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Tuesday, January 16th, 2018
Cuentista, son tus palabras
El idioma y nada más.
Cuentista, no hay idioma,
Se hace idioma al contar.
Al contar se hace el idioma,
Y al recordar las pasajes contadas
Se oye el relato que nunca
Se ha de volver a narrar.
Cuentista no hay idioma
Sino espuma sobre las aguas.
posted evening of January 16th, 2018: 1 response
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Monday, January 15th, 2018
¡Subiré a nacer contigo, herman@ poeta!
posted afternoon of January 15th, 2018: 1 response
➳ More posts about Pablo Neruda
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Sunday, January 14th, 2018
In the dream it was a sunny morning after a night of heavy rain. Everyone was nervy because of an ancient prophesy: The morning sun sparkling on the waters of River X (which had been dry for all of recorded time -- the river had a name but I've forgotten it) would portend the end of days. So we walked down to and along the bed of the river, at every waystation I was pointing out to my friends how it was dry, nothing to worry about. We passed a concrete embankment with a light rill of water running down it, the sunlight sparkling. Beyond that was an ocean, where none had been before; its vastness was dumbfounding. Thousands were gathered there, standing on the shore, gawking.
posted morning of January 14th, 2018: Respond
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Sunday, January 7th, 2018
posted afternoon of January 7th, 2018: Respond
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Saturday, January 6th, 2018
- A remake of Yellow Submarine. Keep the soundtrack, new video track.
- This is the next adaptation that should be made of a Pynchon novel:
posted evening of January 6th, 2018: Respond
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Monday, January first, 2018
¡Felicidades al año nuevo, herman@s poetas!
posted evening of January first, 2018: Respond
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Sunday, December 31st, 2017
Deviant Madonna of the ants,
she listens to their chants,
she catches every glance,
she wants to but she can't...
Is this love? Is this love?
posted afternoon of December 31st, 2017: 1 response
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Saturday, December 30th, 2017
So what about a mashup of "In the Penal Colony" and "The Library of Babel"?
"So the prisoner goes on dying his inexorable death, his improbable death. The sentence engraved into his flesh mutates slowly, becomes itself the story, becomes all stories, an encyclopaedia of human knowledge written for all eternities on bodies which will rot away. The executioner turns away from the slaughter, lights a cigarette, walks slowly across the grounds to his barracks."
posted morning of December 30th, 2017: 1 response
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Sunday, December third, 2017
READIN syndication is once again live (after an interval of some years) at http://readin.com/blog/bfeed.xml. In case you're using Google Reader to manage your blog subscriptions... or you know, Feedly or something.
posted evening of December third, 2017: Respond
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Yet, can't we do better than silence? Today, each student will receive a musical score and a instrument designed to imitate birds. A birdcall. Once in Ani everyone will hide in the ruins and start calling the birds. At first a few cries will interrupt the silence, then a melody will grow until a chorus of bird calls echo across the valley all the way to Armenia. And the singing will go on to the point of exhaustion, until the birds return to Ani and life comes back to the forgotten city.
The silence of Ani from Francis Alÿs on Vimeo.
posted afternoon of December third, 2017: Respond
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