miércoles, mayo 20, 2009
domingo, mayo 17, 2009
sábado, mayo 16, 2009
jueves, mayo 14, 2009
martes, mayo 12, 2009
"La Poesía tiene mas energía y poder que toda la industria de Hollywood y Broadway juntas, solo que le ha faltado mostrar agallas, necesita personas que la traigan a la vida, necesita escandalo, necesita danza, necesita música,..."
Charles Bukowski (Poetry in motion, 1982)
El domingo pasado tuve oportunidad de asistir nuevamente al Festival de cine documental, Hot Docs, aquí en Torontokistán. Se exhibió el filme, Poetry in Motion, dirigido en 1982 por el director, Ron Mann, quien estuvo presente y platicó con el público al final de la presentación.
El documental, es un interesantísimo archivo fílmico, donde vamos observando una serie de distintas interpretaciones o performances poéticos. De esta forma vemos a Amiri Baraka, cantando su poema "Whale" a ritmo de reggae, dedicandolo al reciente fallecido Bob Marley. Allen Gingsberg, cantando un poema punk acompañado por los Deedes y una treintena de poetas angloparlantes mas entre los que se encuentran: Helen Adam, Ted Berrigan, William S. Burroughs,
lunes, mayo 11, 2009
Por el momento ha bautizado a la empresa FALKEN, (quizás halcón en alemán idioma que domina mi amigo). El asunto es el siguiente: Le ha costado trabajo decidirse por dos logos para su nuevo proyecto, logos que aquí se los presento.
viernes, mayo 08, 2009
jueves, mayo 07, 2009
Aquí les dejo, uno de los cuentos que publiqué en la antología hispanocanadiense, ANTARES 2009.
Para los que no estuvieron en la presentación es el que leí ese dia, ahora dejo su versión traducida al inglés. Les recomiendo leerlo en voz alta, jueguen leyendo lo mas rápido posible y sientanlo mucho, les aseguró que no se arrepentirán.
Once again, I heard it so close, inside the room, as if it had been my voice or yours. You´re still asleep, Laura. I´ve listened carefully but I haven´t been able to hear any more sounds; only your breathing and my heart beat. I know that you are still angry. I hold you close. I close my eyes and I try to sleep. Mario, that noise, like soft panting. Could it be the neighbors? I was excited by the idea of spying on them, even if it was just by listening to them. I kiss your neck. Your skin breaks out in goose bumps, and you respond by moving closer to my body. Have you forgiven me? Your gentle rocking movements begin to arouse me. I have lost all sense of responsibility. All I need is another little moan from the neighbors to set our bed on fire. And that voice that doesn´t return. Was it my imagination or perhaps a dream? Mario. My name. Now I´m sure they´re saying my name. You have stopped moving. I get up to investigate. I wipe the fog of the window pane. Perhaps someone came to look for me. No one is there. The street looks lonely. I look at my watch. It´s three in the morning. I turn my head to look at you, but you have closed your eyes again. Mario. One more time. It must be coming from outside. I grab my robe. I leave in a rush through the door of the apartment. I feel the cold floor of the stairs. I didn´t even put on shoes. The steps never seem to end. I´m going downwards as if I were on a toboggan. I go out through the main entrance. The surface of the sidewalk feels damp. Perhaps because of the heavy rainstorm in the afternoon. I look for the origin of that moan, but I don´t hear it again. I take a step forward. Something crunches under my bare foot. It´s a snail. Its slime oozes down until it hits the ground. I feel a mixture of horror and disgust. Mario. It was louder this time. It sounded like a woman´s voice. Perhaps my mother´s voice, like when she would yell at my father at night. Those nights when he would come home drunk. He and I have the same name. Mario. Yes and that is how she yelled. I never knew if she was calling me or begging him not to hit her. In any case, I never did anything. I was so scared of him. He was a small man, but I was only a child, a child who was even smaller. Mario. It was coming from behind the fog. I looked for my mother maybe for Lucia, my little sister. I remember the look of terror on her face when Dad would come home. We protected each other from him. But sometimes, he would visit her too. She´d scream. Mario. She would call me. She would beg form my help. I burned with rage, but could only clench my fists. I would wet the bed. I felt so powerless. Mario. It flew around, buzzing at my side like something tugging at my ear. I´ve been walking around and around with no fixed direction. I am gripped with anxiety. Mario. What is this? I once again myself find myself in front of the building. It´s coming from inside. Mario. From the second or perhaps the third floor. The third floor is where you are, Laura. Now I´m going up. The edge of the steps is hard on my feet. The slope is as step as a terrible wall. Mario. I´m quite close now. My chest hurts. I feel a strong rage that pierces my entrails. How long have I carried this weight? Mario. I´m in front of our door. It si closed now. I didn´t leave it like that. Mario. It is your voice that I hear. How could I have been so foolish? Mario. It was always coming from within the house. Mario. Sleeping right next to us. Mario. In our bed causing you pain. Mario. I beat my body in desperation. Mario. The firm walls thunder. Mario. The frame of the door gives way. Mario. The wood splits. Mario. The paint cracks. Mario. I enter. Mario! I cross the living room like a lightning flash. Mario! I break into the bedroom. Mario! I confront the shadow of darkness. Mario! He is hovering over your body. Mario! With hands closed around your neck. Mario. You look at me. Mario! I see the whites of your eyes. Mario! I struggle against hi overpowering strength. Mario! I feel his hatred. Mario! I inhale his fear. Mario! My legs shake. Mario! I can´t contain the urine. Mario! I loathe him. Mario! He despises everything that I stand for. Mario! He knows that I never wanted to be like him. Mario. To resemble him. Mario! Mario! I clench my hands with greater force. I feel my fingernails digging into the flesh. The eyes swell. I see how the veins pop out to the point of bursting. I can´t stop myself…Mario! Your irises shrink to nothing. A thread of blood trickles from your nose like the slime of that snail. You pronounce my name for the last time. Mario. I didn´t want to do it. I utter to you. I close your eyes. I came back too late.
Copyright © 2008
miércoles, mayo 06, 2009
|Mujercitas es un clásico de la literatura Norteamericana que ha sido llevado al cine y la tv en mas de cien ocasiones. Les dejo el video de una de las últimas producciones que se han hecho basadas en esta obra, con las actuaciones de Susan Sarandon, Winona Ryder, Kirtens Dunst y Christian Bale. Aqui otras de sus obras desconocidas en formato digital que las disfruten.|
Alcott, Louisa May - Bajo las lilas-doc.zip
|Alcott, Louisa May - El mantel de Tabby-doc.zip|
|Alcott, Louisa May - Hombrecitost.pdf|
|Alcott, Louisa May - Jack y Jill.doc.zip|
|Alcott, Louisa May - Las Mujercitas se casan-doc.zip|
|Alcott, Louisa May - Merienda-doc.zip|
|Alcott, Louisa May - Mujercitas-pdf.zip|
|Alcott, Louisa May - Una nina anticuada.zip|
Nicaragua como muchos saben es la cuna del poeta Rubén Darío, máximo representante del modernismo literario en la lengua española.
Pero siendo un pequeño país centroamericano no ha dejado de dar grandes poetas como Gioconda Belli y el maestro Ernesto Cardenal, que son grandes representantes de la poesía viva Nicarguense.
Les dejo un video, con un reportaje sobre el festival, que espero disfruten, podrán ver algo de la arquitectura de Granada, Nicaragua, una de las 25 ciudades que hay que visitar antes de morir. Además de encontrar en este video la participación de nuestro amigo poeta Mario Bojórquez, que fue uno de los invitados representando dignamente a México en este excelente evento.