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And the Logos? Why should I want a Logos if what I seek is to house the light in other light? There, to nest in darkness. For him, Art is a mirror of sensations where the feelings, experiences and emotions of the reader-spectator-hearer, are reflected into that which the author has created. Tu carne es su piel. Su aliento, tu aliento socorrido. Atormentada su conciencia por la noche. Para de nuevo provocar en este mundo el riego. The trees rumble in the conscience of the afternoon His words triumph Versified in the flesh.

Leaves bleed clear drops… God looks direct into the Eye of the All sights, inside, into the guts. Do not cry, never again the lost cry. Your flesh is his skin. His breath, your rescued breath. And they will come. They will come later Tormented their conscience by the night To provoke again in this world the irrigation. Inga Pizane born in Kraslava is a Latvian poet. Pizane has studied education in Latvia and Sweden, simultaneously attending lectures at the Literary Academy.

Her first collection of poems titled You are no Snow Tu neesi sniegs was published in by Janis Roze. She has performed at the Poetry Days events, the European Poetry festival and other international workshops and festivals; and her work has appeared in theatre and radio. She is currently preparing her second book of poems in Latvian.

Her poetry has been translated into English, Welsh, Russian, and Ukrainian. The most beautiful rain is always the rain right after a play, as the audience leaves, each taking the performance in their own direction through Riga. We are two of those people. With eyes that are more energetic than usual, we grasp the darkness. It is October —the sidewalks are clad in fallen leaves— the silence is rhythmically interrupted by our steps. We look at one another, as if to be sure we are still next to each other, then satisfied look away from one another forever.

Last Friday, with a full house at Instituto Cervantes in New York, the organizers of The Americas Poetry Festival announced that Indian-American poet, filmmaker and professor, Michelle Yasmine Valladares had been distinguished with the Poet of the Year Award by this multilingual poetry festival. The festival featured sixty poets representing twenty-two countries and five languages. As in previous editions, Artepoetica Press published a multilingual anthology celebrating the festival.

The festival grows every year and is committed to cultural and literary inclusiveness. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Sus poemas han sido nominados al Pushcart Prize. Gathering the Waters Jamii Publishing is her first poetry collection. Follow her KeishaGaye1 or visit her at keishagaye.

Scott Hightower is the author of four books of poetry in the U.

Al Otro Lado Del Muro - Episode 47 - Telemundo English

Tartessos, his second bilingual, is forthcoming, also from Devenir. My father believed in decency and fair play. My father drove the getaway. My father was a blue jay. My father drove the boys away. My father drove a Thunderbird, a Skylark, a Firebird, an old pickup truck.

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My father drove hard bargains ever day; he was a force. My father. He was passive, a little moody: rock… paper…. He loved me. He loved me not. He stomps and hurls lightning bolts. Has slipped away. Passed away.

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Taught me to pray. Because of him, I hoard things in an old shoe box. Because of him, I use.

Because of him, I look to clocks. Because of my father, I have no use for similes. Because of my father, I hunger for my own catalog of metaphors. Mi padre era un arrendajo azul.

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Mi padre. Era pasivo, algo impredecible: piedra… papel… tijeras. Aporrea el suelo y lanza rayos.

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Ha desfilado. Ha pasado al otro lado.

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His short story collection, The Haven of Distant Lands, is forthcoming. Arthur Jafa has a theory of fresh An aesthetics of fresh What is fresh? Is this poem fresh yet? Nor am I as I write it.

Un asunto pendiente (Spanish Edition)

I am half asleep Awoken from a nightmare I have forgotten the nightmare Of my country Which has forgotten me And itself And the world And everything but the whiteness Of the house The plantation was not fresh The whip broke the air inside us And apologized for itself as it struck And drew blood that was fresh They know not what they do And that is not fresh I need to sleep I need to stop refreshing Twitter Neruda said political poems are not fresh Until you understand how fresh it is to love.

Nadie se salva del recuerdo. These hands betray, uselessly sharpening the pencil to write the last line that searches for exile. It trembles. The village can be seen submerged by the defeating commotion of the loudspeakers. Nobody is saved from the memory. This moment is intimately kept, and its scar is reopened with time. I have lived all of my deaths here.