Welcome Note
This Issue was published in winter 2001
In winter, this beautiful invention of nature and man awoke with a fireplace and mood among patients meeting this maritime amazed hospital. Some dogs have healed and have begun to move in search of adventure with masters and never see giant windmills; others have found a partner and pass the time back when the lyrical zeal; others are still happily nursing; and others have cheered even stay with infected fresh words of poetry.
Since last fall we weighed in Cartagena, we have been docking in several ports and we have introduced some beautiful villages and in cities of different interest: Cieza, Tarragona, Buenos Aires, Albacete, Montevideo, Miami, Gran Canaria, Madrid, New York, Bilbao, Salzburg, Mexico City, Jaen, Sarajevo, Paris, Lima, Havana, … in short, an odyssey in the Network which we hope will never be back, as already said that the Greek Cavafy vitally important it is not to Ithaca, but the experience of the journey itself.
And with spring stalking, in this case young 2001 will once again Epicureans good advice: to surface carnal desires, that the best wines, the most exotic herbs, which are endless verses are sung smoke is drink, man wins the battle to the horror of life in the most honest and imaginative way possible: through art.
The Cervantes dogs now exhibit their new parts: writings of defeat and victory, famine and bread, viruses and virtues of being, caress and terror, speech and silence … They will come to form colloquium go again when announcing the very erotic atmosphere Mediterranean summer. Until that time, looking forward to the coming of more races (read writers) who wish to live with them in this literary magazine infected with rage and love. Enjoy now this second installment.
Juan de Dios García
Contributor 1: MOHAMED Khalifa SELAM
Continues to explore the world of natural beauty, compressing it into small bottles of elegant African perfume. For him, the ultimate aim of literature is to transfer the love from books to life itself. Something as simple and as complex. Moving from the concrete to the subtle, from concept to first essence of things, from the muddy to the clarity and the illusion of freedom.
Every day I rub my body with sand,
without water.
This makes me recognize my origins.
Also each day and fruit;
the fruit in its more distant past
It was land, water and air.
There’s a full moon.
Tonight I have refreshed in the lake.
I have swum
trying to reach the swans.
Every time I have done more unattainable.
Does not matter,
I’m happy just watching them from afar
Every day I rub my body with sand,
without water.
This makes me recognize my origins.
Also each day and fruit;
the fruit in its more distant past
It was land, water and air.
Contributor 2: SANTIAGO DELGADO
I was born in 1949 and am a professor. I’m not a poet, I knew soon. But, however, I claim my right to write and publish poetry; verses, without doubt, have the rare merit of knowing, and still proclaim that are not great poetry, a fact which, I believe, should be more often … Moreover, given the sociological poverty in reading poetry, my verses can serve as the first step to many new readers. As Agustin Garcia Calvo, I think that poetry is poetry without meter in others, well translated language.
I WRITE FOR WHOM?
(Nel Treno Rome-Milano, 8/11/98)
Although nothing worth
what I say.
While no one serve
what I write…
enunciate and I shape
what I think
When I’m me,
because it is the only way
that I have
to know that I exist.
Readers, few;
exegetes, none
I have had.
Only the gentle criticism
from a friend.
And when night time
My work takes into oblivion,
the world will have gained nothing
nothing will be lost.
The literature
only serves
to know that you’ve lived.
Contributor 3: MECA FRANCISCO GUEVARA
He born in Lorca (Spain). Anxious to express that inner world that cries manifest from childhood cultivated in comics and writing little poems on the Virgin and the saints. He wanted to be the little John of the Cross, but not as much as had read to know. Later he engages algebras and Pythagorean triples, and his literary creativity is evaporated by the rigor of modus ponens.
After years of numerical indigestion, he manages liquefy his poetic accent to replace those sweet rhymes with ‘abominable’ poems. Severely affected by the ‘classical music’, learned in his sleepless nights of musical subtlety value as a seed of self deep in all kinds of human art. Believes the absurd is everything being nothing, dreaming that one day redeem the world with his ‘ridiculous’ work that only aspires to plagiarize the senselessness of existence.
A SECOND NIGHT RIDE
The sky was tinged with gray, and a breeze confused the streets,
both we left home; goodbye drowns the little joy in me.
Crossed the asphalt a prelude to the evening twilight, and while call
and here we go, LJ dialogue with crystallized.
We expect a bus; arrival casual turbulence dissipate.
The fattening of kids refuge of tired, evil eye, and
drowned after a few drops of light, we do not know where.
Among the tumult, a dying does not stop the empty digestion.
New scale, Cabo de Palos, the popular singing holds us at times,
but fate is up, and the way my blood enemy becomes;
It is useless to hide; my fog eventually invade everything.
On a wide esplanade, bulky bottles, cars, jacks and
dead rhythms. Follow a hello, a tea stand up, and my view is turned off.
Night, I will climb with LJ breaks
and seek in the highest, the lighthouse.
No worship our steps on the watchtower,
only we will probe the abyss, naked, restless
by absorbing hypnotic cross on the tower.
The sea hits terror, and we are drowning in his solitude.
I would not want, friend; but human misery
He calls us with undisguised disdain, so quiet.
Lighthouse crushing take leave our temples,
the humble silence and stars, ourselves,
and blindly go down the makeshift staircase.
Maybe in another time we meet again.
I am not able to reconcile the bitter cup, the proud auto,
and I know that everything declines: I repeat my same fallacies, dialogue without passion.
Is the walking wounded, back, and heels pure parade
Ground know ignorant and shine with pleasure. The compass,
Sighs old hunter cajoled me, sitting next to windows.
And the latest one drive, and another stupid environment; The time
leaving, and this great bipolar dismissal is LJ.
After the kilometers, I’m home. Nobody awake yet. I hope.
I am the lord of the courtyard at night
cold bathing smell my flesh.
Walking is ridiculous; just relax,
silent, unsheltered, embarrassed.
The sad canon of roosters, pursuing
with its refrain existential sob,
denies my desire to dream between two pillows.
The doorbell rings: it’s over for today.
Contributor 4: Juan de Dios García
I write because I contradict every day, every hour. Words and get exorcise paper. I write, and do not think. Otherwise, I try to draw strength from where I can not get addicted to antidepressants. The image of the gun to his head has never visited me, despite the pain. As a result, it seems that was among that class of ‘happy’ beings thanks to the art of living. I admire and share the love and commitment of friends, good wild sex, respect for wisdom, religious mistrust, love in a concentrated look, …
I hate certain vital attitudes of Miles Davis, but at the same time love their music; You could say something like Byron’s poems, Elia Kazan’s films, Mapplethorpe’s photographs, paintings by Dali, Jean Cocteau’s dreams, Benny Goodman’s clarinet … I never believed that genius were at odds with the good character. There are many examples of artists who combine both, but we must find the shadow of today and have always divismo riding shows.
BED
I find that everything is transition,
the most intense state of man,
life and death,
It is always a sharp loop
in the time.
I feel a father clutching
hands, dying,
and I look at our daughter
running the same task
with my little finger.
***
UNDER WATERFALL Kegon
(Haiku)
Where I was born
is still listening
mourn, laugh.
***
PRINCIPLE AND COVENANT
I am with the men
to them the day dawns in Rome
and live in Bay sunset.
The night, of all colors.
