Contributor 12: Angel Gomez SWORD
Apparently, it is prerequisite to resemble poetry and a metaphor for it and with it, compare it with a garland of flowers or metaphysical abductions. Say, for example, which is a divine gift or a gift of wine (I never knew well how to appreciate this difference nuance, really). And the boldest write that is similar to an overdose of LSD act. In my case, I think that poetry helps me understand exclusively for a bit, trying to be a better person, and to enjoy a few more degrees of life. For that I need and I write. I have not looked around.
Some friends say that sin of fun in my verses, or let any mere anecdote of my poems. It may well be true, but I think that today aspire to overcome genius to authors like Borges, Pessoa, Cernuda-not to mention Homer or Quevedo are wasting precious time better devoted to their loved Dear ones.
WAYS TO BE NOT DEAD
Climbing trees and yell,
break glass vases or a pitch,
lift her skirts for the girls,
bathing naked in the river May morning,
truant Language class Thursday,
Eucalyptus stealing candy at the kiosk,
left half-life in the bicycle pedals,
Share your Nutella sandwich at recess
and the most stupid illusions that have been seen,
mourn with the tenderness of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.
Back to children at least twice a week.
WAYS TO BE NOT DEAD
As Phileas Fogg,
run upside down world,
beat a couple of days Death,
deceive for a moment to Oblivion;
feel a hero role.
As Alonso Quijano,
volverme sane at the right time,
make be an injustice,
grains to steal the glory;
feel a hero role.
WAYS TO BE NOT DEAD
Wary at all times:
both those who claim to have
Always header Joyce’s Ulysses
and those who say never
They have never wanted adulteress.
Contributor 13: ANTONIO RANGEL
20 years ago I was born in Mexico City, which undoubtedly has marked my lyrics. I usually stroll through the city and that helps me write, it inspires me; like graffiti also interpret as a good exercise in imagination. It’s complicated for me to define literature; I approached her late; to 17 she dreamed of becoming a film director, and have a big influence of Luis Buñuel, surrealism in general. Favorites are Rulfo, Neruda and Miguel Hernandez; they introduced me the need for things by the word. So far there were only published stories on the Internet, and which happens to be my favorite genre. Literature has become an engine of life, an energy, a huge, beautiful lake where I sink happily.
wandering and saw a dead river
the night froze the heart.
You forgot me heavily
and I saw clouds fogging
when, head down, in a puddle
many strange people.
He was looking for traces
you have not stepped
and, like trees,
I shook the rain sad.
the struggle for naufragarte.
I want you to be palpable,
I do not want you dreamed,
I need your seas,
throw you my soul,
fall where they corner
your shoulder and chest.
How to convince you?
¿Girl? Woman? Goddess?
Among the many vagaries tour the nest
my unemployed letters.
I enjoy teasing birds
who have come to flutter in books
and hummingbirds do mourn
they know not raise lighted flowers.
Such are the vagaries, just laughing your stars
even if you escape by moments of the landscape.
Contributor 14: MARIANO ESTRADA
I always thought that writing poetry is an act of will rather than a gift of inspiration. I do not understand rites, such as not putting the front of a paper and look inward to extract a settled living, incorruptible rose, a missed landscape, pain, joy, an old shadow that has thrived in vertigo and night. What I want is me plow, break the pen so the farmer has always broken with the plow: the hymen of this fertile and majestic mother whose essence is the mystery whose name is Tanit or Beauty.
For that I write, to fill scratches thinking where they can multiply and satisfaction questions. The rest is pastime, gossip, paraphernalia and as much smoke than men manteamos to give appearances of life.
SLOW AUTUMN LEAVES
bats vast shadow
that hove the twilight,
anticipate the siege of the night.
The street is conceived as
clear of artificial light
and stormy life.
On a fervent cry
of varied nature,
trees modulate their tops
But you, withered eye bank
desoyes the bugle of this council
and tapping on the leaves
not a green fervor of music,
but a cry of waxes, sputum
sour yellow tongues.
Then the back of the shade,
under the naked birdsong,
dawn breaks me with
slow autumn leaves.
I SAY YOU LOVE
I say love
Autumn and I’m saying:
sunset, rain, bare trees …
And not weigh my lip to say
He is saying love and death.
Love and death, yes,
I say therefore consumption
and a chrysanthemum arises.
And I say dark or night
and I’m saying early morning light …
I say love, I say land,
and perhaps I’m saying
eternity or lily.
Contributor 15: DANIEL JOSEPH MIRROR
Until recently lived among us, dogs of the Mediterranean, but now suffers and enjoy a stay in Dalmatia, serving as a reader of Spanish language. It uses historical defeats for writing, for that reason did not hesitate to choose a better place to flee the Balkans, a peninsula in full postwar period. This poet, editor of the magazine OH, POETRY!, Move him and bite the stomach things that happen in our Western society, for better and for worse. A boring tear and smile are needed his poems. It is certain that his work would not be well accepted in Tibetan regions and elsewhere in apparent spirituality.
BARTON FINK DOUBT BEFORE THE OFFICE CLAIMS STARLET
I put bricks one by one
your world, and I used it as leverage
the four stones that make up mine.
As you know,
here the slightest glance
of the supermarket cashier
It causes a love affair with queen
a rainy day and an elegy
and the concierge a historical drama
for none of whose roles
I type, it is clear.
All I ask is your sign
to send you letters.
Just that, and perhaps
to dream a little
with suitcase and plane, my flexo
off and my Underwood, the bastard,
The perverse inclination to uppercase
Come, I’ll show all the horror, all the anguish, all Death
Megalomaniac upstart opts for strawberry jam.
My love stands guard next to cable Light of the World
but sometimes he is sleeping.
Simple or complex your eyes betray you disintegration.
(In an application form)
Something, even built Destruction
or simulated, even the Spleen in four strokes,