quinta-feira, novembro 01, 2007
DEDOS DO SILÊNCIO - ROSY FEROS
Vem...
Me toma à beira da noite,
caminha por mim
com seus passos molhados,
despeja seu rio no meu cálice
– pois minha emoção é só água.
Vem...
Que eu lhe dou um trago
deste meu vinho guardado,
destas minhas uvas
frescas de inverno...
Que eu derramo em gotas meu perfume
pelos quatro cantos do seu corpo,
vestindo sua pele com a camurça
da nudez e do silêncio.
Vem...
Deita e me canta,
sente meu desejo
se esgueirando pelos seus dedos,
veleja sem bússola
pelos meus sentidos,
me olha como quem pede lua...
Deixa eu sussurrar minhas folhas,
soprar minhas pétalas
pelo seu peito de relva,
pelo seu solo macio.
Vem...
Não volta,
esquece a hora morta
do cotidiano de sempre.
Me toca feito música
e deixa eu cantar meu bolero
pelas suas curvas de carne...
Sinto-me inocência
passeando por suas alturas,
por seus andares cheios
da mais noturna noite densa.
Desvenda essa face molhada
e me mostra a sua vertente original
de emoção-fêmea pura...
Que eu o espero na branca paz
do meu ventre adormecido,
dos meus braços plenos
de fogueiras e cantigas.
Vem...
Que eu desfolho
toda essa sua vontade nua,
que eu desperto
todo esse seu lado cigano...
pois o meu leite é morno
e é rosa franca meu sorriso.
Deixa seu barco
navegar pelo meu leito,
que eu carrego no peito a ânsia
de hastear a bandeira do infinito...
Vem...
Deita...
Me namora...
Me afoga no espelho de luz
dessa madrugada afora,
me diz que no nosso tempo
não há tempo nem hora,
que eu não agüento
a flor do sexo que arde
das entranhas de mim...
Deixa que eu amanheça
na espuma dessa sua onda quente,
deixa sua emoção fluir
da garganta num repente...
Que eu carrego nos olhos de relento
a voz que lhe pede a terra
e que lhe entrega o mar
Beijo - Silvia Brito
FOTO: Ben Goossens Beijo - Silvia BritoBeijo partido de vidro
incandescente.
De cores escorridas
e pincéis sujos.
Beijo de papel branco
No canto jogado.
Beijo cheio de ausências,
de cortes e dores,
De braços cansados.
Beijo de caminho sem volta,
de quarto vazio.
Beijo sem boca,
Sem corpo,
sem custo.
Beijo no claro e vazio da minha alma
Que se solta...
Calma.
DE BOCA ABERTA - Urhacy Faustino
FOTO : bourson stephane DE BOCA ABERTA - Urhacy FaustinoEm nossas brigas não voam televisões,
nem há corporais agressões:
o verbo é a flecha que nos perfura
mesmo nos tempos e modos que a gente se censura.
Trocamos o costumeiro texto sacana
por verborrágica luta insana
e, se alguém se sente em desvantagem,
apela pra figuras de linguagem,
misturando metáforas, pleonasmos,
com licenças poéticas, no orgasmo
ao medirem forças dois titãs.
Até que já sem fala, de manhã,
mais sedentos que famintos, como taças
nos bebemos um ao outro, extasiados
de repente sem palavras, embrigados,
(eis que a língua se enrola, a gramática falha),
nos lambemos em nossa cama de batalha,
onde desejos e tesões explodem atômicos
em delírios guturais, gozando afônicos.
MEDITAÇÃO 2 - Almandrade
FOTO: salih güler AlmandradeMEDITAÇÃO 2
O corpo encontra
a fala.
Uma pedra de sal
e uma lembrança
nas costas.
o pensamento
enfraquecido
de tanto resistir
é um líquido
derramado.
O corpo encontra
a fala.
Uma pedra de sal
e uma lembrança
nas costas.
o pensamento
enfraquecido
de tanto resistir
é um líquido
derramado.
LICOR - Maria de Fatima Delfina de Moraes
FOTO: Christopher Azzopardi LicorMaria de Fatima Delfina de Moraes
RJ, 31/10/2007
Venha! Saboreie comigo
uma taça de licor
e de teus lábios, querido,
hei de provar o sabor.
copyrigth 2007
DESENCANTO - Maria de Fatima Delfina de Moraes
FOTO: Biliana Rakocevic Desencanto Maria de Fatima Delfina de Moraes
RJ, 31/10/2007
Quem sofre de desencanto
leva tristezas, meu bem,
tem o coração partido
pois sente a falta de alguém.
copyrigth 2007
RJ, 31/10/2007
Quem sofre de desencanto
leva tristezas, meu bem,
tem o coração partido
pois sente a falta de alguém.
copyrigth 2007
Presente - Maria de Fatima Delfina de Moraes
Foto: Dirk Jürgensen PresenteMaria de Fatima Delfina de Moraes
RJ, 31/10/2007
Encontrei uma conchinha
num passeio à beira-mar
será um presente doado
aquele a quem eu amar.
copyrigth 2007
Sofrimento - Maria de Fatima Delfina de Moraes
Foto: Zuan Carreno SofrimentoMaria de Fatima Delfina de Moraes
RJ, 01/11/2007
O meu coração ficou
pelo teu apaixonado
por ti sofro tanto de dor,
por ti ainda sofro de amor.
Etica, religione e storia
UNA RACCOLTA DI SAGGI IN MEMORIA DI MORETTOEtica, religione e storia
31/10/2007
Vi sono due maniere alternative per interpretare il rapporto fra etica e storia: o quella hegeliana, che diluisce compiutamente l’etica nella storia fino ad annullare ogni possibilità di redenzione per i destini individuali, o quella di chi ritiene che fra etica e storia vi sia la necessità di una terza opzione, la religione, l’a priori religioso senza il quale la correlazione tra etica e storia non avrebbe più significatività. Giovanni Moretto, grande studioso di Schleiermacher, Heidegger, Troeltsch, Gadamer recentemente scomparso all’età di 67 anni, si inserisce autorevolmente nella seconda scuola di pensiero.
Allievo di due grandi mentori filosofici, Alberto Caracciolo e Pietro Piovani, come ricorda Domenico Venturelli nella “Premessa” alla preziosa ed imponente silloge, dedicatagli da amici ed allievi, che recita nel titolo per l’appunto, “Etica, religione e storia. Studi in memoria di Giovanni Moretto” (Il Melangolo, Genova, 2007, pp. 243), Giovanni Moretto, dopo l’iniziale dissertazione dedicata a “L’esperienza religiosa del linguaggio in Martin Heidegger”, in cui viene valorizzato il grande tema dell’ascolto, già nell’affascinante libro del 1979, “Etica e storia in Schleiermacher”, solleva la questione della fondazione della normatività sotto le condizioni della coscienza storica moderna. Tutti gli interventi della silloge, dal grande teologo Hans Küng, “La fine di tutte le cose” al filosofo morale Domenico Venturelli, “Ambiguità del nichilismo” si muovono entro quest’area di ricerca che viene preceduta da una poesia di Andrea Zanzotto, “Sentiero di Solighetto”, un’ulteriore indicazione degli interessi di Giovanni Moretto che si era occupato del Romanticismo tedesco e del rapporto filosofia-poesia. Come non ricordare a tal proposito l’Operetta morale di Giacomo Leopardi, “L’elogio degli uccelli”, che è stata correttamente definita come un vero e proprio trattato di angelologia? Il neoplatonico Amelio tesse l’elogio degli uccelli e, specularmene, della poesia che rappresenta una sfida alla morte, una sfida che comincia a partire dalla vita stessa, da una vita impegnata nella costruzione di opere (poesia, filosofia, musica) che hanno la capacità-possibilità di elevarsi al di sopra della quotidianità. Come argomenta con finezza il grande studioso francese Xavier Tilliette, “Giovanni Moretto sulle tracce di Schleiermacher”, Schleiermacher aveva condotto Moretto direttamente alla riscoperta di Platone, il grande mentore, assieme a Francis Hemsterhuis, della filosofia romantica tedesca. Sono tutte intersezioni-proiezioni della vastissima ricerca di Moretto, inscritte comunque sempre nell’alveo della tensione configgente fra etica e storia, cui si può sfuggire solo ricorrendo all’a priori religioso. Del resto la riflessione moderna sulla storia, come suggerisce con estrema finezza uno dei più spregiudicati pensatori tedeschi contemporanei, Odo Marquard, non è stata forse contrassegnata dalla reversibilità fra teodicea ed antropologia? Che cosa è stata la filosofia della storia dell’idealismo classico tedesco se non la riproposizione di quella reversibilità? Alla teodicea di Leibniz, cui corrisponde la giustificazione del male nel mondo a partire da Dio, fino alla filosofia della storia fichtiana e hegeliana in cui al centro della storia viene collocato l’uomo - una centralità antropologica radicale - non vi è forse una sottile continuità tematica ed ideologica al contempo? L’unico modo di sfuggire a tale in componibile aporia è proprio quello, scelto da Moretto di perseguire il percorso della religione in sintonia con il nuovo ruolo assunto dalla religione nel mondo. Moretto è stato sacerdote e filosofo, ma questa duplice vocazione non si è mai risolta in una tensione. Il suo percorso umano-esistenziale e filosofico, ispirato dall’esempio dei suoi geni tutelari, Alberto Caracciolo (1918-1990) e Pietro Piovani (1922-1980) e dall’esempio di eroismo di Telesio Olivelli (1916-1945), martire della Resistenza, non poteva non unire in lui, come ricorda Domenico Venturelli, “Jobismo e cristologia, interrogazione filosofica e speranza religiosa”. Nel suo ultimo libro, “Filosofia e martirio”, che reca evidenti segni della malattia, il nome di Caracciolo viene più che mai unito a quello del ribelle per amore e martire Telesio Olivelli. La silloge ripercorre tutti questi momenti, da Agostino a Kant, da Ernst Troeltsch ad Emanuelle Levinas, da Schleiermacher a Scheler, coinvolgendo grandi romanzieri come Kafka e grandi poeti come Paul Celan, per concludersi nella raffinata problematizzazione del nichilismo di Domenico Venturelli: “Kierkegaard, Dostoevskij, Nietzsche: i grandi interpreti del nichilismo europeo hanno tutti in modo diverso compreso che il nichilismo tocca la zona più profonda, la struttura religiosa dell’esistenza. Il problema del nichilismo, all’ombra del quale l’uomo contemporaneo, partecipe del processo della secolarizzazione ed esperto di proposte demitizzanti, esiste come sempre sospeso tra rovina e salvezza, va dunque affrontato, oltre che nella sua ineludibile dimensione storica, sul piano dell’analisi esistenziale. Del resto, i due piani storico ed esistenziale, non si contrappongono, ma piuttosto si integrano” (p. 577). Giovanni Moretto ha fatto di questa integrazione il nucleo vitale della sua ricerca filosofica. Elio Matassi
Allievo di due grandi mentori filosofici, Alberto Caracciolo e Pietro Piovani, come ricorda Domenico Venturelli nella “Premessa” alla preziosa ed imponente silloge, dedicatagli da amici ed allievi, che recita nel titolo per l’appunto, “Etica, religione e storia. Studi in memoria di Giovanni Moretto” (Il Melangolo, Genova, 2007, pp. 243), Giovanni Moretto, dopo l’iniziale dissertazione dedicata a “L’esperienza religiosa del linguaggio in Martin Heidegger”, in cui viene valorizzato il grande tema dell’ascolto, già nell’affascinante libro del 1979, “Etica e storia in Schleiermacher”, solleva la questione della fondazione della normatività sotto le condizioni della coscienza storica moderna. Tutti gli interventi della silloge, dal grande teologo Hans Küng, “La fine di tutte le cose” al filosofo morale Domenico Venturelli, “Ambiguità del nichilismo” si muovono entro quest’area di ricerca che viene preceduta da una poesia di Andrea Zanzotto, “Sentiero di Solighetto”, un’ulteriore indicazione degli interessi di Giovanni Moretto che si era occupato del Romanticismo tedesco e del rapporto filosofia-poesia. Come non ricordare a tal proposito l’Operetta morale di Giacomo Leopardi, “L’elogio degli uccelli”, che è stata correttamente definita come un vero e proprio trattato di angelologia? Il neoplatonico Amelio tesse l’elogio degli uccelli e, specularmene, della poesia che rappresenta una sfida alla morte, una sfida che comincia a partire dalla vita stessa, da una vita impegnata nella costruzione di opere (poesia, filosofia, musica) che hanno la capacità-possibilità di elevarsi al di sopra della quotidianità. Come argomenta con finezza il grande studioso francese Xavier Tilliette, “Giovanni Moretto sulle tracce di Schleiermacher”, Schleiermacher aveva condotto Moretto direttamente alla riscoperta di Platone, il grande mentore, assieme a Francis Hemsterhuis, della filosofia romantica tedesca. Sono tutte intersezioni-proiezioni della vastissima ricerca di Moretto, inscritte comunque sempre nell’alveo della tensione configgente fra etica e storia, cui si può sfuggire solo ricorrendo all’a priori religioso. Del resto la riflessione moderna sulla storia, come suggerisce con estrema finezza uno dei più spregiudicati pensatori tedeschi contemporanei, Odo Marquard, non è stata forse contrassegnata dalla reversibilità fra teodicea ed antropologia? Che cosa è stata la filosofia della storia dell’idealismo classico tedesco se non la riproposizione di quella reversibilità? Alla teodicea di Leibniz, cui corrisponde la giustificazione del male nel mondo a partire da Dio, fino alla filosofia della storia fichtiana e hegeliana in cui al centro della storia viene collocato l’uomo - una centralità antropologica radicale - non vi è forse una sottile continuità tematica ed ideologica al contempo? L’unico modo di sfuggire a tale in componibile aporia è proprio quello, scelto da Moretto di perseguire il percorso della religione in sintonia con il nuovo ruolo assunto dalla religione nel mondo. Moretto è stato sacerdote e filosofo, ma questa duplice vocazione non si è mai risolta in una tensione. Il suo percorso umano-esistenziale e filosofico, ispirato dall’esempio dei suoi geni tutelari, Alberto Caracciolo (1918-1990) e Pietro Piovani (1922-1980) e dall’esempio di eroismo di Telesio Olivelli (1916-1945), martire della Resistenza, non poteva non unire in lui, come ricorda Domenico Venturelli, “Jobismo e cristologia, interrogazione filosofica e speranza religiosa”. Nel suo ultimo libro, “Filosofia e martirio”, che reca evidenti segni della malattia, il nome di Caracciolo viene più che mai unito a quello del ribelle per amore e martire Telesio Olivelli. La silloge ripercorre tutti questi momenti, da Agostino a Kant, da Ernst Troeltsch ad Emanuelle Levinas, da Schleiermacher a Scheler, coinvolgendo grandi romanzieri come Kafka e grandi poeti come Paul Celan, per concludersi nella raffinata problematizzazione del nichilismo di Domenico Venturelli: “Kierkegaard, Dostoevskij, Nietzsche: i grandi interpreti del nichilismo europeo hanno tutti in modo diverso compreso che il nichilismo tocca la zona più profonda, la struttura religiosa dell’esistenza. Il problema del nichilismo, all’ombra del quale l’uomo contemporaneo, partecipe del processo della secolarizzazione ed esperto di proposte demitizzanti, esiste come sempre sospeso tra rovina e salvezza, va dunque affrontato, oltre che nella sua ineludibile dimensione storica, sul piano dell’analisi esistenziale. Del resto, i due piani storico ed esistenziale, non si contrappongono, ma piuttosto si integrano” (p. 577). Giovanni Moretto ha fatto di questa integrazione il nucleo vitale della sua ricerca filosofica. Elio Matassi
FONTE: Avanti! - Italy
Poesía a la medida
Poesía a la medidaAntes yo pensaba que la poesía era algo secreto, algo lujoso, íntimo, medio antiguo. Algo casi, casi
É confidencial. Así que sólo la gastaba para los amores o las penas negras. Para paladearla en el silencio de mi habitación, o para bailarla y cantarla en la soledad de mis pensamientos. Me hizo falta un largo recorrido para abrirle las puertas y dejarla correr por el campo a lo loco. Y en ese recorrido de apertura y libertad vi, por suerte, que la risa y el sinsentido caminaban justo al lado de las lágrimas y demás seriedades de la vida. Así que me sentí invadida de nuevo por aquellas coplas de Juanita Reina que me cantaba mi abuela, por las habaneras morenas que tarareaba mi padre, por los cuentos que me explicaba mi madre y por las poesías que me leía el abuelo y que siempre me emocionaban. Digo esto a sabiendas de que hablar de poesía en estos momentos puede parecer algo fuera de lugar, de tiempo, de uso o de moda. Puede parecer un lenguaje de otra era, incluso de otra galaxia. Algo sublime y excelso, o blando, cursi, volátil. Algo tan magníficamente bello, como lejano, inaccesible e impracticable. A pesar de todo, voy a hablar de poesía hoy, porque necesito contar un acontecimiento poético que estoy viviendo y disfrutando estos días en mi clase y que viene a poner en entredicho esas dudas y recelos que, a saber por qué, están presentes, de una u otra forma, en el imaginario colectivo. El primer día de curso les dije a mis alumnos de cinco años que les tenía preparado un regalo, que no era un juguete, ni un caramelo, aunque servía para jugar y daba un poco de dulzor y de emoción. Les dije que lo había hecho pensando en ellos y que se lo podrían llevar a su casa, decirlo, cantarlo y jugarlo de varias maneras. Después de esta extraña presentación, les fui leyendo unos versos, en forma de cuartetas que, efectivamente, había escrito para cada cual y que contenían unas frases que rimaban y traían consigo bromas, sorpresas, e ilusorias aventuras. A la vez que iba leyendo, les iba poniendo al cuello, a modo de condecoraciones, unos medallones de cartulina en los que estaban escritas las poesías rodeadas de unos adornos muy aparentes. Me pidieron que se las volviera a «cantar» y las tuve que leer de nuevo (dos veces másÉ) para regocijo de todos. Al día siguiente varios niños me dijeron que ya se sabían su poesía y salieron a recitarla delante de los demás. Volví a leerles los poemillas con la condición de que al oírlos tenían que intentar representar aquello que decían. Ahí vi a Carla, que cogió un anillo del tesoro que tenemos en clase y un vestido azul de princesa, un poco deteriorado, de la cesta de los disfraces para representar su poesía:
Carla se encontró una fresa
con un anillo sorpresa
y cuando se lo ponía
É en princesa se convertía
A Pablo, que a base de mímica, fue acompañando su poesía entre manotazos y gestos expresivos:
Pablo Martínez
criaba cinco delfines
y cuando hacía calor...
se lo llevaban nadando a Nueva York
A Lúa, que de la risa que le dio no pudo dramatizar nada:
Lúa se encontró un perrito
y lo llamó huevo frito
se lo llevó a ver estrellas
¡pero se quería ir con ellas!
Fue un rato muy divertido. Algunos niños están memorizando las poesías de los amigos y se las dicen unos a otros en plan «dedicatoria». También hacen grupos que salen a recitar juntos, estilo coro griego, las poesías de todos ellos una por una. En el patio vi que unos cuantos niños iban detrás de otro cantándole su poema como en una especie de manifestación. Cuando llegaban a la zona de los pinos repetían la operación con otro niño y otro poema ¡Un juego nuevo!
Han ilustrado los poemas con objetos alusivos que hemos ido recopilando y los resultados, llenos de brillos, joyas, plumas y sugerentes colores, son muy valorados por todo el que los ve. Para la poesía de Carlos había un caballito colgando de un hilo:
Carlos tenía un caballo
lindo como agua de mayo.
un día lo llevó a Estambul
y se le puso el pelaje todo azul
Para la de Mario, unas fotografías de las cataratas de Iguazú:
Mario viajó hasta Iguazú
embarcado en una U.
Al llegar fue a cataratas
saltando de mata en mata.
Los niños ya conocían los ritmos poéticos a través de las nanas, las canciones, los juegos populares, o las poesías que les habían leído sus padres, o mis compañeras en años anteriores. Pero lo que a mí me ha gustado es que les haya «llegado» y les haya hecho gracia este lenguaje poético tan lleno de ellos mismos, tan a su medida, tan entre nosotros, tan caserito. Y no sólo porque las poesías van a ayudarles a estructurar mejor el lenguaje, a pronunciar con más corrección los fonemas, a aumentar su vocabulario, a ejercitar la creatividad, y a apreciar la belleza..., sino porque este entrar juntos en un ambiente «en onda poética» nos va a permitir, espero, compartir una afición, y pasar buenos ratos disfrutando de las historias que contienen los poemas, de sus formas, de su musicalidad. Además de que todo esto facilitará los buenos vínculos entre nosotros, porque como es sabido, la instalación de un lenguaje común favorece el sentido de pertenencia e inclusión en los grupos.
¡Ya me dan ganas de leerles los poemas que tengo seleccionados de mis poetas favoritos!
En cuclillas ordeño
una cabrita y un sueño.
Glu glu glu
hace la leche al caer en el cubo
en el tisú celeste va a amanecer
En cuclillas ordeño una cabrita y un sueñoÉ
Miguel Hernández
Leeremos los poemas que ellos traigan, o los que encontremos por ahí. Leeremos y disfrutaremos con García Lorca, Nicolás Guillén, Gabriel Celaya, Gloria Fuertes y tantos otros poetas. Y estoy prácticamente segura que, como cada año, en un momento dado, les vendrán los deseos de jugar con las palabras y de rimar. De hecho he tenido muchas veces la suerte de escuchar los pareados que van creando mis alumnos. En ocasiones los hacen por el gusto de buscar sonidos semejantes: «Pinocho es un ocho pitimocho». Por nombrar a los amigos: «María la morena sonríe y tiene pena». Por pura diversión: «Me voy a París en un coche gris». Como entretenimiento a la hora de comer: «Si como helado me pongo muy salado». Por el gusto de plasmar un sentimiento: «He inventado una poesía, ¡qué alegría!»...
Una vez estuve en una tertulia literaria en la que se hablaba de que el lenguaje poético no era un lenguaje como los demás, sino que tenía un punto sorprendente, porque encerraba un significado, que sería interpretado de manera individual y que podía «decir» cosas distintas para cada persona, según fuera recibido por el mundo afectivo de cada cual. Se hablaba de que los versos eran como un surco, un camino ordenado, un cobijo al sentir del poeta, que iba sembrando sus vivencias y sus emociones en el hueco recién preparado.
Yo escuchaba, comentaba alguna cosa y, sobre todo, pensaba en los niños. En su gusto por jugar con los ritmos y los significados, en sus probaturas para rimar, en la alegría que sienten al conseguir crear un pareado por sí mismos. En ese «estado poético» que lo invade todo cuando empiezan a captar y disfrutar de la poesía. Porque el lenguaje poético supone soñar, imaginar, revestir de palabras los ensueños, darles formas bonitas, aires hermosos... Poner de largo las palabras de todos los días por el gusto de hacerlo, por jugar, por divertirse, por regalarse el oído, por placer. Es aquello de los trovadores, que iban contando-cantando por las casas, por los pueblos o los caminos, y que unas veces hablaban de la guerra, de la muerte o del amor, y otras de la broma, de la fiesta, del juego o de los mitos. Pero siempre cantaban, o contaban lo más bellamente que podían, como el que da un regalo, como el que actúa un deseo que le proporciona también satisfacciones personales.
Y es que creo que la poesía es un sueño cotidiano y posible. Un sueño que se mueve al lado nuestro, que sonríe, que brinca, que pugna por salir. Un sueño que invito a incluir en nuestras escuelas para que revista de palabras, de musicalidad y de afecto el crecimiento de los niños.
Para que las oiga el niño, las palabras se hacen menudas y sencillas, como un parpadeo de alas de paloma. Para que las baile el niño, las tonadas se vuelven balanceos maternos en el cocherito leré del adentro caliente. Para que las sienta el niño, las canciones se tornan juegos de manos, muecas y risas entre brazos seguros. (M. C. D.)
Mari Carmen Díez Navarro es maestra, psicopedagoga y coordinadora pedagógica de la Escuela Infantil Aire Libre de Alicante.
FONTE: Información - Alicante,Alicante,Spain
Música, poesía y oralidad: a corazón abierto
Música, poesía y oralidad: a corazón abiertoPor: Waldo González López
01 de Noviembre, 2007
Cubarte).- Conocido por muchos —gracias a la gira por varias provincias que iniciaran en Las Tunas tras su actuación en el XI Encuentro-Festival Internacional de la Décima)—, Ad Libitum o, si usted prefiere, lector, A corazón abierto, fue el afortunado nombre escogido por el poeta, trovador, compositor y narrador oral Leonel Pérez (Puerto Padre, Las Tunas, 1966) y la poetisa, narradora oral y sicóloga María de las Nieves Morales Cardoso (Ciudad de La Habana, 1969) para conformar este dúo diferente, cuya otredad es justamente la peculiaridad que, al tiempo que los distingue, más atrae al público. Ello se ha corroborado durante sus esperadas y aplaudidas actuaciones en teatros y otros espacios capitalinos y de varias provincias. Como igualmente se demostró en su gira nacional Como la primera vez, su concierto en el Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes por su quinto aniversario y la posterior gira a Costa Rica, donde ofrecieron 33 presentaciones en diversas ciudades del país durante dos meses y publicaron, a dos páginas, en el diario El Guapileño un artículo sobre los Cinco. A este último país regresaron el pasado enero, donde iniciaron un periplo de varios meses que continuará por Nicaragua y Honduras con sus conciertos por la paz y a favor de la liberación de los heroicos cubanos.Justamente en Costa Rica publicaron, por primera vez, la verdad sobre los Cinco en una edición especial del mancionado diario, en la provincia Limón, lo que, junto a 33 presentaciones en la capital y en ciudades y comunidades del interior, con «su excelente propuesta artística, culta y de un fuerte contenido social, cautivaron al público, dejando tras de sí una estela de simpatía por Cuba», según reseñó la prensa local. En muchas de sus actuaciones interpretaron Regresaré que, con texto de Antonio Guerrero y música de Polo Montañez, les sirvió para explicar la situación de los Cinco. La canción han seguido interpretándola en sus conciertos en la Isla y los países visitados. Gracias a la feliz combinación de música, poesía y narración oral escénica, los jóvenes miembros de la UNEAC y del Centro Nacional de Música Popular han logrado, desde la creación del dúo en 1999, acorde con sus propósitos fundacionales, la promoción y difusión de obras de elevados valores artísticos, estéticos y humanos del repertorio musical, literario y oral de los pueblos, así como elevar el nivel de apreciación estética y artística del público, transmitir con la magia de la música y la palabra, la confianza en el amor como fuerza suprema de los humanos.De ahí el éxito de las presentaciones en la Sala Caturla y la Escuela Internacional de Medicina con los espectáculos Que la guerra no me sea indiferente —título tomado de la clásica canción del trovador argentino León Gieco Sólo le pido a Dios, interpretada por Leonel—, y Si no creyera en la esperanza, con textos de diversos poetas y del dúo, así como otros de Antonio Guerrero y René González, musicados por Leonel, quien también interpretó canciones de Pablo Milanés, Silvio Rodríguez, Fito Páez, Víctor Jara, Joan Manuel Serrat, Alberto Cortés y suyas.Pero la cosa no se queda aquí, no: en ambos espectáculos el dúo incorporó, con el talento que define sus guiones, poemas del argentino Julio Cortázar, el uruguayo Mario Benedetti, el salvadoreño Roque Dalton y el brasileño Thiago de Melo, así como de los cubanos Félix Pita Rodríguez, David Chericián, Alexis Díaz-Pimienta y del también periodista del diario Juventud Rebelde, Luis Hernández Serrano, entre otros. Valiosos poetas, han visto sus versos editados: María de las Nieves mereció, en el 2002, el Premio Internacional Cucalambé con su decimario Otra vez la nave de los locos, que, otorgado por un jurado presidido por el Premio Nacional de Literatura y presidente de Casa de las Américas Roberto Fernández Retamar e integrado además por Nancy Morejón y Edel Morales, fue presentado en el ya mencionado XI Encuentro-Festival Internacional de la Décima en Las Tunas. Además, ha merecido otros lauros en España, como uno reciente y han publicado plaquettes de décimas por la también tunera Editorial Sanlope, como Retablo de saudade y, por las capitalinas Ediciones Lengua de Víbora, Nueve poetas y una estrofa. Ambos, igualmente, han sido incluidos en estudios de la décima, a cargo de la investigadora y editora Mayra Hernández Menéndez (como "Hombres necios que acusáis"..., publicado en el 2000), así como en ensayos y antologías de este redactor. Él, además, ha merecido galardones por sus canciones en eventos nacionales, como los Concursos OTI’99, Eduardo Saborit, Cantándole al sol y otros, así como un premio en España por uno de sus relatos. Que sigan, pues, la calidad, el mejor gusto estético y la belleza guiando el quehacer de Ad Libitum que, a corazón abierto, regala magia y poesía a quienes no han perdido inocencia y alegría.
RECUADROCORREO DE EDUARDO GALEANO AL DÚO: Montevideo, octubre 20, 99María de las Nieves, Leonel, queridos:Gracias mil por ese lindo trabajo que me enviaron. Hace años me dijo una nena de ocho años, en Barcelona: «Los libros están quietos, pero la música vuela." Yo no sé si tenía razón, porque al fin y al cabo vivo de mi oficio y esa razón no me conviene; pero sí sé que las palabras agradecen el viaje.
RECUADROCORREO DE EDUARDO GALEANO AL DÚO: Montevideo, octubre 20, 99María de las Nieves, Leonel, queridos:Gracias mil por ese lindo trabajo que me enviaron. Hace años me dijo una nena de ocho años, en Barcelona: «Los libros están quietos, pero la música vuela." Yo no sé si tenía razón, porque al fin y al cabo vivo de mi oficio y esa razón no me conviene; pero sí sé que las palabras agradecen el viaje.
Un abrazo.
»EDUARDO GALEANO
FONTE: Cubarte - Cuba
El Ayuntamiento de Manzanares entrega los Premios de Relato Corto y Poesía en su VI edición
El Ayuntamiento de Manzanares entrega los Premios de Relato Corto y Poesía en su VI ediciónlunes, 29 de octubre de 2007
Los madrileños José Manuel Moreno y Antolín Amador, ganadores de la sexta edición de los Premios Nacionales de Relato Corto “Calicanto” y de Poesía “Ciega de Manzanares”, respectivamente, recibieron sus galardones en el Castillo de Pilas Bonas. El dúo formado por el violonchelista Cristian Florea y la violinista María Florea, puso el broche de oro al acto literario organizado por el Ayuntamiento.
El acto de entrega de los Premios Nacionales de Relato Corto “Calicanto” y de Poesía “Ciega de Manzanares”, convocados por el Área de Cultura del Ayuntamiento de la localidad con la colaboración del Grupo Literario “Azuer”, se ha convertido en un icono de la cultura de Manzanares, no solo por su importancia literaria sino también por su exquisita organización. La sexta edición se celebró el viernes, una vez más, en el Castillo de Pilas Bonas, con numerosa asistencia de público que quedó encantado con su desarrollo. El concejal de Cultura, Antonio Caba, destacó el prestigio que están adquiriendo ambos Premios y valoró la alta participación y la calidad de los trabajos ganadores.
La obra titulada “Ni hembra ni infante”, de José Manuel Moreno Pérez fue merecedora del Premio de Relato Corto “Calicanto”. Se trata de un relato con temática oscura, próxima al cine negro, en el que se mezcla la política, la homosexualidad y las venganzas. Según explicó el autor, pese a su larga trayectoria como escritor, no vive de la literatura sino que escribe por placer.
Los madrileños José Manuel Moreno y Antolín Amador, ganadores de la sexta edición de los Premios Nacionales de Relato Corto “Calicanto” y de Poesía “Ciega de Manzanares”, respectivamente, recibieron sus galardones en el Castillo de Pilas Bonas. El dúo formado por el violonchelista Cristian Florea y la violinista María Florea, puso el broche de oro al acto literario organizado por el Ayuntamiento.
El acto de entrega de los Premios Nacionales de Relato Corto “Calicanto” y de Poesía “Ciega de Manzanares”, convocados por el Área de Cultura del Ayuntamiento de la localidad con la colaboración del Grupo Literario “Azuer”, se ha convertido en un icono de la cultura de Manzanares, no solo por su importancia literaria sino también por su exquisita organización. La sexta edición se celebró el viernes, una vez más, en el Castillo de Pilas Bonas, con numerosa asistencia de público que quedó encantado con su desarrollo. El concejal de Cultura, Antonio Caba, destacó el prestigio que están adquiriendo ambos Premios y valoró la alta participación y la calidad de los trabajos ganadores.
La obra titulada “Ni hembra ni infante”, de José Manuel Moreno Pérez fue merecedora del Premio de Relato Corto “Calicanto”. Se trata de un relato con temática oscura, próxima al cine negro, en el que se mezcla la política, la homosexualidad y las venganzas. Según explicó el autor, pese a su larga trayectoria como escritor, no vive de la literatura sino que escribe por placer.
El escritor madrileño, con un extenso currículum de obras escritas y premios conseguidos, recibió la escultura del artista local Teo Serna y los 1000 euros de manos de la concejala de Política de Igualdad, Pilar Sánchez Mulas. El premio se completa con la publicación del relato ganador en la Revista de Creación Literaria “Calicanto”. Moreno Pérez, mostró su satisfacción con el reconocimiento y aseguró que la importancia de los premios radica más en el número de escritores que concurren que en su cuantía económica.
El Premio de Poesía “Ciega de Manzanares”, entregado por el concejal de Cultura, Antonio Caba, con una dotación económica de 1.500 euros, una escultura del artista local Juan Sánchez, y la publicación del poemario, fue a parar a manos del también madrileño, aunque de origen sevillano, Antolín Amador Corona, por su trabajo titulado “Las letras pequeñas”. El joven poeta, que confesó que es la primera vez que gana un premio, se mostró entusiasmado y aseguró que el reconocimiento le sirve como incentivo para seguir escribiendo y presentándose a certámenes.
Según explicó Amador Corona, su poesía no se centra en ningún tema concreto aunque en el caso del trabajo ganador del Premio manzanareño versa sobre los detalles y las cosas pequeñas de la vida a las que no se les da importancia y que son las que realmente tienen valor.
Tanto Moreno como Amador, manifestaron su encanto por el marco en el que se desarrolló la entrega de los premios y por el desarrollo completo del acto, agradeciendo al jurado y a la organización el reconocimiento a sus respectivos trabajos literarios.
Una vez más, el mantenedor del acto fue el escritor manzanareño Antonio García de Dionisio, quien además de presentar el acto en su habitual línea poética, leyó las actas del jurado y los perfiles biográficos de cada uno de los premiados. Un extraordinario recital de música a cargo del violonchelista Cristian Florea y la violinista María Florea, puso el broche de oro a un acto que fue muy alabado y aplaudido por el público asistente.
FONTE: MICIUDADREAL - Diario Digital Ciudadano
FONTE: MICIUDADREAL - Diario Digital Ciudadano
Peace Poetry Award Winners Announced
Peace Poetry Award Winners AnnouncedSanta Barbara, CA (October 30, 2007) – The Nuclear Age Peace Foundation is pleased to announce the winners of the 2007 Barbara Mandigo Kelly Peace Poetry Awards. Since 1995, the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation has made an annual series of awards to encourage poets to explore and illuminate positive visions of peace and the human spirit. The poetry awards are offered in three categories: Adult, Youth 13 to 18, and Youth 12 and Under.
First place in the Adult category was awarded to Joseph Bathanti for his poem “Cletis Pratt.” He is Professor of Creative Writing and Co-Director of the Visiting Writers Series at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. Honorable Mention in the Adult category was awarded two entrants. Penny Harter, from Summit, New Jersey, was chosen for her poem “Witness.” Penny is a former high school English teacher and now works with the Arts-in-Education program of the New Jersey State Council on the Arts to bring poetry into the classroom and motivate students to write and share their poems. Kathleen Hellen is from Baltimore, Maryland, and her winning poem is entitled “Trees with No Branches/Flowers with No Names.” She teaches in the Humanities Department of Coppin State University and is the recipient of a 2007 Baltimore Arts and Humanities Grant.
First place in the Youth 13 to 18 category is shared between two entrants. Megan Elliott, from Overland Park, Kansas, was chosen for her poem “My Brother, the Soldier.” Megan served as an editor of her high school yearbook and is now majoring in English and Journalism at the
University of Kansas. Hanna Hurr’s winning poem is entitled “Love’s Lullaby.” Hanna is from Laguna Niguel, California and plays on her school’s varsity tennis team and is the president and founder of the Malawi Club. Honorable Mention was awarded to Megan Mikhail for her poem “Eulogy in Autumn.” From Chapel Hill, North Carolina, Megan participates in drama, science competitions, and plays the piano.
In the Youth 12 and Under category, first place was awarded to Celeste Kump, of Fort Bragg, California, for her poem “In the Form of Rain.” Celeste plays soccer, loves reading and writing, and wants to become an author. Kimberlee Bagby was awarded an Honorable Mention for her poem “Oh, If I Could.” Kimberlee is from Portales, New Mexico and wants to continue to write more poems.
The Nuclear Age Peace Foundation is a non-profit, non-partisan international organization with consultative status to the United Nations. For 25 years the Foundation has been committed to advancing initiatives to eliminate the nuclear weapons threat to all life, to fostering the global rule of law, and to building an enduring legacy of peace through education and advocacy.
Barbara Mandigo Kelly was a poet and a pianist. She was married to Frank King Kelly, one of the founders of the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation.
For more information, including the winning and honorable mention poems in their entirety, previous years’ winners and the 2008 Barbara Mandigo Kelly Peace Poetry Awards guidelines, please visit the Foundation’s website at http://www.wagingpeace.org/ or contact the Foundation at (805) 965-3443.
Copies of the winning poems in each category are attached. FONTE:Media For Freedom - Nepal,Nepal,Nepal
A testament of youth
From The TimesOctober 31, 2007
A testament of youth
After the suicide of Nicholas Heiney, her 23-year-old son, our correspondent discovered his moving diaries and poems. They show maturity, insight and a rare mystical quality, and are now to be published. Here she introduces extracts from the book
Libby Purves
"My goal,” wrote my son Nicholas a few days before he died, “is to write something I could show to somebody”. The irony is that he already had. In his short life he shared only his university essays, a few formal accounts on the ship’s website of his life as a square-rigger deckhand in the Pacific, and a brief exasperated blast against the literary-critical industry. Nobody knew the extent of his sea-logs, poems, journals and philosophical musings. We found them only in the weeks after his suicide.
He threw nothing away, but showed his work little respect. There were notebooks, crumpled pages, poems on Postit notes casually interleaved in books. I transcribed it all unedited, two hours at dawn each day, setting the computer to a different font from the one I normally use, and found a rough chronological order. This was mainly to help my own understanding of his life and death. It was forensic. I was picking my way across the battlefield.
There was no thought of wider publication. We had our own way to make through this bereavement, and diaries, especially those that contain clues to an advancing illness, are not always fit to be shared with strangers. Nor did we feel inclined to contribute to any debate about mental illness and suicide in young men – important subject though that is. We had, and still have, a sense that Nicholas was so untypical of his generation that it is hard to draw general conclusions from what happened to him. That view was confirmed by his psychiatrist, to whom he was frankly “a puzzle”, and by his Oxford tutor, Professor Duncan Wu, who, like us, finds more answers to the puzzle in poetry, particularly of the Romantic period, than in psychiatry.
So publication was not a first thought. But it became more and more apparent that, despite his reclusive reticence, he had a reader in mind. He would casually write: “If you read this . . .”, or “I’m sorry, I must go back a day . . . ”. The sense of privateness receded, replaced by a belief that he had left, as Duncan Wu wonderingly put it, a kind of testament. It records the adventures and visions of a rare and strange spirit, whose joys and despairs place him closer to mystics and romantics of the past than to the age he was born in.
Moreover, his account of sailing the Atlantic and Pacific as an apprentice deckhand on the square-rigged barque Europa was too vivid not to share, and so were some of the poems. Nicholas was a natural mystic; although he never spoke about organised religion except in mild exasperation, we now know that for years his inner world was populated by demons and angels: the spirit and the shine of heaven and the terror and beauty of poetry. Shelley’s strange 1815 poem Alastor, in which the poet is led on a perilous journey by a demonic spirit, was very close to him: nobody knew how deep it went, but from the age of 17 his e-mail address was alastor1815 and the password was “shelley”.
All this we came to understand in the bewildering, sorrowful months after his death. With caution, I shared the documents with cooler heads, and it is Duncan Wu’s encouragement and judgment that enables us to present our son’s mind and work publicly, adding only enough narrative to give a context. Lovers of the sea, and of poetry, should find much in it. We also, with some diffidence, decided to publish for another reason. He was young, and not many who die at 23 get an opportunity to leave a legacy. His writings contain truths and perceptions that – although they come from an unusual and troubled soul – have already shown an ability to touch hearts and lives.
He would want that. In the most vivid portion of his life, the Pacific voyage, Nicholas worked with great conscientiousness aloft the Europa, seizing and splicing footropes and handholds high in the rigging, with a conscious awareness of the security of strangers who would come after him. Much of his work is still up there, headed at this very moment for Antarctica. In his writing too there are many unexpected handholds, which support us to this day.
None of us can expect more than that: the hope that somewhere up in the crazy cobweb of life, we have left a good piece of work that will serve fellow beings. Despite the illness that overcame him, our son left something worth having. As he wrote: “What is important is to remember that it is not the way in which we record our existence, but that we do record it. In the air, and everywhere around, we must remember how the streets ring out for every soul that thought and felt and passed through them in weakness and in strength.”
Publication had to be handled with care. I wanted Duncan Wu’s collaboration in the editing to counterweigh maternal judgment; moreover, it rapidly became clear that any commercial publisher with an eye on sales might inflict too much intrusion on all of us. The misery-memoir genre has a firm grip on the culture just now, and we needed to ensure that this exercise was not about us and our loss. It is about what Nicholas had to say.
Also, he loved well-produced books on good paper, and would work in the local secondhand bookshop, taking his pay in elegant old editions of the Romantics. So we decided to control production ourselves, guided by two retired publishers, and present the writings as honestly and straightforwardly as we wanted. When considering a cover we thought immediately of the painter Alan Parker, one of the few new acquaintances with whom Nicholas made a genuine connection in the last months of his life. Alan went straight out onto bleak Star Fen in Lincolnshire and painted a brewing storm. When we saw it we knew it was perfect: a visual version of the lofty terrors and cloud-mountains in our son’s late poems.
We also felt it necessary to stress that none of this has anything to do with the sickly romanticisation that often surrounds suicides, especially of beautiful young men. Nicholas was emphatically not a “suicide-groupie”, never even read Al Alvarez’s The Savage God, and had nothing but sympathy for our good friend Frieda Hughes, Sylvia Plath’s daughter, who has been pestered all her life by the faction known among us as the “Plath-loonies”. He would be horrified to think that anything he wrote or did should encourage suicidality: it is very clear from unpublished diaries how long and how hard he himself resisted it.
A short account of Nicholas’ life: he was born in November 1982, on the rising tide, at Greenwich. Superstition has it that boys are born on a rising tide. We named him because it was nearly Christmas, and it was much later that we discovered that St Nicholas of Myra is the patron saint of both sailors and scholars.
His sensitivity showed early and, for him, stressfully. When a great beech tree crushed the end of our house in the 1987 hurricane he wept, saying “I will be dead before it can grow up again so beautiful.” I tried to say no, no . . . but, of course, he was quite right: it was nearly 200 years old. At 4, he had looked beyond the comfortable assumptions of daily life and grasped ideas of mortality. He also demonstrated early a romantic love of the sea. On family trips in our small boat he would creep from his bunk in night-watches, to sit with whichever of us was on the helm and watch the silhouettes of the sails moving across starry skies.
School was not particularly easy for him, but drama, poetry and language drew him irresistibly; he read with intensity, once in his teens running through with a copy of Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady saying: “I hate Osmond so much I want to stab the page!” His use of language in distress often shook his teachers. In a brief bad passage at one school, aged 9, he said “even the bricks in the walls curl themselves up to throw themselves at me”. The image, we now know, remained: in a poem much later he wrote:
While lying, waiting in the shimmering cold It was as if the bricks
He threw nothing away, but showed his work little respect. There were notebooks, crumpled pages, poems on Postit notes casually interleaved in books. I transcribed it all unedited, two hours at dawn each day, setting the computer to a different font from the one I normally use, and found a rough chronological order. This was mainly to help my own understanding of his life and death. It was forensic. I was picking my way across the battlefield.
There was no thought of wider publication. We had our own way to make through this bereavement, and diaries, especially those that contain clues to an advancing illness, are not always fit to be shared with strangers. Nor did we feel inclined to contribute to any debate about mental illness and suicide in young men – important subject though that is. We had, and still have, a sense that Nicholas was so untypical of his generation that it is hard to draw general conclusions from what happened to him. That view was confirmed by his psychiatrist, to whom he was frankly “a puzzle”, and by his Oxford tutor, Professor Duncan Wu, who, like us, finds more answers to the puzzle in poetry, particularly of the Romantic period, than in psychiatry.
So publication was not a first thought. But it became more and more apparent that, despite his reclusive reticence, he had a reader in mind. He would casually write: “If you read this . . .”, or “I’m sorry, I must go back a day . . . ”. The sense of privateness receded, replaced by a belief that he had left, as Duncan Wu wonderingly put it, a kind of testament. It records the adventures and visions of a rare and strange spirit, whose joys and despairs place him closer to mystics and romantics of the past than to the age he was born in.
Moreover, his account of sailing the Atlantic and Pacific as an apprentice deckhand on the square-rigged barque Europa was too vivid not to share, and so were some of the poems. Nicholas was a natural mystic; although he never spoke about organised religion except in mild exasperation, we now know that for years his inner world was populated by demons and angels: the spirit and the shine of heaven and the terror and beauty of poetry. Shelley’s strange 1815 poem Alastor, in which the poet is led on a perilous journey by a demonic spirit, was very close to him: nobody knew how deep it went, but from the age of 17 his e-mail address was alastor1815 and the password was “shelley”.
All this we came to understand in the bewildering, sorrowful months after his death. With caution, I shared the documents with cooler heads, and it is Duncan Wu’s encouragement and judgment that enables us to present our son’s mind and work publicly, adding only enough narrative to give a context. Lovers of the sea, and of poetry, should find much in it. We also, with some diffidence, decided to publish for another reason. He was young, and not many who die at 23 get an opportunity to leave a legacy. His writings contain truths and perceptions that – although they come from an unusual and troubled soul – have already shown an ability to touch hearts and lives.
He would want that. In the most vivid portion of his life, the Pacific voyage, Nicholas worked with great conscientiousness aloft the Europa, seizing and splicing footropes and handholds high in the rigging, with a conscious awareness of the security of strangers who would come after him. Much of his work is still up there, headed at this very moment for Antarctica. In his writing too there are many unexpected handholds, which support us to this day.
None of us can expect more than that: the hope that somewhere up in the crazy cobweb of life, we have left a good piece of work that will serve fellow beings. Despite the illness that overcame him, our son left something worth having. As he wrote: “What is important is to remember that it is not the way in which we record our existence, but that we do record it. In the air, and everywhere around, we must remember how the streets ring out for every soul that thought and felt and passed through them in weakness and in strength.”
Publication had to be handled with care. I wanted Duncan Wu’s collaboration in the editing to counterweigh maternal judgment; moreover, it rapidly became clear that any commercial publisher with an eye on sales might inflict too much intrusion on all of us. The misery-memoir genre has a firm grip on the culture just now, and we needed to ensure that this exercise was not about us and our loss. It is about what Nicholas had to say.
Also, he loved well-produced books on good paper, and would work in the local secondhand bookshop, taking his pay in elegant old editions of the Romantics. So we decided to control production ourselves, guided by two retired publishers, and present the writings as honestly and straightforwardly as we wanted. When considering a cover we thought immediately of the painter Alan Parker, one of the few new acquaintances with whom Nicholas made a genuine connection in the last months of his life. Alan went straight out onto bleak Star Fen in Lincolnshire and painted a brewing storm. When we saw it we knew it was perfect: a visual version of the lofty terrors and cloud-mountains in our son’s late poems.
We also felt it necessary to stress that none of this has anything to do with the sickly romanticisation that often surrounds suicides, especially of beautiful young men. Nicholas was emphatically not a “suicide-groupie”, never even read Al Alvarez’s The Savage God, and had nothing but sympathy for our good friend Frieda Hughes, Sylvia Plath’s daughter, who has been pestered all her life by the faction known among us as the “Plath-loonies”. He would be horrified to think that anything he wrote or did should encourage suicidality: it is very clear from unpublished diaries how long and how hard he himself resisted it.
A short account of Nicholas’ life: he was born in November 1982, on the rising tide, at Greenwich. Superstition has it that boys are born on a rising tide. We named him because it was nearly Christmas, and it was much later that we discovered that St Nicholas of Myra is the patron saint of both sailors and scholars.
His sensitivity showed early and, for him, stressfully. When a great beech tree crushed the end of our house in the 1987 hurricane he wept, saying “I will be dead before it can grow up again so beautiful.” I tried to say no, no . . . but, of course, he was quite right: it was nearly 200 years old. At 4, he had looked beyond the comfortable assumptions of daily life and grasped ideas of mortality. He also demonstrated early a romantic love of the sea. On family trips in our small boat he would creep from his bunk in night-watches, to sit with whichever of us was on the helm and watch the silhouettes of the sails moving across starry skies.
School was not particularly easy for him, but drama, poetry and language drew him irresistibly; he read with intensity, once in his teens running through with a copy of Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady saying: “I hate Osmond so much I want to stab the page!” His use of language in distress often shook his teachers. In a brief bad passage at one school, aged 9, he said “even the bricks in the walls curl themselves up to throw themselves at me”. The image, we now know, remained: in a poem much later he wrote:
While lying, waiting in the shimmering cold It was as if the bricks
broke free and hurled themselves with vice to cleanse the sullied
world from me who stood behind perception’s bars as if it were a
judgement from the stars searing through my icy prison bars But
the bricks stayed in still because they knew with every breath that
every ghostly shuddering chill was marking time until my death I
lay quite still within my eerie cage convulsing, contorting and
feeling its rage
He called the poem Bad Trip, but it should be stressed that drugs were no part of his life. He was all too aware, after a bad reaction to a prescription medicine, that he belonged to the group who should not take risks with recreational drugs: his mind found wild enough territory already. Eventually he found equilibrium at Royal Hospital School at Holbrook, where he was a famously kind and pastoral head of Juniors. But at 17, he suffered a violent infection of the inner ear – labyrinthitis – which, during his slow recovery, threw him into an extreme post-viral depression.
He fought this in every way possible but it took a toll, and some physical damage may have contributed to the more serious psychosis which, it is guessed, was developing when he died. Certainly the themes from this time turn up in poems of the next six years: as do reflections of his happier passions. He was a teenage scuba enthusiast, for example, as many are; but on the secret pages of the notebook lay images like this:
Stonefish
The sea thickens
He fought this in every way possible but it took a toll, and some physical damage may have contributed to the more serious psychosis which, it is guessed, was developing when he died. Certainly the themes from this time turn up in poems of the next six years: as do reflections of his happier passions. He was a teenage scuba enthusiast, for example, as many are; but on the secret pages of the notebook lay images like this:
Stonefish
The sea thickens
In the coral dell
As the divers descend
Where the stonefish dwell
The light splits, in shafts
As the darkness swells
And creatures desert
The fatal well
Death eats colour
In a diving hell dark since the time that Man first fell
The stonefish are still
We are all alone
The stonefish are flesh
With heart of stone
He did physics A level as well as English and history, an odd mixture at first sight; but then, clarity of expression is necessary in science. And, having read his writings, I now suspect that the rigour and certainties of physics – like his technical interest in racing bikes and computers – comforted something in him that valued rationality simply because it was always under siege from poetry and the first dark tendrils of psychosis. And only a physicist could have written, two years later, this definition of death:
“What we were, we will become
As we give our heat to the desert sun”.
He was a careful critic, and his approach to poetry good or bad was always one of gentle interrogation, trying to understand the writer rather than deconstructing or catego-rising. After his first Oxford interview he came back saying “Mum, I need to be taught by those guys!” and when they turned him down he spent the next year reading avidly, to win a place on a second try. His mentors were the late Michael Gearin-Tosh and Duncan Wu of St Catherine’s College, Oxford, both known for their humane and modest approach to literature. It was a revelation and a liberation to him after the process of A levels, which he furiously described to later students as “drudgery. They do not test or resemble knowledge, they simply test the limits of how far you will go down the path of moral destruction for relatively little reward. Hang in there. Browning began an inspirational journey on the morn of Rome and May, and so shall you”. The sea continued to be important to him. Despite the long aftermath of his illness, and a fear of going aloft, he insisted on sailing in the Tall Ships 2000 race across the Atlantic aboard the Dutch barque Europa. He loved it, proudly helped others to overcome their fears of climbing, and, in his gap year, signed on as an apprentice deckhand for a six-month voyage to Japan and Korea. In a striking fragment of one of his summer tall-ship logs, he expresses both his social discomfort in teenage circles – though he had individual good friends – and his need:
Imagination is my absent curse
And so it is that time of year again
To go to sea, for better or for worse
Where silver sails break sun in golden shards
And I can work at being pure again.
The heady rush of middle England’s crush
The bars and awkward social teenage circles
Will dissolve into an absent thought
And I can be pure again.
Before the Atlantic, he had only done family trips and shorter sea races, leaving entertaining schoolboyish logs: this from the trawler Excelsior:
“My bunk is on top of some important bloke’s bunk, so I had
better keep my annoying personal habits to a minimum . . . Next
to my bunk is a fire bell which you have to turn to operate. This
ensures that you will be deafened as well as burned . . .”
It is a boon, in the months after a sudden death, to find that the lost one can still make you laugh. His account of working as a hotel waiter to raise money for his gap-year voyage is full of dry observation about customers and staff: we had always wondered why he volunteered to work the Christmas morning breakfast shift and now we know — “with a giant hotel Christmas lunch impending, I wanted to see the type of person who also ate a cooked breakfast”.
Editing has been a strange process, and not wholly painful. When someone writes so privately (and yet with a future reader somewhere in his heart), it can be a shock to see into the familiar stranger’s mind. But to us, the writer Nicholas is wholly recognisable. He is more troubled than even we knew, and with a greater depth of mysticism, but the voice is familiar. It is gentle, amused and amusing, modest and tolerant, curiously old-fashioned.
He loved his technology, his iPod and internet, yet wrote in long-hand; he loved comedy, finding BBC7 his last refuge from the shadowy world of transcendence which became in the end too close and dark to bear. He steeped himself in great literature, but never treated it as something
to be academically “clever” about. It was, to him, a key to the puzzle of existence.
So we put his scattered writings together, with explanations but with the minimum of intrusion, and now offer them in print. Not for vanity, not as some mawkish memorial, but just in case for some reader, somewhere, he provides a useful handhold in the perilous clamber through life’s rigging. He would no doubt have edited them more sharply in a few years’ time if he had been able to stay with us. But Duncan Wu and I have done what we could, so that his words will not be lost. The Silence at the Song’s End by Nicholas Heiney is available for RRP £12.95
He loved his technology, his iPod and internet, yet wrote in long-hand; he loved comedy, finding BBC7 his last refuge from the shadowy world of transcendence which became in the end too close and dark to bear. He steeped himself in great literature, but never treated it as something
to be academically “clever” about. It was, to him, a key to the puzzle of existence.
So we put his scattered writings together, with explanations but with the minimum of intrusion, and now offer them in print. Not for vanity, not as some mawkish memorial, but just in case for some reader, somewhere, he provides a useful handhold in the perilous clamber through life’s rigging. He would no doubt have edited them more sharply in a few years’ time if he had been able to stay with us. But Duncan Wu and I have done what we could, so that his words will not be lost. The Silence at the Song’s End by Nicholas Heiney is available for RRP £12.95
at http://www.songsend.co.uk/and for £11.65 FONTE: Times Online - UK
Every poem is a new start
Every poem is a new startBy Shiri Lev-Ari
It's hard to interview a poet, especially a poet like Mark Strand. Things are fluid, elusive, and there is no chunk of words you can bite into. However, even conversation with Strand sounds like poetry.
He speaks his poetry. Strand, 73, who won the Pulitzer Prize in 1988, was born on Prince Edward Island, Canada. His father was a traveling salesman, and his mother was an artist. He spent his childhood in various cities in the United States. When he was young, he wanted to become an artist and studied painting, but in the end he became a poet. Thus far, he has published 11 poetry books and has won many literary prizes. He also writes articles, short stories, art books and children's books, and has published translations and anthologies. He now teaches literature at Columbia University. He has been divorced twice, and has two grown children.
"I have a daughter who writes cookbooks, and a son who is a waiter - food is major topic for us," he says in a telephone interview from his home in New York.
The person who has brought Strand's poetry to Hebrew readers is writer Uzi Weill, who has been translating him for more than 15 years. This started with random translations for the "Back Page" feature that Weill wrote for the Tel Aviv weekly Ha'ir. The column is now being compiled into a book, Shirim ("Poems"), a selection of Strand's works, and is being published by Yedioth Books. The book brings together poems from several of Strand's books, including the most recent, "Man and Camel," and a few works of prose.
"To some extent," writes Weill in the preface to the book, "Mark Strand is a poet of the invisible. A poet of the information that surrounds us, the information that we are incapable of bringing into our consciousness because of the crudeness of the tool that is called the human conscious." Strand's poems resemble hallucinations, dreams. It is not clear where they take place and when, but they come from deep within the true nature of things. He writes a great deal about death - his own death - loss, separation, rare moments of fierce existence. He plays with being and non-being, presence and absence. He writes about a person whose father has died but returns and is revealed to him through all kinds of creatures, first through an annoying fly and in the end through his beloved.
He writes phrases like: "A man has been standing / in front of my house / for days. I peek at him / from the living room / window and at night, / unable to sleep, / I shine my flashlight / down on the lawn. / He is always there." (From "The Tunnel")
He writes about poetry: "1. If a man understands a poem, / he shall have troubles. // 2. If a man lives with a poem, / he shall die lonely. // 3. If a man lives with two poems, / he shall be unfaithful to one. // ... 18. If a man lets his poems go naked, / he shall fear death. // 19. If a man fears death, / he shall be saved by his poems. // 20. If a man does not fear death, / he may or may not be saved by his poems. // 21. If a man finishes a poem, / he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion / and be kissed by white paper" (from "The New Poetry Handbook").
Strand has been blessed with the ability to translate the experience of his life into words. What enables him to do this?
"I really don't know," he says, hesitating. "Maybe it's the fact that I think verbally. I amuse with language all the time, and when I write I try to be as clear and precise as possible. There is so much bad writing in the world, so I think that a poet is morally obliged to write as well as possible. It always surprises me that people can get excited about other people's thoughts. I don't know what the mechanism is that allows this to happen. I am not a psychologist, nor a philosopher."
Poetry as a state of mind
How did you start writing poems?
"I wrote poems when I was in high school, but those were typical poems of an adolescent who feels isolated and alienated, who thinks that the world is a shame and that he is the only one who can be honest. And then I stopped because I realized that it was what it was, totally worthless. Then I started to paint. I thought of being a painter and I discovered that people out there are much more gifted than I was, so I went back to poetry.
"I have always read poetry, and that is really the reason I became a poet. I've always picked up books by Wallace Stevens or Robert Frost, and later Pablo Neruda and Fernando Pessoa. It went slowly at first, but it got better with time. As a matter of fact, even to say that I improved is a mistake, because every time I sit down to write a new poem it isn't like I learned anything from my previous poems. Each poem is really a new start. Maybe my poems seem similar, but when I am writing them I have the feeling that what I am writing at that moment is different from what I had written before.
"And that's how poetry becomes a way of thinking. In the back of my mind I am always working on a poem, choosing phrases. I am always ready to catch the next butterfly or the next fish - whatever it is."
So being a poet is a state of mind?
"Yes, and more than that - it's a conditional being."
What does poetry promise? Is it possible to live more through it?
"It offers the possibility of living your life in a way that is maybe a bit more meaningful. I know that writing poetry has made my life richer. I pay more attention to what goes on around me and to what happens inside of me. Is this living more or not? I'm not certain. It seems as though the world offers more than poetry can put into words. In that sense, the experience of life can be richer than poetry. You are liable to become pretty poor if you are always looking for something to say, instead of experiencing things without an ulterior motive."
In many of your poems you write about death, and about your own death.
"Well, death makes you think about it. We experience it at a stage when it is already too late for us to learn anything about it or to talk about it. Death offers endless possibilities for the imagination. It is one of the absolute things in life, and it demands that we think about it and about life. But I don't take it too seriously. I know that it will happen to me. I hope it won't happen tomorrow or the next day. I can easily imagine the world getting along fine without me. When I die, the loss to the world will not be so great, but for me it will be the loss of the world."
Strand lives alone. "But I have a lot of friends," he says. As a child, he moved often with his family. "I grew up in different places," he says. "We started out in Canada, where I was born, and after that I lived in Utah, Iowa, Connecticut, New York, Philadelphia, Cleveland. Maybe that's the reason there is no specific place that I write about in the poems. I gather from all kinds of places I've lived to create some inner landscape of my own."
He writes: "In a field / I am the absence / of field. / This is / always the case. / Wherever I am / I am what is missing" (from "Keeping Things Whole").
Your poems contain something of the Zen Buddhist experience.
"Yes, a lot of people tell me that," he says. "I don't consider myself religious of all, but I don't mind being considered a Zen Buddhist."
You play with presence and absence, existence and non-existence, being and non-being, with the reconciliation of opposites. Is that also how you have lived your life?
"I must do so, if this continues to emerge from my poems. But my everyday life and the life in my poems are not the same life. I live a life in which I drink coffee for breakfast and eat lunch and visit friends, and this isn't what happens in my poems. The life in my poems is altogether on a different plane."
No validation in the Pulitzer
In 1988 Strand won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
"I felt lucky," he says, "but it always depends on who the judges are - if there are judges who don't like your work, you don't win the prize. It isn't anything you can rely on. It always comes as a surprise. I enjoyed it for 10 minutes."
Ten minutes? Isn't a prize like that some kind of sign that you are on the right path?
"But so many bad poets have won the Pulitzer Prize. There are so many bad writers who win all kinds of prizes, so being proud of yourself for having won a prize is self-delusion. I don't think that prizes validate your work. In fact, I'm sure they don't. I think about all the great writers who never won the Nobel."
Strand began publishing poems in the 1960s, and says the status of poetry has changed since that time. "I think that poetry in the '60s and the '70s in America was a lot more popular, because they were writing a lot against the war in Vietnam and we had a huge audience of people who wanted to hear us. Today, you know, no one listens. People are writing poems against the war in Iraq and no one notices. Things have changed. I think that the big difference is that in the '60s and '70s, there was the draft. The war hit the middle class. Today there is no draft. And in addition, wars have become a lot more abstract than they were."
And you still keep writing.
"What else can I do? I read, I write, and if I don't do those two things I don't know what to do. I also go to a gym."
Thank you for the interview.
"I hope that I have said something. I am not sure that I have."
The translator of your poems into Hebrew writes that you know some secret, "something definite and clear, that can't be expressed in words at all."
Do you feel that you know a secret?
"I think so, but I don't know those secrets until I sit down to write."
FONTE: Ha'aretz - Tel Aviv,Israel - http://www.haaretz.com/
Jack is jumping after national joy
Jack is jumping after national joy JACK Roberts was crowned BJA National Judo Champion after battling through a series of opponents at the Sheffield Ice Arena.The South Bromsgrove High School pupil won all his contests at the event in the age band B U55KG', before defeating Scottish opponent Jack McKinley in a closely contested final.
It was impressive ground work from Roberts that set him on the way to a superb title victory.
Roberts is a member of Halesowen Judo Club where he is coached by Denis Steward, a medallist for Great Britain at the 1988 Olympic Games in Seoul, Japan.
As national champion, Roberts has now gained automatic selection to the World Class Start British squad. FONTE: Bromsgrove Advertiser - Bromsgrove,UK
La poésie et le regard lointain des choses
La poésie et le regard lointain des choses« Au-delà de mon regard »
de Sandra Géraldes-Forasté
Après les rêves, l'amour et la volonté de changer le monde en bien, et les contrées sauvages, vient le regard lointain, le regard qui voit au-delà des choses et qui dépasse les limites pour créer un univers poétique qui ne ressemble pas aux autres univers bien abordés et bien habités depuis longtemps par d'autres poètes.
Après les rêves, l'amour et la volonté de changer le monde en bien, et les contrées sauvages, vient le regard lointain, le regard qui voit au-delà des choses et qui dépasse les limites pour créer un univers poétique qui ne ressemble pas aux autres univers bien abordés et bien habités depuis longtemps par d'autres poètes.
Certes le titre « Au-delà de mon regard » est bien choisi par la poétesse Sandra Géraldes-Forasté, car ce titre là fait appel avec conscience ou même avec inconscience, selon Freud, au mythe du célèbre Orphée. La poétesse dit à propos de ce regard poétique ces paroles là : « C'est un regard, que je porte sur le monde, sur ma vie, sur votre vie... C'est un regard qui vous couvre de respect et qui vous révèle certaines idées incohérentes ! » Oui ce regard fait appel à Orphée, à ce poète musicien qui n'a pas pu supporter ne pas voir ou plutôt revoir le visage de sa bien-aimée Eurydice avec un regard d'amour, un regard plein de passions et d'émotions. Ce regard mythique est devenu un symbole pour tous les poètes et parmi eux notre poétesse bien sûr.
Notre poétesse, elle aussi, essaie de voir à travers son regard orphique au-delà des choses, voir le sens de l'amour pur et même les souffrances de la vie et parmi elle la mort aussi, la porte de l'autre vie éternelle.
Notre poétesse, elle aussi, essaie de voir à travers son regard orphique au-delà des choses, voir le sens de l'amour pur et même les souffrances de la vie et parmi elle la mort aussi, la porte de l'autre vie éternelle.
Oui, en pensant à Orphée et à son regard notre poétesse a pu écrire ce beau recueil de poèmes et a pu déclarer son amour à tout le monde avec une langue poétique très attirante et avec un langage raffiné et plein d'originalité.Lisons ces vers poétiques tirés de son poème qui a donné même son titre à ce recueil de poèmes, c'est-à-dire le poème « Au-delà de mon regard » :
« Au-delà de mon regard se trouve mon amour
« Au-delà de mon regard se trouve mon amour
Celui qui nous a uni, et ce dès le premier jour
Je ne suis plus en quête de questions–réponses
Car aujourd'hui, moi au près de toi... je fonce
Au-delà de mon regard se trouvent tes yeux
Au-delà de mon regard se trouvent tes yeux
Je t'admire, oui c'est bien toi que je veux
Je ne suis pas en quête d'une aventure
C'est de toi dont je suis éprise, de ton allure »
Ainsi regarde la poétesse le monde et ainsi voit à travers son regard là le visage de l'être aimé, celui qui a pu à travers son charme changer ce monde même dans les yeux, ce n'est pas seulement de la poétesse, mais aussi dans les yeux du monde tout entier.
Il suffit pourtant un sourire de l'être aimé pour que tout devienne beau, et même si beau. Ainsi on trouve que la poétesse dans son poème intitulé « Toi, homme d'amour » dit à haut voix ces belles paroles :
« Toi, homme d'amour, homme de compassion
Ainsi regarde la poétesse le monde et ainsi voit à travers son regard là le visage de l'être aimé, celui qui a pu à travers son charme changer ce monde même dans les yeux, ce n'est pas seulement de la poétesse, mais aussi dans les yeux du monde tout entier.
Il suffit pourtant un sourire de l'être aimé pour que tout devienne beau, et même si beau. Ainsi on trouve que la poétesse dans son poème intitulé « Toi, homme d'amour » dit à haut voix ces belles paroles :
« Toi, homme d'amour, homme de compassion
Toi, homme, qui traverse le temps et les saisons
Où trouves-tu ta force, ton amour, cette passion
Où trouves-tu cette patience,cet éclat, cette raison
Toi qui n'aspire... à rien d'autre que donner
Toi qui n'aspire... à rien d'autre que donner
Qui ne cherche qu'à comprendre et puis qu'à écouter
Donnes moi ton amour et ton savoir, je les prendrai
Apprends-moi le bouddhisme et ce que veut dire la liberté »
De cette façon profonde, la poétesse Sandra Géraldes-Forasté continue son chemin orphique en déclarant l'amour et la tolérance, en pensant à ses origines à travers le visage de sa mère cette fois. Cette mère qui représente mythologiquement, selon le dictionnaire des symboles, « la sublimation la plus parfaite de l'instinct et l'harmonie la plus profonde de l'amour. ».
Lisons tous alors, ces vers qui parlent de cette mère réelle/magique :
« Maman, reviendras-tu me voir
De cette façon profonde, la poétesse Sandra Géraldes-Forasté continue son chemin orphique en déclarant l'amour et la tolérance, en pensant à ses origines à travers le visage de sa mère cette fois. Cette mère qui représente mythologiquement, selon le dictionnaire des symboles, « la sublimation la plus parfaite de l'instinct et l'harmonie la plus profonde de l'amour. ».
Lisons tous alors, ces vers qui parlent de cette mère réelle/magique :
« Maman, reviendras-tu me voir
Tu me manques tellement ce soir
Moi j'ai encore peur dans le noir
Je voulais juste ne pas te décevoir
J'aimerai pouvoir en toi me confier
J'aimerai pouvoir en toi me confier
Juste que je puisse simplement t'aimer
Je voudrais réussir ma vie sans basculer
Mais comment faire sans toi à mes côtés »
Ainsi les lignes de la poésie vivante suivent leur parcours mobile, et ainsi la poétesse Sandra Géraldes-Forasté continue à nous offrir des belles images poétiques ... !___________________________________
Ainsi les lignes de la poésie vivante suivent leur parcours mobile, et ainsi la poétesse Sandra Géraldes-Forasté continue à nous offrir des belles images poétiques ... !___________________________________
2 – Jean Chevalier et Alain Gheerbrant : « Dictionnaire des symboles » Ed Robert Laffont/Jupiter 2005.
Saakashvilli to call Putin for duel?
[31.10.2007 15:27]Saakashvilli to call Putin for duel?
President of Georgia Mikhail Saakashvilli is going to carry out the judo due with his counterpart”. He said this in the evening of October 29 at the honour decoration awarding ceremony to members of Georgian combined team on judo, which won Coup of Europe on the team championship in Minsk.
Saakashvilli made his statement after the chief coach of the judo combined team of Georgia Shota Habareli thanked to the head of the state for his support of the team and in the name of the team presented to the President the kimono with the inscription at the back “Saakashvilli”, reports “Novosti-Georgia”.
For the answer the President noted that “I have one friend and counterpart, who enjoys this kind of sport”. “We have not bad results with him but I have to compete with him in judo. So I will come to you in the morning or in the evening in order to have trainings”, said Saakashvilli, speaking to judoists.
“It will be necessary some preparation in this sphere but I am sure that will reach the result in all”, said the President.
Saakashvilli did not say the name of rival, but from the words of the President it came out that he means President of the RF Vladimir Putin. ctnstant URL of article:
FONTE:UNIAN News Agency - Kiev,Ukraine
UNIAN News Agency - Kiev,Ukraine
Success for the young judo stars
Success for the young judo stars31 October 2007
STRATFORD Judo-kwai's young stars were out in force at the recent Tsu-Mo-Kie Judo Club competition held at Epping Sports Centre and there were medals aplenty for the east London club.Cousins Sabina and Hadicha Karimova, both six, took the 'tiny tots' section by storm as they each won gold medals, while Harry Boc, Madison Fryatt, both seven, and Jinevra Lewis, 10, took silver and Jake Boyayanlar, Luis Vieira, both seven, Martin Audzer, eight, and Malik Bennett went home with bronzes, with six-year-old Tho-mas O'Grady finishing in fifth position.There was further Stratford success in the junior section and it was Hayley Willis, 11, Michael Willis, 15, and Elvinas Rupinskas, 14, who led the way, each securing overall victory.Paul Willis, 17, Jack Falzon, 14, and Liam Fryatt, 12, were unlucky not to also take gold, settling instead for silver medals on the day, while there were bronzes for Ramazan Karimov, 10, Kebra Edwards, 13, and 14-year-olds Roderick Pearce, Camilla Karim-ova and Anarldis Byliene.
FONTE: Newham Recorder - London,England,UK
FONTE: Newham Recorder - London,England,UK
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