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Centenary of Miguel Hernández

hundred years ago you arrive,

one hundred have passed, it is not over ...

last song
Child of light and shadow
mouth
The deserted sandals
came with three wounds
least your belly
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Andaluces de Jaén - Miguel Hernández

... not up nothing, neither money nor Mr. ...

Andalusians of Jaén

Andaluces de Jaén, harvesters

haughty,

tell me from your soul, who, who got up

olives?

Andaluces Jaén.

Andaluces de Jaén.

not pick them up from nothing,

neither money nor Mr.,

land but quiet,

work and sweat.

United

pure water and the planets together, the three gave

beauty of the twisted trunks.

Andaluces de Jaén.

Andaluces de Jaén, harvesters

tell me proud in the soul, whose,

of who they are olive trees?

Andaluces de Jaen.

Andaluces de Jaen,

many centuries of olive

the prisoners hands and feet,

sun to sun and moon to moon,

weigh on your bones!

Jaén, get on your brave

moonstones,

're not going to be a slave

with all your olive grove.

Andaluces de Jaen.

Andaluces de Jaén, harvesters

haughty,

tell me from your soul, who,

of who they are olive trees?

Andaluces de Jaen.

Andaluces de Jaén.

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For Freedom - Miguel Hernández

FOR FREEDOM

bleed for freedom, fight, live on.

For freedom, my eyes and my hands, like a tree

carnal generous and imprisoned, I

surgeons.

of freedom I feel more hearts

that sand in my chest, my veins are foams,

and go into the hospitals, and entered the cotton

as lilies.

(For me freedom

loose in battle those who have rolled her statue in the mud.

And I break loose shots of my feet, my arms,

my house, all.)

Because where some empty matted,

she will put two stones into the future, and will

new arms and legs to grow new

in meat harvested.

sprout winged autumn sap without

relics of my body I lose every wound.

Because I am like the tree cut down, that sucker:

because even I have a life.

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The deserted sandals - Miguel Hernández

(Courtesy of VicenteMonera )

By January 5,

each January

put my shoes goatherd

the cold window.

And were the days,

to break down the doors,

empty my sandals, my sandals

deserted.

never had shoes,

or costumes, no words:

always had rivulets,

long sentences and goats.

I dressed poverty

licked my body the river

and standing at the head

grass was dew.

By January 5,

for six

I wanted to be the world

a toy.

And the dawn walk

removing orchards

nothing

my sandals, my sandals

deserted.

No

was crowned king standing, had won

to see the shoes of my poor

window.

throne

All people, all people

boot

laughed bitterly

my broken sandals.

Rabi weeping, salt

cover my skin,

pasta for a world of men

and honey.

By January 5,

of my flock my shoes goatherd

the frost out.

And to the six

my eyes were on their doors

frost my sandals, my sandals

deserted.

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Only those who love flying - Miguel Hernández

Only who loves flying. But who loves
as the bird that is milder and fugitive? Sinking
this hatred is all that
ruling would directly traced alive.

Love ... But who loves you? Fly ... But who flies?
eager to conquer the blue plumage, but love
down always,
grief can not find the wings that give some courage.

A being ardent wishes clear, winged,
wanted to climb, have the freedom to nest.
wanted to forget that man away in chains. Where missing feathers
put value and forget.

I was so high at times, it shone on the skin
the sky, the bird under the skin.
be confused you with a lark one day collapse
others like you hail serious.

You know that the lives of others are slabs that tapiarte
: prisons to swallow yours. Go
life, between bodies, beautiful behind bars.
Through the fence, the blood flows freely. Sad

happy instrument wear: tube
pressing desire, and breathe fire. Sword
devoured by constant use. Body
closed horizon which I unfold.

not fly. You can not fly, body
vague through these galleries where the air is my knot.
For further discussions you ascend shipwrecked.
not cry. The field is deserted and silent.

The arms do not flap. Are they a queue
that the heart would launch into the sky.
Blood saddened to paddle alone.
eyes become sad lack of knowledge.

Every city, sleep, wake up mad, exhale
silence in prison, sleeping on fire and rain
a hoarse elytra can not be a wing.
The man lies. The sky rises. The air moves.

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Songs - Antonio Machado

... I love the subtle worlds, weightless and gentiles ...

SONGS

Everything happens and everything remains,

but ours is to pass,

spend on roads, paths

on the sea.

never looked for glory,

or leaving the memory of men

my song

I love the subtle worlds, weightless

and Gentiles,

like soap bubbles.

I like to see painted

sun and scarlet,

fly under the blue sky, shaking

and break suddenly.

never looked for glory.

Traveler, your footprints

the way and nothing more;

traveler, there is no path,

is made by walking.

By walking the path

and look back

you see the path that has

never walked again.

Caminante no hay camino

but wakes in the sea ...

some time ago in this place

where the forests are dressed in thorns

heard

a poet's voice shouting

"Caminante no hay camino,

is made by walking ..."

Stroke by stroke, line by line ...

The poet died far from home.

Covered by dust from a neighboring country.

they saw him mourn.

"Caminante no hay camino,

is made by walking ..."

Stroke by stroke, line by line ...

When the finch can not sing.

When the poet is a pilgrim,

when nothing helps us pray.

"Caminante no hay camino,

is made by walking ... "

Stroke by stroke, line by line ...

...

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not save yourself - Mario Benedetti

In 1920, in Uruguay, Mario Benedetti was born, baptized with his father five names according to Italian customs.

Moved to Montevideo for a family's financial problems, with 8 years entered the German School, where his father removed him the 3 years from the Liceo Miranda the following year to continue in the School of Logosophy Raumsol.

At 14 years, problems economic, went to work at an auto parts company.

Marries His great love, Luz López Alegre in 1946.

Marginalia edits the magazine and published in 48 volumes of essays "travails and novel."

age of 29 involved in the movement against the military treaty with the United States and at the same time gets the prize of the Ministry of Education for his first collection of stories, "This Morning", an award that gets repeatedly until in 58 systematically waiving it for discrepancies in its regulation.

In 1971 he founded the Independent Movement March 26, left-wing group.
In 73, after the coup in Uruguay, resigns in college and is forced to leave the country, starting in Buenos Aires and then to Peru, where he was arrested, deported and amnesty.

Golden Flame Award from Amnesty International for his novel "Spring with a broken corner, at 87.

Doctor Honoris Causa by the University of Alicante in 97.

Following the departure of his wife, Luz Lopez, in 2006, Benedetti moved to his home in Montevideo, donating part of his personal library in Madrid, the Latin American Studies Center Mario Benedetti of the University of Alicante. . .

NO TE SALVES

not stay still

roadside,

not freeze the joy,

want with no reluctance, no

save yourself now or never, save yourself, do not fill

calm,

reserves in the world not only

a quiet corner, do not drop

eyelids heavy as judgments.

Do not miss your lips,

do not sleep without a dream, do not you think

bloodless

not judge yourself without time,

But nevertheless you can not help

and freeze the joy, and want

reluctantly,

and you save yourself now, and I

filled quiet,

and reserves in the world

only a quiet corner, and you drop

eyelids heavy as judgments

and you wipe no lips,

and go to sleep without a dream, and I think

bloodless , and you judge

timeless

and stay still

roadside

and save you, then

do not stay with me ...

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but do not want you because I love - Pablo Neruda

in this story only I die ...

BUT NOT BECAUSE I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU

but do not want you because I love

from loving to not loving

and wait when you do not expect

My heart moves from cold to fire.

just because I love you I love you,

hate you no end, and hating you I pray,

and the measure of my changing love for

is

not see you and love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume,

its cruel Ray, my whole heart,

stealing the key to true calm.

In this story only

I die and die of love because I love you,

because I love, love, blood and fire.

. . .

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night wandering alone stops me ...

FULL POWERS

A write open sea, to the street,

in full sun, where I can sing,

night wandering alone stops me

but its disruption pick space, pick

shadow for a long time.

black wheat grows

night while my eyes look

prairie and from dawn to dusk I keys,

seek in the dark locks and I

doors opening to the sea broken

to fill cabinets with foam.

I never tire of going and returning, I

to death with a stone,

I never tire of being and nonbeing,

I never tire of being and nonbeing.

I sometimes wonder if where

if father or mother or mountain

duties inherited mineral

threads on

an ocean and I know that I and I, because I

and singing because I sing, and because I sing.

Nothing explains what happens

when I close my eyes and circle

as between two submarine channels,

one takes me to die in its branches

and another song sung for me.

So I am composed of

and as the sea

assaults the reef with salty white capsules

and portrays the stone with the wave, as well as

death surrounds me

window opens in my life and fully

paroxysm I sing.

the full light path in the shade

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Full powers A dry elm, Antonio Machado

My heart is waiting, another miracle of spring ... ____________________________________________________________________________


Antonio Machado wrote these verses of hope in 1912 after becoming sick with TB Leonor in their temporary stay in Paris. The doctor advised them to return to Soria, where the fresh air would facilitate their recovery. Despite initial improvement, Leonor deteriorated and died.

"Oh, what death was a broken wire between the two!"

the end of the road from the main square towards the church of Nuestra Señora del Espino, is dry elm singing Machado. Eight days after the death of Leonor, the last of it in Soria, the poet traveled the route with the unbearable memory of his wife.

few meters beyond the elm tree in the cemetery, you can visit the grave of Eleanor . (SOURCE luthieryotuve )

DRY AN ELM

The old elm tree split by lightning and his half
rotten
with April showers and May sun
some green leaves have emerged .

Elm Hill centennial
lapping the Duero!
yellow moss will stain white crust
the trunk decayed and dusty.

will not, which
singing poplars guarding the road and the shore, inhabited by brown
nightingales. Army ants


row is climbing it, and deep inside
hatched gray spider webs.

Before you down, elm del Duero,
the woodcutter with his ax, and you become a carpenter
mane hood spear
car or wagon yoke;
before red at home, tomorrow,
ardas in some miserable hut,
the edge of a road;
before uprooting you a whirlwind
and broken the breath of the white mountains,
before the river to the sea
push you through valleys and canyons,
elm, I write in my portfolio
the grace of your growing green industry. My heart hopes

also to the light and to life,
another miracle of spring.

. . .

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last song, Miguel Hernandez ...

... let me hope ...

ULTIMA CANCION

Pintada, not empty:

my house is painted color

great passions and tragedies.

crying will return where it was carried

with its deserted table, with its ruined

bed.

bloom kissing on pillows.

and around

bodies raise the sheet

its intense nightlife

vine, fragrant.

Hatred

cushions behind the window.

will claw smooth.

Let me hope.

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A gallop - Rafael Alberti

... galloping horse cuatralbo that the earth is yours ...

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lands, the lands, the lands of Spain,

large, single desert plains ...

gallops, horse cuatralbo,

rider of the people, the sun and the moon,

to gallop, gallop,

to bury them at sea

heart sound, resonate, resonate

land in Spain locks.

rider gallops people

cuatralbo horse, horse

foam

to gallop, gallop,

to bury them at sea.

Nobody, nobody, nobody,

that no one in front, which is one

death if you are on your horse, galloping horse

cuatralbo , Rider

people, who land is yours,

to gallop, gallop,

to bury them at sea.

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TOP RE-RELEASE OF A NEW DRESS NEW BASCO


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Happy Thursday!