Published by Vaso Roto Ediciones About this Item: Vaso Roto Ediciones, Buen estado. Retractilado original. Published by Peter Owen, About this Item: Peter Owen, Condition: Neuf. Published by Calambur Editorial, S. About this Item: Calambur Editorial, S. Encuadernacion:Rustica con solapa. Published by New Directions Publishing About this Item: New Directions Publishing, Condition: Brand New. In Stock. Seller Inventory x Condition: Nuevo. Seller Inventory UDL Poeta del rayo y de la memoria. Published by Valparaiso Ediciones, Spain About this Item: Valparaiso Ediciones, Spain, Language: Portuguese.
Se escribe para dejar memoria de lo vivido.? About this Item: 0. Condition: UsedAcceptable. Published by Editorial Pre-Textos, Spain Perros y estrellas me siguen cuando penetroen el bosque defendido por la noche. Este proceso era "labor del verbo". El Nommo macho le ayudaba. Esta palabra pasa a los hombres, pero no de manera directa, sino por intermedio de la hormiga; es una palabra que sale de la boca como la tela del telar. Una tercera palabra, la que revela la estructura del mundo.
Comentando estos guarismos, van Beek , p. Dieterlen Griaule; Dieterlen, , p. Lo dicho hasta ahora no quiere insinuar que no haya "secreto" dogon. Otro plano es el que nos indica Dieterlen , p. La disyuntiva entre nimiedad e importancia del secreto en el caso dogon queda manifiesta en un libro reciente. Vayamos por partes. Un ejemplo. Pregunta, pregunta, pregunta; acorrala al ciego. Y un gesto, el de sacar de su casa una cesta gastada para con ella explicar el sistema del mundo. En un texto de , Griaule apud Griaule; Dieterlen, , p. Cada parte de este conjunto es un resumen del todo. No hay sujeto ni objeto, sino cosas ligadas en un solo reino.
Jack Goody , p. La confianza brindada por el paradigma es de corto alcance. Un poco mayor de todas maneras. Paulme, , p. Para que la cosa sea una cosa de hombre y no una cosa del cielo" Paulme, , p. Griaule: — Usted dice "hacer creer". Van Beek , p. El autor Van Beek, , p. Se trataba, dicho con todo respeto, de un profesional asalariado "informantes titulados" los llama. Veamos un ejemplo. En su novena jornada, Griaule , p.
Es significativo el extremo laconismo con que se refieren a sus informantes cuando deciden hablar de ellos. Ver, p. Este hecho, poco apreciado en los comentarios, es de importancia crucial. Los mitos de todo el mundo son historias contadas a una audiencia. La inexistencia de un protocolo original de las entrevistas con su informantes, pone en riesgo el edificio todo y vuelve los trabajos de Griaule inaprovechables; al menos es eso lo que afirma Meillassoux , p.
Doquet , p. El lugar del mito en la cultura dogon. Richards apud Lettens, , p. Dolo, , p. No se le dice "no". Si se siente que ha venido con una idea fija y que quiere encontrar alguna cosa, se le ayuda a encontrar lo que ha venido a buscar, inventando las leyendas correspondientes. Coppo , p. Bouju , p. Meillassoux , p. Amselle , p. Griaule hizo construir.
- Star: The Story of an Indian Pony.
- Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke: “El triunfo de la pérdida constante” y otros poemas | Zócalo Poets.
Today I am here needle and thread stitching my skin empty sorrowful reminiscence of a sweet eternity. He lives in New York City since He writes poetry, novel, short stories and essays. Are you sleeping, is it that you are dead of hearing? If in silence, you sleep Galatea while my voice transcends your deafness, let your body make me come alive, in those moments erect monuments to the fallen ones, run up flags that are no longer there, follow the path, motorboat where you take me, I do not care.
If on your bed, and in a few hours you melt me when you bristle on your way to heaven and your hands speak tearing me like a predator your deafness does not matter to me, if grasping you thrust deeply your claws fading you to ashes to dust to nothing. Translated by Karla Coreas. Marisa Daniela Russo Argentina. Facilitator of creative writing workshops. Las bancas de este parque reclaman tu nombre. The benches of this park claim your name. While your quena draws borders, the Charango settles in. I migrate to another park with my Bandoneon.
Dominican Republic. Award Winning Author.
Fordham University. Some of her work appears in more than 22 anthologies. Here I am lost at the opposite side of Rome Crashing without one of your clandestine kisses In order to break the dreariness. Your name and mine are hanging from the mirror Behind each star your gaze swathes The spheres speed up Where we refuse to just be. Karla Coreas El Salvador, Poet, photographer, translator, cultural promoter.
She has been published in anthologies, magazines and newspapers in the United States and abroad. She is often participating at important international poetry festivals. Her poetry has been translated into English, Portuguese, Italian and Hebrew. In the Nights of March at midnight where sadness shows its suffocation and the poem hides its gasp I remember your capturing eyes and the emptiness of its lies the delight of love letters mixed with the embrace of promises in those nights of March I call you in silence with the sweetness of a sarcophagus and the friendliness of a dead woman.
She has also participated in the poetry anthologies Night of Wines and Roses; Nostalgias of Arenas and A viva Bosch, Hundred poets sing Juan Bosh and the anthology of short stories The hand in the word her poems have also been published by the magazine Trama, organ of the ministry of culture in the United States and by Trazarte Huellas creativas.
On wings of mutilated butterflies the city beats its fears lying in his tiredness a final dance in the abysses in the corners there are absurdities dusting old puddles shrapnel of absences hurt the silence of the night in the back of time slips moisten the memory saving moments only one angel subsists hanging from silence. Lizette Espinosa is a cuban poet born in Havana, She has four published poetry books: Pas de Deux co-author Miami, , winner of the International Latino Book Awards in the category of poetry written by several authors; Donde se quiebra la luz Miami, ; Rituales Co-author , Miami, and Por la ruta del agua Ecuador, She has been invited to participate in International Poetry Festivals; her work has been included in anthologies of Latin American poetry and literary magazines of the United States, Spain, Ecuador, Honduras and Cuba.
Her professional life is dedicated to the field of technical design. She currently resides in Miami, Florida. Mi padre flotaba sobre el mar como una isla para que yo saltara encima de su tierra y avistara el futuro. Elizabeth Balaguer: born April 10, in the city of Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic; the stories she was told as a child have been her source of inspiration for creating fairy tales, where anything can happen.
His academic and creative work has earned him numerous awards and accolades. Y el pobre Borges inocente y asombrado en el espejo de sus aguas ve a otro Borges cada vez. The river is the same the one and only. You have gone so many times and you have always said that the river evolves as it flows away it is different every time.
And poor Borges innocent and amazed in the mirror of its waters sees another Borges every time. But the river is one only one only is the garden and the thing is one and the same thing. He is a bilingual poet and writer. His work has been published in various literary journals and anthologies in Spain, United States and Latin America. Escri bo en la oscuridad sin los malditos espejuelos. Intercalando palabras hurgando en la memoria como obras de arte en el muro de mis lamentos. A tickling sensation invades a snake slithers up between my legs.
Could it be that I am being burned? I survive not because I am stronger not because my pockets are full of reason. I am not a hero I am not even a patriot. If I could advance the calendar change my name or remain without one I would be much closer to Nirvana. Edgar Smith, Dominican Republic. Sumaiya smiles no more. Splash splash splash is the sound no one heard. The puddle was a dirty eye on the muddy ground. Sumaiya smiles no more; her tiny fingers lost all motion in a fistful of mud. Splash splash splash is the sound no one heard… Splash splash splash and another little girl was gone. El charco era un ojo sucio en el fango.
Maureen H. Altman is an artist, poet, writer and educator. She was invited to be part of different anthologies, book fairs and poetry festivals in the USA and Latin America. Altman was born in USA and grew up in Peru. No encuentro las voces conocidas, se figuran los sentimientos… Se dice que los encuentros tras el verano, pasan…. La transparencia vertical en los planos horizontales me elevan de pronto. Inside an elevator in Manhattan, senses sharpen, and a thought intone a vertigo floor I can not find the known voices, feelings are figuring out… It is said that reunions after the summer, pass….
The vertical transparency on the horizontal planes suddenly raise me up. My destiny is stepping the truth of a lift button. The lift button is secured on a finite floor step. I stay within ideas opening levels, while I seriously consider moving. It will be now that I start to flow, from the highest of this platform, to my sides, all flying down….
The punctual verses will dance from all of my floors, like an spiral or a carrousel, like the air, the mind, or a goodbye moves. I am standing on floor 1, my wings are grown… Once more, I will start again. Christos Tsiamis was born and raised in Patras, Greece. He is founding member of the Circle of Poets of Greece. He lives in New York. He stands alone under the goal posts. He does not look at the kicker or at the ball. There is an abyss of eyes across from him.
The whistle tears the firmament in two; night falls on his side. He is in mid-air with wounded wings. The other side reverberates as the net shakes. Bravo to him who scored, History will bestow him with honors. In our memory, though, we will keep the body that went airborne, a heroic offering to that moment, even if it had judged wrong. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Nine years old. The afternoon is hot and my flip flops smack against the pavement, suck the tar road as we walk single file to the Gulf, Beach towels tied around our waists.
When we reach the stone pier my father throws an inner tube out to sea, tethers the rope around a boulder. He dives and his thin arms enter the water with a silent swoosh. He disappears under white ripples and dark blue. My brother and I scramble backwards down the rocks. Jump in. The sun bakes us a darker brown. Salt forms white silt on skin. Oil tankers line the horizon.
How far will my father swim out before he turns back? That night in the upper bunk, I imagine I am dead. No mother. No father. No brother. I squeeze my eyes until the black hurts. My mind turns the puzzle around — Where do I go after Earth? Poet and essayist. Master in Communication and Public Affairs. Here teems the shelter of a garden roses, honeysuckles and a southern lapwing that inaugurates in step and doubt a new beginning. Broken in three colors vibrantly the sky pulses the jasmine evokes the aroma of grandparents stoical the cacti break the perfection of the water.
Here something is tenuous and runs rough tides and corral it is in the afternoon they know the watches the branches the newcomers come out reborn it could be said in a circle dance to celebrate the fall of the day they go towards the current they are themselves the river. And the shadow of some traveler Makes me reconsider And at the middle of the line I realize in silence, —in absolute silence — that the foreigner is me. Antonio D. Espejo Since he is the Editor of his own platform to tell stories of nonfiction and poetry at www.
Since he pursues clouds in New York to paint them with poetry and chronicles. Si cruzo a la derecha de tu prejuicio, me evades. Si cruzo a la izquierda de tu mirada, gozas. Si sigo derecho hacia tu instinto, se prende el Stop. Mi posibilidad frente a tu mirada, me traiciona. Es el cruce a la derecha de tu sexto sentido.
The Americas Poetry Festival of New York – Page 2
El cruce a tu derecha, el cruce a tu izquierda. Un latido permanente. O ese Stop, STOP, en el inesperado frenazo de tu luz de emergencia cuando quiero avanzar de largo a ti. My possibility is just around to your crossroads. If I cross to the right of your prejudice, you evading me. If I cross to the left of your eyes, you enjoy.
Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke: “El triunfo de la pérdida constante” y otros poemas
If I go straight to your instinct, you turn on stop. My possibility in front of your vertigo, tempting me. My possibility in front of your glance, betrays me. My possibility: The fugitive illusion to reach you. It is the crossing to the right of your sixth sense. It is the crossing to the left of your suggestion, the unexpected stop to my pulsion.
But your crossroads also insinuated my possibility. The crossing to your right, The crossing to your left. The permanent heartbeat. Pedro Larrea b. He has published poems in, among others, Revista de Occidente. Larrea graduated in literary theory and comparative literature from the Complutense University of Madrid and received his M. Currently he teaches at Lynchburg College in Virginia. Hiberno como el cedro, y despierto cuando la batuta de las horas golpea el atril del espacio.
Me confunde ser testigo del nacimiento de una galaxia. I am older than my body, like the cedar is older than any of its current leaves. I hibernate like the cedar, and I wake when the baton of the hours strikes the music-stand of space. Through me have passed quaverings as, through the cedar, the little hammerings of hummingbirds. I am what-I-was, with the bark of what-I-will-be, without trying it on. I am younger than my spirit.
- El misterio del reino de los cielos revelado (Las parábolas de Jesús nº 1) (Spanish Edition)?
- Griaule, la etnografía del secreto.
- 1968 (Collana Storica Vol. 11) (Italian Edition).
My house is a crater created by a rock not of this world before nuclear winter and the first glaciation. I do not comprehend how any pyramid is older than the youngest of my olive trees, nor understand the Phrygian trumpet or the Persian harp, which, sometimes, I play by intuition. How can I be old when I am young and young when I am old. How can there not exist a unique age which lets me feel, which justifies my presence in the past and in the present, and which imposes peace upon the warlike roaring of sensate being and existing.
When will I have a definitive face for every mirror. When will I be able to say I am this without being too wrong. I am young but I recognize the secrets of cartography. I am old but I have the agility to box against myself. I am what lacks before being and what remains after existing. Whom will I hate more than the palimpsest of my flesh. Whom will I take as an accomplice in the bribery of my spirit. Whom will I touch with the lips of whoever inhabits me successively, in solitude.
The lines are still worth something when they can sustain themselves by themselves or at least by sinking their nails into the earth. We believe that the dead are lines that pass in time lifting us up from an absence that no longer sins, no longer inflicts vulgar damage. They breathe from the cracks, at that exact time of night, maybe a few seconds before sunrise when everyone is sleeping off.
Synonyms and antonyms of diyambo in the Spanish dictionary of synonyms
They speak to us, they ask that we do not stop memorizing the moist shadows of so much replication and undue blame. Ameen-Storm Abo-Hamzy has spent his life on the road toward peace. Born in Torrington, Connecticut. Whereupon he was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant of Infantry in the United States Army Airborne and served until he was injured in the line of duty and honorably discharged.