Candeleda (Ávila).



The beginning of the meeting will be at the Plaza Mayor of Candeleda (where is located the Town Hall). There, the spokespersons of the Platform will attend the journalists, and then will tour the different streets of the town, ending at the site known as the Canada where we will read the final manifesto. WE STEAL

GREDOS! Is the theme for this event, and corresponds to the alarm you want to convey to people the environment geographical neighborhood and society at large to the latest events we are living in this town of Avila in connection with the irregularities that have the headworks, conveyance and construction of a warehouse of 750,000 liters, intended for water supply balance macrourbanización " Candelas de Gredos ", promoted by the private construction Monteblanco Dávila, SL. All these works are being carried out within the protected area of \u200b\u200bGredos, without undergoing the environmental assessment processes and to brazenly breach the conditions imposed by the two administrations tolerant.

Candeleda can not afford to ruin its unique environment, nor can consent to carry the water they need the current inhabitants of the municipality by a company that seeks only economic benefits in exchange for destroying the most valuable of the municipality, ie, its nature, its landscape and water.

This demonstration is part of many other actions (including legal) being carried out by the Platform Against Speculation Candeleda and Environmental Planner. For this reason we ask you to give proper disclosure of it, being happy at your disposal, can contact us at the following phone designated spokespersons: Pilar

Diego: 629 627 431
Jesus Dutil: 687 488 312
Fernando Martín: 600 798 431

PLATFORM AGAINST SPECULATION AND ENVIRONMENTAL PLANNING CANDELEDA

PO No 179. 05480
Candeleda (Ávila).
E-mail: nourbanizacioncandeleda@hotmail.com

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Another video rescued from the trunk of memories
Again, the great poet Raphael de la Ghetto

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Raphael Street Children

Salamanca Mayor returns to celebrate-providing Cacique rum, another of his achievements "democratic." It took a few minutes, in an extraordinary plenary session to vote against the proposal submitted by the socialist group to revoke the renaming of some streets issued by the mayor in a personal capacity, without passing any local or full committee.

You can put you up to date with everything on the blog La Voz de Salamanca or in the newspaper Tribuna de Salamanca or World.

From there my homage and my personal vindication of the historic street of Salamanca and my condemnation of the attitude of the mayor and councilors.

long Salamanca will do and undo at will to the mayor. For when a change in the attitude of Salamanca conservative and ideological legacies attached to interests of all kinds, and subject. For when a Salamanca make us remember the brown medieval knights, defenders of their city and their conquests, or the courageous women who faced Hannibal.

Street

Today stroll through the Plaza de la Fuente and still see that the booths are lined with advertisements for apartments for rent without a contract. Then I remember Rachel, Angela, Mary and Max who always wanted to live on the streets for years tracked Bientocadas and portals that area in search of a floor.
I also remember Paqui house, street sleepers, where became more of a literary prank.
To me, however, I like to live in the square or street Savings Company. But I was fortunate to live near the Paseo del Rollo.
Maybe one day live in Lemon Street, near Viki, or in the streets of Air or Two Encinas, or the square of the Goldfinch, or in Zamora, along with Elena, who took me and brought down the street from the bitterness.
Sometimes street life and the match and you live in the street in its history. As Deborah, who worked with children in Chiapas last year and lived on the street Guerrillas, or Michael, to find girlfriend lived on Soledad Street and when he lost (the bride) and changed floor found no rent on the street or ride Consuelo heartbreak.
How beautiful it would for a live release from prison in Liberty Square, for a first-year student in the Graduate street, for a wine lover on the streets Lagar, still life or the Vineyard, for a street child in Recreation, for live selfish Santa Rita Road, for two angry boyfriends on the street or street peace Forgiveness.
How hard for a living on the streets hold of the Faith, to a rafter in Cuba Street, for an ugly mirror on the street, for a mayor who lost the papers in Gibraltar Street, for an addict on the street Parcheesi Oca; for an elder in the streets henpecked husband, and Sordolodo Raspagatos that no longer exist, to an undertaker in the marble streets and being a neighbor of Peter and Paul, for a fisherman living on the street butchers or a fan of sax in the silent street near the house of the friars Claretians.
And what a scandal it would be live on the streets Galileo and my life revolved around you. Or in the Square and be your Cyrano Gascones and tarnish your eyes each night with the mist of my verses. Or at Santa Barbara and remember you when it thunders. Clover Street O and share with you my four leaf lucky. Or Oregano Street, next to a mountain. Spend the morning. I pause a moment on the street south. I watch the clock. Pita me a car. I'd better street.

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It is less light to see the book of poems signal, a bet Mundanalrüido editorial (Santander) with texts and illustrations my Sara Morante. Mundanalrüido has another book in the catalog: Dragon a story by Alberto Iglesias illustrated by Anna Mer and has had great reviews.
The editorial, is sheltered by the design studio Beusual , manager of the store's identity and graphic design of its collections of books, tasks performed with special care and enthusiasm.
is an honor to start a collection poetry. Hence my public thanks to Ainara Bezanilla to value my work and inviting me to share this project.
Signal is a song torn and poetic love, loneliness and death, perhaps the three words that leave a greater mark on our skin and in our hearts, like the three wounds of Miguel Hernández: the love, of death, of life.
of the graphics is responsible Sara Morante, a great illustrator who is reeling, hank of yarn, each text and compiling extraordinary images of narrative and poetic force.
Juan Carlos Mestre, the great poet and friend, said the following regarding signal After reading almost scoop: "What beautiful book, resounding, disobedient, again, has written that seductions sedition in it, in its siege of delicacy to address loving, love as disturbing awareness of reality, the body as a symbolic space of revelations, I loved it, literally a persuasive charm and excitement of the capacity of poetic language to discover the areas closed to restore reason and the hidden meanings of the similarity between reality and desire. Great book that I thank you the scoop, and trust, to be reader privilege. "

For one example:
The Loneliness of the barbarian is perhaps
the most secret of the desert.

eyes of his victims, empty of answers are unequivocal proof

hate that dream every day,
the futility and darkness of her crimes,
love stuffed in his memory. Because

only time safeguarding their most intimate secrets and unspeakable
. Only

adult blood from their eyes, rage
inherited from some god

dispossessed and without clay or crying never used,
them vulnerable to life.

Maybe a stormy day
the most human of the barbarians,
leave his victim's face Tact
sorry. Perhaps

an emotion or a dream you
wrecking one day, suddenly, the calculation
perfect.

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rare signal we said yesterday

rare Children is a project created by Thomas Son a couple of years and I have the pleasure to participate with my writing. After a long time, I have finally been able to complete the poems and has been an eye-opening experience because it is not easy writing for children and children after rereading fools Children Ana Maria Matute (Media Vaca) and Chamari Eduardo Polo, heteronym Eugenio Montejo (Ekaré), two splendid books. The book rare children 29 children compose it very special, each corresponding to a letter of the alphabet, which make up an album that has already interested a publisher. The texts are ready. Now only missing the pictures of Thomas, who works from the initial sketches. The book purports to be, well, a workbook for the teacher and each of the texts and illustrations give us a different graphic rhetoric and record. The countdown begins. I leave you a snack:


giraffe girl
Sonnet

echo of the great goddess savannah
lives cramped in a small house
while sold or transferred
the hours passed like a butterfly. Posa
his long tongue in the fragrant rose,
love dies while kneading bread dough
grilled oat handle,
for this high and beautiful sylph bear
be more fragrant to
youth of the pack. Nothing better for the farmer
but another giraffe

sing pleading his love for her and loved her litter
finally put in your destination, destination.

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After a long hiatus, I open the windows of this blog unattended and air their rooms in order to look out the network and share with you information and poetry.

I apologize to those who, tired of waiting for a new post, have continued to visit this wilderness and to sign even a message of encouragement. Thanks for encouraging me to unseal the blog and get back on track.

And to celebrate that event, an old text salvaged the hard drive with the title "Responsorial Psalm"

I came back to smell you at night, when the poor are accommodated in their cardboard boxes and the tears flow through the sea and the culverts and red lips.
I returned to my fill of questions and scratching your eyes to break your heart with a gray shoe he was robbed on Thursday a question more and picnic alone in the evening or never.

I came back to hurt the memories and kindle in your skin with pins, to order the night traffic. To climb the edge of the cold and calculating your dreams.
I'm back with your shadow hand to invite you to film to love, to be with you at a zebra crossing and embrace without haste and without words.
I returned to enter your madness, to rub your body with mine to invent the fire, to look at you watch and hid like a thief.
I'm back with the moon in his pocket to make a poem to the measure. To open the seams of your wound and sneak, perhaps, in your silence.
I came back to talk of men to wander again and again to enter the depths of your dreams with little oxygen and finding a pearl in your name.
I came back to burn in your attic, when the sun blinds and spill the yolk and caramel bathe, to touch us with the rush of children smoking cigarettes on the sly and guess your cotton panties.
I returned to confess that I love you like a tree, making my sadness in your wardrobe, to tell you a plan for death, camping forever in your future and dance like a bird in the rain.
I become like the sun on the crops which strives to brown sunflowers, as the swallows return also, as the waves become indecisive, and again love and the boomerang.

I returned to the sea in the towel to save a letter and saliva, to devise a light in your custom, tickle in the back, to open an account with your kisses, to kick you in the eye drops to die with you.