Cruce de caminos (Jazmín) (Spanish Edition)
Miller ; A. Marcus, Greil Sollors, Werner. Mendoza Argentina. Centro de Investigaciones Ruinas de San Francisco. Includes index of works reproduced. Araujo M. Nogueira, Benito, Watercolor painting, Mexican -- 20th century Watercolor painting, Mexican -- 21st century. Includes index. Reprint of the ed.
Ibarra, Madrid. Includes bibliographical references. Subscribed to the reading of the landscape as culture and as language "this four volume of the collection Paisagens Culturais, gives continuity to an editorial project emerged seven years ago. The objective of this book is to present a parallel encounter between the artistic expressions of Mexico and Spain "that starts from the primal expression rescued in the caves of Altamira and Baja California to the audacious of contemporary proposals " HKB Translation --Page Includes bibliographical references page .
Lara Elizondo, Lupina. Cruce de caminos Lara Elizondo, Lupina. Cruce de caminos. English Lara Elizondo, Lupina. The book comprises the various aspects of the culture of one of the most ancient native peoples of the Valley of Mexico, its pre-Hispanic history, the way in which the colonial transition was reflected in a complex holiday calendar, among other characteristic features. Includes bibliographical references pages Atlanta, Ga.
Lange, Frederick W. Accompanying CD-ROM contains the same texts as the book as well as many black and white portrait photographs with accompanying manuscript text, all in PDF format. The photographs are categorized by the occupations of the subjects. A multiple look to work and life of renowned artist b. This book, said Del Conde, is the product of a seminar that she coordinates at the Faculty of Arts and is not intended to replace any of the publications that have been made about the artist, but to offer fresh voices and exploring in their trajectory certain specific aspects that have aroused interest among researchers.
November bis Februar bis 6. Goya, Francisco, -- Exhibitions Goya, Francisco, Caprichos -- Exhibitions Goya, Francisco, Disasters of war -- Exhibitions. Buschiazzo", . Architecture -- Argentina -- 19th century -- Encyclopedias Architecture -- Argentina -- History -- 20th century -- Encyclopedias. Liernur, Jorge Francisco Aliata, Fernando. Remove selections Remove. Your list is loading To quickly locate a specific topic , simply type its first few characters here. The J. Paul Getty Trust. Connect with Us Shop. Page header here.
Your filters Clear all The filters you select will appear here. Title: Aaa : azioni off kulchur. San Francisco : Futura Press, Publication Info: Cambridge, Mass. Source: GRI Library Catalog Summary: America is a nation making itself up as it goes along--a story of discovery and invention unfolding in speeches and images, letters and poetry, unprecedented feats of scholarship and imagination. Literature, music, film, art, history, science, philosophy, political rhetoric--cultural creations of every kind appear in relation to each other, and to the time and place that give them shape--From publisher description Notes: Bibliographic Level Mode of Issuance: Monograph Includes bibliographical references and index.
Publication Info: Bs. Publication Info: Rio de Janeiro : Rio Books, Source: GRI Library Catalog Summary: Subscribed to the reading of the landscape as culture and as language "this four volume of the collection Paisagens Culturais, gives continuity to an editorial project emerged seven years ago. Contents: Prefacio. 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.
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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.
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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.http://services.mwanzoni.com/the-nights-desire.php
An Archaeological Glimpse of the Slave Trade in Late-Seventeenth-Century Panama
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.
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Es el cruce a la derecha de tu sexto sentido. 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. 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.
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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. 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. 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.
In he graduated with his Masters from Wesleyan University. A gallon of infinite possibility. Inspire as long as possible. Mix together for up to eighteen years. Send off to college. Attend graduate school. Get published. Dominican writer, professor and cultural activist. He has lived in New York since Currently, he teaches at York College. He lives in Brooklyn, New York. He teaches Spanish and is a freelance scriptwriter and playwright.
This film has received several awards. Si pudiera llorar, si pudiera llegar, si mi abrazo antiguo pudiera estrangular el gusano que te roe la calma. Te salva quien apague una bombilla a soplos. Eres un perro que se muerde la cola. Mejor amordazar al perro, impedir que nos llene la noche de sus alaridos lastimeros. Mejor hacer morir al perro. A solas. Muere a solas. Es justo.
Te queremos. Duele verte. No sospechas que ya te dejo ir sin regreso. Repetir de memoria tu voz de pozo fresco, el brillito de tus ojos. No sospecho que ya me dejaste ir sin regreso, que prefieres vivirme sin noticias. The news is true, abused by boredom, you live taken by fantasy. I would cross the bay walking and it would come to you.
I would cry. If I could cry, if I could get there, if my old embrace could strangle the worm that eats into your calm. There is no anesthetic possible. The pain that once opened holes is now the holes.
You are a dog that bites its tail. Better kill the dog. Die alone. The others. We love you. So much. It hurts to see you. Like that. You are not convenient. You do not suspect that I am letting you go without return. Living without news is sweeter. Repeating from memory your voice of fresh well, the little shine of your eyes. I do not suspect that you already let me go without return, that you prefer to live without my news. It hurts you less to let me die in my corner without complaint, without mourners, without your care, abused by boredom, taken by fantasy.
Tag: camino mozarabe
Rosana Acquaroni Spain, Madrid, Poet, visual artist and educator. She earned a doctorate in applied linguistics at Universidad Complutense de Madrid. Her poems have been translated to several languages and received literary awards. In Birckbeck College London University she studied documentary filmmaking.
She has directed and produced film festivals in Thailand and Buenos Aires Since , she teaches at Univesidad Nacional de las Artes UNA , where she conducts the research project: The two imaginations of Ricardo Piglia: fiction in literature and film. She taught film language in Padang, West Sumatra, Indonesia. She is the author of Portrait of the invisible man , a film editors choir In his new literary work, Rush Hour and other stories to read on the train , he visits for the first time the world of prose.
But experience teaches us the opposite. Demonstrations and endless funerals will not save Amazonia. I want to live, I want to live. Today macaws sing your song, a song of hope and struggle, a song of the barkings of the heart a song of the Earth that is heard. So you screamed Chico, and I heard you, so you flew and I felt you between the trees you saved in Brazil, that jungle belonging to the world and to me. Perhaps a silence standing in the corner expecting a little more rain and less thirst.
Writer, poet and Human Rights advocate. Reality is limited by the totality of poetry. Poetry does not have limits. Interviewer, is requiem. If that is so, then, poetry is its flowering: enchantment of the flower. Poetry alone has the daring to leap over it. Natalia Chamorro : Poet and academic. Natalia is also a Ph. Now this blues drags you.
The sounding body of the phantom under the table pushes against the line. Now the light presses crooked backs against the grim of earthy colors. The scenario sparks something in your head.
Now the dazed aroma submerges you in a sweet sour chemical, unfair mixture of the third space. In the rustic frames of others, the images darken at the heat of plastic, of a crossing point-corner. Ahora este blues te arrastra. El cuerpo sonoro del fantasma bajo las mesas empuja contra la fila. Ahora la luz presiona los cuerpos curvados contra la mugre de los colores tierra. El escenario chispea algo en la cabeza. Animal Days Animal days, oxide on the eyelids; paint your nails with the blood left on me and let life come in, with its joy and lights, into the back of the room.
Cockroaches mew in the corners of the bathroom but their music at midnight sounds classical to me. Animal days: a beast in the darkness and early in the morning an insect on the lamp. A dead butterfly. Mariposa muerta. Book One will be published in Uruguay, Poet, narrator, essayist, journalist, editor, cultural manager and social activist.
He has published seven books of poetry, four books of essays and one of narrative.
Llueve y la noche se inunda de miseria techos naufragando sin casas en la profundidad de la nada interminable.