Contributor 5: Khalifa Mohamed Selam
MOHAMED SELAM Khalifa is a special Melilla, a dog on the other side. He speaks several languages, although usually written in Spanish; He has traveled many places and lived in several cities to settle in a humble house in the adjoining Moroccan border with Algeria. There are self-sufficient in fullness, devoting the day to listen to the silence, to contemplate the landscapes, to live with his beautiful wife Rashida, cultivating his garden, milking his beloved goat, reading Sufi stories, Taoist, Zen, Ghandi, Krisnamunti, Fray Luis de León, the Bible, etc … In his spare time, he writes haiku North Africans as these.
I marvel at a mountain looking like an ant, the concept of large and small has disappeared.
The river has frozen dawn, children play trying to break the ice sheet.
The old trail has been overgrown.
The cliff is white, the color of the seagulls.
I listen to the monks praise God, suddenly, a bird sings and beats the beauty of the sacred songs.
A bird has not noticed my presence has entered the room running around the mat.
Contributor 6: José Daniel Espejo
DANIEL JOSEPH MIRROR ferocious feline is a poet. He directed the literary magazine Oh, poetry. He has won some regional awards, but it is still unexploded bomb Murcia truth, that is, without having done enough damage. Currently, he recently graduated in Philology, is preparing to be a teacher of Spanish for foreigners. It works where you can not feel a familiar drag and buy those books so expensive to TS Eliot, Jose Maria Alvarez, Vicente Gallego, Philip Larkin, Rimbaud and Kafka. A rare avis sweetly chaotic and messy, but, yes, extremely affectionate.
For Angel Gomez Espada,
|to hear voices.|
|I prepare breakfast|
|Special and say|
|I love you, uncle,|
|For my birthday|
|I gift books|
|and I get jealous|
|I go late.|
|Where will you go, crazy cock,|
|why not come back.|
|I sent letters|
|and a little kiss|
|when removing the mailbox.|
|As you can see|
|in my cave no site|
|for no one|
THE STUFF THAT ETC.
From time to time, watch
the bottom drawer, the bottom
the cabinet, the laughter
Your holiness. And occasionally,
remove the colored crystals,
henbane magic of its box,
aim for the head of the wicked
Contributor 7: Light Ayuso
LIGHT Ayuso is a novice poet who -we have the honor-his early work presented here, but has already contemplative and irony capacity needed for this job. From Florence, where he is studying Spanish Mediterranean shore to the other, sends us for our doggy project, these barking in verse.
SUNSET IN THE FIELDS OF MONTIEL
Yes it’s correct
Death is the secret
as a plump puff
the skyline background
from which no suspect
at the end of the afternoon
bring us rain.
for the gifts caught.
A cricket at night
waddles its elytra.
Contributor 8: Angel Manuel Gomez Espada
MANUEL GOMEZ ANGEL SWORD is an acid pen and sometimes biting into the bowels. He has been awarded many local, regional and national competitions. It is a devourer of poetry and very selective when reading novels, like most of the members who are the Dialogue of the Dogs … Also he lost his love of song and legend Bob Dylan. This dog has a degree in Philology, a great literary researcher -who specializes in Eloy Sanchez Rosillo poet and his contemporaries, and has now embarked on the study of classical philology. That spirit Horace welcome him into their midst. He has, no doubt, a lot of blame in this project.
Do not come, Inspiration, this morning
knocking at my door. I do not want
see tearing down my temples.
I finish what I’m doing:
brush my teeth, put coffee,
study awhile opposition,
reorder some corners
of my life, full of dirt,
of fond memories, but useless.
Do not come up early,
decision not say, write, here
your best poem. If you approach now
by my room; I will cast out the window.
Today I have no body to poetry.
And yet, in this verse penultimate start, anxious to hear your laughter.
Look, you become a bitch, my friend.
THE AMAZON saddles
Come, Mary, come,
do not be afraid of a hunchback,
see this side of the room,
where the shadows cover my shortcomings.
Leave the light, Mary, come,
sit on my knees
and travels, submissive, the center of my mouth,
discover, small, what does my tongue.
Do not make me leave, wander
by infectos alleys of London,
down to the suburbs in search of your smell.
Do not make me go out, get you
in other dirty bodies, tasteless sexes.
You know what makes me nervous
no point in brothels find you.
Come on, do not be a child and see.
I’m sick of that idiot Jekyll
pay my bills. Tonight
I want to rest. On your belly.
Contributor 9: Villa Maria Talavera
MARY VILLA TALAVERA accompanies us with some verses that pertain to their unpublished poems Mar memory. The you can find in Murcia, where usually loiter. Poetry is part of his life, and it is reflected. Although it is student teacher, always he has time to devote himself to literature. Recently was a finalist in the poetry contest and Francisco Sanchez Bautista had the chance to appear on the pages of “Ababol” cultural supplement of the newspaper La Verdad.
They slipped from our ties
flowers dawn they saw us,
subject to the passion of a flaming sky.
A gentle longing embellished our skin
while he is wielding a sweet scent
in a sea of memory.
the song that night,
music wrapped in fire,
on a fragile heartbeat,
and his voice faint.
Feel the echo of nostalgia
that after so many hours
still overwhelms us.
Contributor 10: José Luis Abraham Lopez
ABRAHAM JOSE LUIS LOPEZ is a greyhound of Cartagena, the ancient city where is born the port spirit of the magazine. The sea, the salt and windmills pierced his heart long ago. Has an impeccable resume and evolving, the proof is that your signature is included in the anthology of the writer Fernando Villena prepared for publishing Huerga & Fierro. He studied Library and Information Science in Granada, and now, back home, he wrote his doctoral thesis on the poet Antonio Oliver Belmar. He has published books of poems Poetry At ground level, impersonal affairs. Hit dice, his latest collection of poems, still unpublished in book form.
No matter for the years
oxidation of the strange times
It is not written in the lines of hand.
Had I known that love acts at will
I would never have promised discrete days
because dignity becomes increasingly
a more impersonal matter that does not inspire confidence.
I am seeking a return that did not want to want,
and I think the baobas suddenly:
perhaps because they grow upside down.
Also the cities
where he spent the first minute
They are a good place to discredit.
Forecasts as if they were meant to be fulfilled,
the intensity of the accelerated green taxis,
again criticized the hours
they deserved lived outside of the cabinets,
not knowing that the night
a horizontal body is dark.