Contributor 5: ROGELIO PIZZI
He was born in Cordoba (Argentina), in 1956. In 1997, he published his poems Editorial Vinciguerra prior Poem in Buenos Aires, the same year he received the Literature Prize mention of Cordoba. In 1998 he received the Circle of Writers and Poets Ibero New York.
In 1999 he was invited to the Latin American Poetry Festival in Rosario. His poems integrate Argentina anthologies Poetry of the Century (Editorial Viciguerra) and Cordoba century poetry (Editions the Boss).
With the poet Leandro Street has two platelets: the diverse Brief petal and idolatry, and received special mention at the First Iberoamerican Poetry Contest Neruda 2000, Temuco (Chile), selected by a jury that made Gonzalo Rojas, Miguel Arteche and Jorge Bocanegra.
Against any assumption, I’m alive.
On the wall, the coveted conjure beasts.
Orillar they know epithelium fear,
They know multiplication adrenaline of the night.
But I’m here, waiting …
Kiss my heart with longing scalpel.
Your subtle forgetfulness,
dawn of Caracas,
Glen in the city of the foam,
that look in front of the Rialto vaporetto,
You print your name, contaminating a poem,
Taxi loneliness by Concorde,
Fall printing lust of Lezama Park,
this restless indifference that continues,
the difference between concave and convex,
the bird’s flight in falling death
begging of utopias,
my hands, if they take my hands,
poets and friends
that absolve me the agony
and the infamous liquor
which prints its mark in the arteries
and the word that I callus
BY YOUR SIDE
The humidity of a prescient moment
the precise combination of numbers and stars
extensive ligament night awaits us
a hive in the serenity of forgetfulness
this familiar beat that augurs a truce
and the silence of things
by your side.
Contributor 6: JUAN ANTONIO SANTANA
He born in 1965 in Las Palmas. This vet has to poetry, music and installed Red in her womb. In 1984 he won the Juvecan call convened by the Cabildo de Gran Canaria, with the poem “Journey to the heart of the island ‘. He also won the New Generation award canary with the poetry collection The end of the journey. Others of his poems have been published in the journal PLAZUELA of letters and on the Atlantic section of the newspaper “Liberation”. Currently it maintains a website with some of his work, called the house of JUANCES.
JOURNEY TO THE HEART OF THE ISLAND
Here in my fingers
I feel the heart beat of the island.
Air violated her veins
They pass like embers under my skin,
and arrive at my fingertips.
And my eyes do not stop looking
your feet in your mighty whispers,
freshly lighted candles,
vague inspirations sleeping animal.
I do not want to be free. Keep prisoner,
your place of eternal chest
do not let my blood run to nothing.
Amid this truce
looking your hidden diamonds.
Your tongue, warm, dismasted
our bodies, making sand,
As the sun punishes
insolence of the cursed mountain.
We do not cease. We wanted to break the glass
and advancement bubbling outburst
we launched light to your scented mouth.
It was like the dream of your warriors,
all energy in the petrified wings.
Now, tell me about your hair, my lover,
I rise as trees,
and down there after winding basalt
softly caresses a beach
our enormous feet.
Imagine this, run blindly
the slope, as if it were music,
without looking at the deep wells
fleshy or broken.
For what is heaven?
because, what is the damn road,
if no birds stir within you,
if no tender apple
and small snails from our beach,
or all the things that you do not lie,
or everything that is born and you are born, and
let us go to our land?
Tell me about your look there in front,
and sweet way of laughing sea.
What you did on my back
He does not know the damn mountain
and his legion of guards tibicena.
Talk to me please,
the real story of your childhood.
Contributor 7: LUIS PRIETO E.
I always felt that the cries of the soul were essential to explain my existence and my frugal way through this thing called life. Without my poems and my poetic prose, with no intent of supportive communication with my fellow travelers I could hardly have tried to become a useful person to myself and to those around me.
I wrote always, almost always angry, always using old papers and used as if it were rewritten life.
There was a time when I flirted with the so-called official and orthodox literature, but in a while I left the official literary circles and refused to continue participating in the carnival masks where we usually carry publishers and literary consumption.
Currently, and well past fifty, I live gently between my profession and my gynecologist old and new cries of the soul. From the mountains of Madrid I edit a personal page called The Scriptwriter.
UNTIL THE END
Knowing that the sun is dying, already just
with the last punch bronco
Boxer-man who needs the taut strings
not to fall to the canvas,
-back sight to a rancid bleached and hollow,
know that was a cry, just cry,
a howl future without fresh blood
remansando to be slowly, softly now,
when all seemed more propitious:
“Dialectics of man
It is a dialectical seeking hope
and can not find … “
Knowing that everything has been just that: a stroke of blood
prepared for violent and barren cry,
for hormonal snap,
for latent psychological spell …
And know that the old anger on his way back
the necklaces, pearls and emblems will,
will return to respectable fat abdomen,
all end with the “mother-experience”
and the “father-progress”
and the “brother-silence”.
Unknowingly passing note of puppet theater,
his lament of mummer and language of mime,
and stand on the goal that was just cry,
fatty facing the road that begins, already
you mumble under his usual words
-there To live, do not dream, you live! –
with your hands well-forged ax
Hope you require.
And if you have to be cornered, if you have to say:
“Dialectics of man is in the unchanging absurd”
I speak as one who spits his last Saliva
before resuming combat.
Contributor 8: MARIANO PALACIOS
Born in the neighborhood of Cartagena Isaac Peral, it has always been in me a certain consciousness of universality, the idea that we are all small truths and tried together form the ‘truth’ which are reflective of the universe.
I am a lone wolf with a thousand internal, own and others’ faces. I am a marine wave that pierces the stone a little longer to return to the depths again only a small wave in a vast and mighty sea. I run a literary magazine called The Ebro from Tarragona.
THE LOOK OF WATER
Hair raised on time
reflecting the crystal look
waters of rivers holistic
And she released her look
the dead pregnant with earth and dreams
the reborn blood
the silent blue
calving valley life
the eternal dance of atoms
the mighty mountain
thousandfold air breathed
and look … born
and look … I’m
and we will look …
in the river