Review of Literature
After many hardships and some defeats we could stay afloat in the sea suffocating that has become the monstrous current computer network. Now we are born with this first issue of the quarterly magazine “The Dialogue of the Dogs”, overflowing with enthusiasm to express to all our visitors that literature grazing in the fields of poetic freedom, individual and collective, without commercial ties, without monopoly sacred cows.
But we also would like to be branded with gargantuan magazine that anyone can write poems without the relevant qualitative measures. So, we have to say that all works sent to us will undergo a rigorous philological reading thereof before being exhibited in our pages. Not that we believe to be equal to or François Villon Omar Khayyam, but of course, we do have the intention to be a serious and committed to the values magazine of contemporary poetry in Spanish.
We also age indifferent writer you want to send verses. We are radically skeptical myth recent publishing, a few years now, is forging on young literature, for us, is a timeless art thankfully.
We know of many other magazines that can get to know, share knowledge, people committed to the written word that life is left in the paper, pleasure and pain, elation and despair. People who have already published some books or simply has not yet published because what he writes is, with all the consequences, POETRY.
Well, from the ancient port of Cartagena paw “The Dialogue of the Dogs” to go collecting all the feathers you find us on the Web.
We will step and poets that make up this first issue. We hope that his verses are to your liking and, if possible, we informéis of your mind about them.
With an enthusiastic nod Cervantes, us, dogs, I opened the door to this particular literary hospital. Welcome.
Juan de Dios García
This premiere issue of the magazine was directed by Juan de Dios Garcia
Assistant Director; Angel Manuel Gomez Espada
The issue had a total of 18 contributors and below is the works of the contributors.
Contributor 1: Natalia Carbajosa
NATALIA CARBAJOSA is a poet who works regularly in the poetry magazine La Galera. Loading several awards behind him, opens his soul in these pages of his creations. Natalia reconstructs the physical reality of the words of the poem brings up a besieging body awareness confirming the vital coherence and emotional significance of what is known evasive and elusive.
Difficult to gauge
What happened to those plenitudes
that, not being even,
wise in smells, touch of honey,
They dwell in us
measured with the cold of the year.
What we got out of that flee:
those that do not will and
trailing tail death
with stench oblivion.
Cartagena, so many of so many
so many other landscapes,
not surrender again
the warm deception
in this love overwhelms me,
skin trembles me,
old new clouds
recognizes and strange
both feel, smell and forgetfulness
filled those hours.
Contributor 2: David Gomez Ojeda
DAVID GOMEZ OJEDA is a canary puppy 20 years studying in Madrid something that has been called so surreal, “Information Sciences”. This aspiring journalist plays disillusioned and skeptical when you can, to read less ephemeral than those of the press, signed by Baudelaire pages, Jim Morrison, Neruda, Cavafy, Poe, pages etc … Have you seen more than forty times in one night opera. Actually, he went to a filmmaker, but as fate would have two years ago contracted the disease palabrista metaphor. Who knows if they ever dare to shoot with a camera poems. Also, due to its physical beauty, the nightlife it holds successive trophies and out of the windows of his room when it is up.
Hear how cry leaves
when the wind mistreats
and robs the spirit.
That star dies
while you want the
wetting the cold ground.
A weathervane pointing South,
warm summer dream
where the waves are eternal.
the son of the clouds
to dance a rite of hope.
On a white wall drawing my absences,
more silhouettes appear unknown.
Lethe after the crypt
and oxygenate your lungs
Recio future full of mysteries.
Pick out all that song
and ear susúrramela
when the stolen kiss me, sweet,
blood in the veins.
And then I see beyond,
to the horizon.
Wait there for my cold breeze
you recognize and cherish,
expect there to my new eyes
They come on and you break through
at the height of the evening
Contributor 3: Oscar tropovsky
OSCAR TROPOVSKI is the pseudonym of José Oscar Lopez. He studied Philology and is, like many of us, eternal opposition. Life bitch! He directed the literary magazine The underground home. While being entertained by a Ph.D., writes, works, win prizes, runners, … in short, the history we carry many young artists. The sources of most drinks are Philip Larkin, Allen Ginsberg, Paul Auster, Burroughs, Leopoldo Maria Panero, Benjamin Prado, Ray Loriga … Of course, in his own discotheque, David Bowie occupies a place of choice.
Everything starts with a chisporrotazo,
so begins the end;
soon the police will pull
below. We came here, sir,
new hope for life
viscous like that drunk
prevents you see the film alone,
Just use the hole
this dirty bathtub, sink
emptying these bottles forever
wormwood and gasoline.
my mother, yours is a saint,
certain marked faces
on the front of our misery
and a final chisporrotazo: the flexo
it falls, the sounds of gunfire,
someone calls here.
The blind leading the garbage truck,
out there, and thinks he licks
in the next end of your journey
TV and someone tells a story
too similar to ours.
I’m hurt. You go.
but this time feeling, I’m
fucked this time.
I liked seeing her piss, crouching between the cars.
In summer we did hitchhiking, from beach to beach,
my sister happened to us grass
and we looked much love us.
We do not we took off.
But what I remember of that time
It was when she said: Cover me, I’m going to piss,
and I’d say, but let me, I see you pissing.
Put face of effort, good girl, good,
this is me, pissing,
and I looked,
Contributor 4: Juan Gomez Bonillo
Juan Gomez BONILLO, old dog, life giving classes of philosophy at UNED win; Almeria comes from land, and is fed up with his friends ask him to publish a book of poems that was never kept in a trunk, but is scattered in magazines, folders, drawers, pockets, cards, hearts, etc … origin of this poem was born precisely from the conversation with one of those friends, nicknamed ‘The Infamous’, which claimed that, among all possible sex performed by a male, masturbation does not have comparable point:
No Comparable Point
Suddenly the old call origin has arisen,
perhaps mediated form of whispering sounds.
The hemisphere asleep life stretches slowly
and hibernating old pterodactyl,
fossil from never, never,
stirred impatiently in his grave
sensing and wound right.
With touch their profiles are rounded flabby.
Timidly bloom thousand vectors
delving into the depths of themselves
to pierce the horizon later.
The fierce pink spilled everywhere,
mountains look with envy his crown
-the snow always point-,
a mad carousel is the compass.
The animal bravo, gleaming steel,
infinity tense your neck, hopeful,
eyes breaking his shelter,
Sighing language of moisture,
always the little breath,
moving, run, fly, fly,
looking fly Milky Way the epicenter
burst in raging waterfalls
honey evanescent …
And falls, falls, falls into the thick haze of nothingness
and again the spirit at the mercy of their affairs
and melancholy takes over the space,
firm, burning, ruthless.
And the fear way through the thicket of instantly opens.