Contributor 5: JOSEP M. RODRIGUEZ
He was born in Suria (Barcelona), 1976. Published traveler Debts (1998) and Castells Sorra (1999). Since late 1998 he directed the Lady Geneva collection and currently serves on the editorial board of the journal NEMESIS, participating in the First National MAGAZINES SPANISH related to the University. He has also collaborated in several publications: “Diario 16”, “propeller”, “Silver Bridge”, “Hourglass”, “overseas”, etc.
It is strange night without stars.
I remember the years,
He is young,
I spent working in a museum.
And not particularly work
–simple noctuno guard
but by the silence and pride
that those large rooms offered me.
There were El Greco, Zurbarán,
Velázquez and Ribera,
listening to my steps upon completion
“You can sleep peacefully was saying Les,
There’s nothing to fear,
you are safe. “
And although I could not distinguish,
He knew with certainty
they were always there,
motionless and alert,
as dull stars.
It started to rain and the wind moves
The sky is a huge source
one of those sources
we visited together when you were
as one of the lines of my hand:
mark on the skin,
The wind moves the water from puddles
while I seek refuge in a doorway
waiting for the storm to cease.
I remind tourists changed
your hand holding a coin,
metal bait intended
A better future.
some time later,
I’ll show you what I am,
the worst of the dams.
This moment was future now.
This moment now is not future.
The future is a tree that does not exist.
And though long since sprouted
the fertile womb of mother earth,
yours took you to discover it.
Now you know –and is well–,
so start acting accordingly.
For now enjoy this day
and learn to appreciate as it deserves
cultivation of sun and beauty,
because there are days without sun beauty
and stored in the refrigerator of memories
the fruit of kindness for another day.
Do not let the rose fades,
start building your greenhouse.
Contributor 6: ANTONIO RODRIGUEZ
Born in Albacete (1978). Degree in Hispanic Studies from the University of Salamanca and a founding member of NAKED ISLAND, Albacete magazine that actively participated in the First National MAGAZINES SPANISH related to the University. He received the Young Poetry Prize of the City of Albacete, in 1996. In addition to Naked Island, has published his poems in other magazines as Siesta Wolf, Barcarolle (Albacete) or Time poetry (Cordoba, Argentina) and in the cultural supplement “Ababol” the newspaper La Verdad (Murcia).
His main influences can be found in the line of the “poetry of experience”, from authors such as Angel Gonzalez 50 or Gil de Granada Biedma- to Luis García Montero, through the conversational poetry of Chilean Nicanor Parra and Enrique Lihn. It is noteworthy, too, the influence of the poet Murcia Eloy Sanchez Rosillo and his elegiac poetry, by the oracular tone more mature Neruda Residency -the land or elementary Odes – and narrative poems of Cavafy and Valencian Vicent Andrés Estellés . The classicism of the great Spanish tradition is always present.
THE WAY BACK
Not comfortable and decides it’s time
to go home. Collect look
in some corner of the bar and goes out.
Once on the street is quite possible
that someone is watching,
to repair in your legs or your face.
Or maybe he has seen that figure
make your evening drink reluctantly,
lip without refreshment
or ice of illusion.
That often happens, he already knows,
and she is his character tonight:
always walking, which happens
or she falls asleep in her memory
tomorrow, to any poem …
But meanwhile he continues, leaving your eyes
full of reality, body Friday
knowing that your night is over,
without limits for appeals,
timeless and tasteless.
The way back will, you know.
You know there will be questions
in the odd gap between tiles.
He knows that the day is never enough,
the light always returns to its window
with gray insistence retired.
Tomorrow will also know.
After all this time
(Collige VIRGO ROSES REVISED)
Tonight, after so long,
I know there is not much to say; if anything,
a I’m glad to see you, how about a whole.
Yet questions occur:
friends, parents, projects …
Soon to fill these three years
does not frequent your smile.
Now tell me again where Site
when your voice to look up;
gave a name to grow your lips
Just like the others, but different-,
and having chest the hollow just
to save your laughter every evening.
Tell me about arms back
and take off that bright eyes,
that sweet smile and a little sad
I will not tell why you think:
that the world is so empty, your night
They have not left you more than his lies
on the tongue and taste always the same;
the illusion that you hard between the toes
so the ice in your glass of Beefeater.
I know tonight is docile memory,
his slow tide returns me
my strange exercise of nostalgia;
and I know you prefer in this album
where thirst waiver meaningless.
Tell me tomorrow, hurry,
do not let me think yet
It has not ended this Friday, you do not want
me take your picture right now
without mistakes, no complaints, no reproches-
my longing as always, to my sorrow.
When you let those eyes marches
They are more than a poem grass.
A ONE-WAY TICKET
They have sixteen years or maybe just fifteen.
Every city seems to offer its steps,
arranged as beds to accommodate afternoon,
and summer is right, too, to tenderness.
He caresses slowly, gently, it seems that life
It summarized in his hands.
She is almost woman to her eyes,
his standing among small universe makes lips.
They have fifteen to look from afar
who opened the years,
guessing in order to kisses
marked with the date it expires;
I predict she’s crying, because feelings
are very vague words trembling in their language.
You know that your saliva sank in hope,
and dense that perfume
with the mother wraps her hair girl
carvings left behind, like old clothes.
Something like the night of the first drinks,
and that hangover hard on that age is announced.
Almost sixteen and one-way ticket
intact between the fingers.
I returned, as I say, as many summers
and yet, still
I remember empty reaches some steps.
I’m not immune to anything or has tanned me the world.
Time has been broken sewing each pocket:
always somewhere I’ve been excited about something.
Contributor 7: PEDRO GASCÓN
He is a director of Albacete ISLAND NUDE magazine, history student, poet, storyteller and musician and composer in a pop band called Swann, in homage to the protagonist of the famous work of Marcel Proust In Search of Lost Time. It is also undoubtedly one of the greatest representatives of the young poetry waving Albacete culture. You will be able to find it in countless conferences, concerts, recitals, performances and meetings crazy and undergrounds. Where the concern is cooked through word and song sonic make an appearance.
They come or go,
no unanswered questions,
without technical or strategies
They come or go,
without asking why,
His tactic is to embrace
and its strategy being embraced.
Embrace: Pure and rebellious extension of the body.
A pili, for those tears.
Tears containing memories
digging as sharp, pointed knife,
flowing from our eyes
and enveloping the whole body.
Droplets of the soul,
spilled on his own nakedness.
their only food is its own transparency.
Tears come and say:
They are now forgotten. “