Tupacamarú. Miguel O. Menassa Poetry School
Group Zero Director: Miguel Oscar Menassa
RESUME - virtual magazine of poetry -
Sunday Workshop at 17.00h.
Alcalá de Henares
NUMBER 34. Sunday 04/18/2010
Coordinator: Carlos Fernández Goose
Group Zero Director: Miguel Oscar Menassa
RESUME - virtual magazine of poetry -
Sunday Workshop at 17.00h.
Alcalá de Henares
NUMBER 34. Sunday 04/18/2010
Coordinator: Carlos Fernández Goose
THERE WAS A TIME WHERE HE BROKE INTO PIECES BESOS
There was a time where kisses were broken into pieces. There
a century in which a face of light, a smile crossed
converted to caress
happy pit, imprint of the time,
ice on fire, where love
pierced the glass of dreams and diluted
passion,
on skin of the desert. Sowing
permanent sexes
mocking the inexorable limits of space, gentle hands
cleaning the prison surrounded by violets,
where looks were capable
to mute any musical note. Big waves
embraced the folds of the cliffs,
trembled at the sound of a throaty voice, inflamed
vertigo of beauty and joy
tenderly
huddled inside the foam in love.
There was a stranger to the distance,
where they were writing the story at night,
in love, in the poem ...
time
approached them and gently covered them with white
breeze of death.
Prada Vicente Gómez
There was a time where kisses were broken into pieces. There
a century in which a face of light, a smile crossed
converted to caress
happy pit, imprint of the time,
ice on fire, where love
pierced the glass of dreams and diluted
passion,
on skin of the desert. Sowing
permanent sexes
mocking the inexorable limits of space, gentle hands
cleaning the prison surrounded by violets,
where looks were capable
to mute any musical note. Big waves
embraced the folds of the cliffs,
trembled at the sound of a throaty voice, inflamed
vertigo of beauty and joy
tenderly
huddled inside the foam in love.
There was a stranger to the distance,
where they were writing the story at night,
in love, in the poem ...
time
approached them and gently covered them with white
breeze of death.
Prada Vicente Gómez
outcome * Waiting - Miguel Oscar Menassa
GOODBYE, ONE WORD
Tap dance
the side of the
night where a woman with passing wind
wet
wilted cries freedom of silence,
- Enjoy the bye in blue vertigo -
that looking at death profile
nude dawns, throbbing weaving
a throat pounding.
Announcing the distance from the tracks.
Tremble broken bodies in the desert,
a shadow falls between the names
pronounced on the back of the memory.
is stained violet calendar, dress
sadness uncertainty and time
tapestry come,
in another farewell, word open to life.
Soledad Caballero Castro
Tap dance
the side of the
night where a woman with passing wind
wet
wilted cries freedom of silence,
- Enjoy the bye in blue vertigo -
that looking at death profile
nude dawns, throbbing weaving
a throat pounding.
Announcing the distance from the tracks.
Tremble broken bodies in the desert,
a shadow falls between the names
pronounced on the back of the memory.
is stained violet calendar, dress
sadness uncertainty and time
tapestry come,
in another farewell, word open to life.
Soledad Caballero Castro
* Celos - Miguel Oscar Menassa
NOW BECAUSE IT IS WRITTEN
I close my soul gave me the keys and creating
I open my eyes to the transformation of the species. Immune to
carnivore crawl, when they want to devour
my heart.
What do you want from me? Shout at the obfuscation
flee,
when covet my breath, put on my lungs
slabs that rumble like drums,
the initiation of the holocaust of the senses.
Then you come to visit me in droves,
in the body of angry gargoyles,
backed into the corner where the olive grows.
not know that a verse
save my soul and that will open the doors
words that I was denied in other lives,
step toward death.
Now I sing the poets who invented
roses and distinguish the scents of all flowers
And for me
and trees grow there but the overcast sky
and after the snow is water that quenches thirst.
I understand why poets have written
love of life and death,
because the world is for humans,
felt in unison, never once.
it is written now that madness
kill any love
and that words are constructed
pain that fades to pronounce it.
Ortigosa Carmen Martín
THE SMELL OF A GREAT SUN EXPOSED
sometimes you find a knot in the rope
melancholy at its end almost
or an ashtray full of cold smoke all
parties or tripping over a buzz of fluorescent
in your skull or doors suddenly opening your mouth
at midnight or I'll invade
blue moon beams bathed in bones from cemeteries
sometimes you must babble
start somewhere and go to another
contain no more crazy than it might have this or that
marble floor or the doorknob and the crack
of planks on the top floor crossed by bands of light
who gives your window singing a duet with the power of the brain
irrational sometimes every sentence becomes a crypt that is stinking
with claws and eyes open sometimes
stones
draw perfect circles in every word and every paragraph is a caravan
with pests
walking toward the fire and swallowed the man
Piotr Rzany
OVER HALF A CENTURY
fit In the old barracks every shadow.
Neither rain, nor torrid dry lagoons
its foundations would move an inch, forged in the second minute candid
bets banal result.
claimed was his time as a soldier right
the privilege of committing the crime again.
His children forgot that once, barefoot, in the midst of a large pool
told them the story of the lost words.
eyes, two half-open windows, sang and told
not lived,
He realized that the skin on your hands
cast nets hanging like heaven. Those arms
hard bodies covering
silk and satin, could only hold, thin sheets of silver,
than others, in another time, would own.
Francisco Javier Rueda Diago
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