.
-blog Portal complementary NTC ... we ran ...
http://ntcblog.blogspot.com/ , ntcgra@gmail.com Cali, Colombia.
And those related to: http://ntcblog.blogspot.com/2009_10_11_archive.html
-blog Portal complementary NTC ... we ran ...
http://ntcblog.blogspot.com/ , ntcgra@gmail.com Cali, Colombia.
And those related to: http://ntcblog.blogspot.com/2009_10_11_archive.html
.
Update December. 29, 2009
.
TODAY, APRIL 23, DAY OF LANGUAGE,
BY THE SIDE OF
PARK POETS
IN CALI,
EBRI CITY ("Une ville in ivresse")
CONGRATULATIONS, LANGUAGE!,
GONZALO ROJAS, for the poet, ITS 90 YEARS, THE WORLD IS FUN
and ONCE CHANCE IS CALLED GONZALO ROJAS
Isaccs Jorge Ricardo Nieto, Carlos Villafane, (Click on any image to enlarge) ---
Park Panoramic back and Jorge Isaccs foot.
And "scribes" of Cali "were taken" Park ... Photo: El Pais, Cali, March 15, 2007. First page.
The rain flooded a Park terraces,
patasarribió went to heaven and La Ermita ...
PHOTO REPORT THE COUNTRY, Cali, April 22, 2007 http://www.elpais.com.co/historico/abr222007/OPN/opi10.html #
Photo: Jorge Orozco El País http://www.elpais.com.co/historico/abr222007/fotos-periodico2/lecto22fotodenuncia, photo01.JPG
Estampa "Cali? The image does not correspond to an ornamental fountain in the lake but it becomes the Poets Park during rainy days, because the sinks are clogged. Could it be that an entity of the Municipality is concerned about giving back to the Cali area clerks who were assigned there, next to the church of La Ermita? ----
"... A dream Cali crossed by a river." Eduardo Carranza.
Fragment of plate with the text of Carranza located in the Park.
Image Composition: NTC ...
+ + +
ELEGY FOR A PARK
http://www.caliescali.com/cms/html/sitio/index.php?view = vistas/es_ES/pagina_8914.php . Here:
Have you ever wondered who are the poets of the Park? Click , know and listen to his poetry.
By: John Alexander Castañeda
+ + + EBRI CITY
"... a dream Cali crossed by a river." Eduardo Carranza
José Saramago A
His seven dirty rivers dry.
Its temperature rises.
Today, millions
wander in its streets and visit its corners.
Red, yellow and green give up.
Apparently the city has not yet started,
at a stoplight, the "white blindness."
Full-length, in the park, five silent
and mutilated poets
Jorge Isaacs, Ricardo
Nieto, Carlos Villafañe
,
Antonio Llanos and Octavio Gamboa,
neighboring stationary
La Ermita, Ortiz
Bridge and the River that was
accompanied by a plaque with the poem Carranza,
passersby do not see
and almost nobody recites ...
I went, all with black shirt,
to hear John - with his guitar and "black shirt" -
and fill the stadium ...
Tomorrow, hallucinating, feverish ,
walk through one of its many "caverns"
and one day soon
through the streets of this town drunk,
will lead - no life -
one of its seven villages and cemeteries bloom.
wander in its streets and visit its corners.
Red, yellow and green give up.
Apparently the city has not yet started,
at a stoplight, the "white blindness."
Full-length, in the park, five silent
and mutilated poets
Jorge Isaacs, Ricardo
Nieto, Carlos Villafañe
,
Antonio Llanos and Octavio Gamboa,
neighboring stationary
La Ermita, Ortiz
Bridge and the River that was
accompanied by a plaque with the poem Carranza,
passersby do not see
and almost nobody recites ...
I went, all with black shirt,
to hear John - with his guitar and "black shirt" -
and fill the stadium ...
Tomorrow, hallucinating, feverish ,
walk through one of its many "caverns"
and one day soon
through the streets of this town drunk,
will lead - no life -
one of its seven villages and cemeteries bloom.
----
UNE VILLE IN ivresse
Gabriel Ruiz
Cali ... "... un rêve traverse par un fleuve ... "Eduardo Carranza
A Ses José Saramago
rivières September sales
sèchent température monte Sa ...
Aujourd 'hui, nous and déambulons
millions and we live its corner.
Red, yellow and green set the pace.
Apparently the city has not yet triggered
a low beam, the "white blindness".
any stature in their park, the five poets
silent and mutilated
Jorge Isaacs
Ricardo Nieto, Carlos Villafañe
,
Antonio Llanos and Octavio Gamboa
,
neighbors still the Ermita of
Ortiz bridge and what was the river, accompanied
Carranza's poem engraved on a plaque,
passersby did not spot
and almost nobody is saying their verses ...
Today we will go all in black shirt, listen
Juanes - with his guitar and his "black shirts" -
and we will fill the stadium ...
Tomorrow hallucinating and feverish,
we walk through one of its many "caves" and
one of these days the streets of this city we will
drunkenness - lifeless -
to one of its seven Cemeteries populated and flowers.
Translated by Beatriz Avendaño and Brigitte Le Brun Vanhove
+ + +
Tomado from CALI-Grafia. LA CIUDAD Literaria Cali-graphies. La cité littéraire
Anthology bilingual (English-French) Directed by writers
Fabio Martínez * and Hernando Urriago ** Published jointly published with the Publishing Program of the Universidad del Valle and the Journal Vericueto Paris who runs Epher Arocha.
The book is a literary tribute to Cali. FIRST EDITION: April 12, 2008
foreword of the book details, see: http://ntc-eventos.blogspot.com/2008/04/cali-grafas.html
Gabriel Ruiz
Cali ... "... un rêve traverse par un fleuve ... "Eduardo Carranza
A Ses José Saramago
rivières September sales
sèchent température monte Sa ...
Aujourd 'hui, nous and déambulons
millions and we live its corner.
Red, yellow and green set the pace.
Apparently the city has not yet triggered
a low beam, the "white blindness".
any stature in their park, the five poets
silent and mutilated
Jorge Isaacs
Ricardo Nieto, Carlos Villafañe
,
Antonio Llanos and Octavio Gamboa
,
neighbors still the Ermita of
Ortiz bridge and what was the river, accompanied
Carranza's poem engraved on a plaque,
passersby did not spot
and almost nobody is saying their verses ...
Today we will go all in black shirt, listen
Juanes - with his guitar and his "black shirts" -
and we will fill the stadium ...
Tomorrow hallucinating and feverish,
we walk through one of its many "caves" and
one of these days the streets of this city we will
drunkenness - lifeless -
to one of its seven Cemeteries populated and flowers.
Translated by Beatriz Avendaño and Brigitte Le Brun Vanhove
+ + +
Tomado from CALI-Grafia. LA CIUDAD Literaria Cali-graphies. La cité littéraire
Anthology bilingual (English-French) Directed by writers
Fabio Martínez * and Hernando Urriago ** Published jointly published with the Publishing Program of the Universidad del Valle and the Journal Vericueto Paris who runs Epher Arocha.
The book is a literary tribute to Cali. FIRST EDITION: April 12, 2008
foreword of the book details, see: http://ntc-eventos.blogspot.com/2008/04/cali-grafas.html
+ + +
CONGRATULATIONS, LANGUAGE!
By Leopoldo de Quevedo y Monroy, http://lequemo.blogspot.com/
as 800 years old today since Alfonso X the Wise, Fernando and Isabel of Castilla, Antonio Cervantes Nebrija and gave you a certificate of naturalization. Other languages \u200b\u200bare grandmothers and great grandmothers, but you are a young, growing flight. You
radiant and glowing. You are on the lips of more than half a million people. You passed the test of time, of barbarism, three wars, travel, shipwrecks, messages bottle. You've gone through schools, colleges, universities and you've rubbed shoulders with fellow older ones such as Japanese and Arabic. Do not you let crack. You keep your pink face conquering your sound, freshness and rhythm.
carry under the arm novels, soap operas, poems, stories, plays, songs, proverbs and idioms. Cervantes did not recognize you. You've grown, you've changed your vocabulary is superkilométrico, space and cyberspace. Rife dialects, slang and speak different everywhere. You, language, you party, you recital, you song, you tables, you laugh, you funeral. Everywhere accompany the mortal.
We thank you for giving your tenderness and pain to Gabriela Mistral, a woman who opened the way to Stockholm, your verbs and nouns to Cortázar, Rayuela on your game, for giving your power to the Peruvian Vallejo to sing with blood and rain, through the magical world garciamarquiano, by Manrique and idylls of Neruda, by the raptures of Juan de la Cruz and Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada, the theater of Lope de La Barca. Thanks for giving us the Nobel Prize in Colombia, still alive, Isaacs , Porfirio, Mutis, Arthur, Silva, Mejia Vallejo, Pombo, a Quessep, Meira to the Sea, the Nile Mariela , to Molly, Matilda, Margaret, the Cepeda and Balcazar. By Villamil, Vives, Juanes and Shakira by Mayolo by Bossio, the old Buenaventura, on the Niche and Guayacan. They have brought into our veins and our mouth the taste of your tongue and your spirit.
Congratulations on having made it possible books like Love in the Time of Cholera, A History of Reading , the Argentine Manguel, poems The word Benedetti, Gifts Borges, There are no bad or Rachel's worst poets Jododosky the Gypsy Ballads of Federico immortal, text and hidden wealth Ospina, and many who read daily by Antonio Caballero. You surprised
history. You have survived the centuries. Your phonemes have flown on the lips of singers, your spelling was never written in the caves, but was recorded in the grandparents and let us rejoice today and speak with you.
By Leopoldo de Quevedo y Monroy, http://lequemo.blogspot.com/
as 800 years old today since Alfonso X the Wise, Fernando and Isabel of Castilla, Antonio Cervantes Nebrija and gave you a certificate of naturalization. Other languages \u200b\u200bare grandmothers and great grandmothers, but you are a young, growing flight. You
radiant and glowing. You are on the lips of more than half a million people. You passed the test of time, of barbarism, three wars, travel, shipwrecks, messages bottle. You've gone through schools, colleges, universities and you've rubbed shoulders with fellow older ones such as Japanese and Arabic. Do not you let crack. You keep your pink face conquering your sound, freshness and rhythm.
carry under the arm novels, soap operas, poems, stories, plays, songs, proverbs and idioms. Cervantes did not recognize you. You've grown, you've changed your vocabulary is superkilométrico, space and cyberspace. Rife dialects, slang and speak different everywhere. You, language, you party, you recital, you song, you tables, you laugh, you funeral. Everywhere accompany the mortal.
We thank you for giving your tenderness and pain to Gabriela Mistral, a woman who opened the way to Stockholm, your verbs and nouns to Cortázar, Rayuela on your game, for giving your power to the Peruvian Vallejo to sing with blood and rain, through the magical world garciamarquiano, by Manrique and idylls of Neruda, by the raptures of Juan de la Cruz and Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada, the theater of Lope de La Barca. Thanks for giving us the Nobel Prize in Colombia, still alive, Isaacs , Porfirio, Mutis, Arthur, Silva, Mejia Vallejo, Pombo, a Quessep, Meira to the Sea, the Nile Mariela , to Molly, Matilda, Margaret, the Cepeda and Balcazar. By Villamil, Vives, Juanes and Shakira by Mayolo by Bossio, the old Buenaventura, on the Niche and Guayacan. They have brought into our veins and our mouth the taste of your tongue and your spirit.
Congratulations on having made it possible books like Love in the Time of Cholera, A History of Reading , the Argentine Manguel, poems The word Benedetti, Gifts Borges, There are no bad or Rachel's worst poets Jododosky the Gypsy Ballads of Federico immortal, text and hidden wealth Ospina, and many who read daily by Antonio Caballero. You surprised
history. You have survived the centuries. Your phonemes have flown on the lips of singers, your spelling was never written in the caves, but was recorded in the grandparents and let us rejoice today and speak with you.
+ + +
GONZALO ROJAS,
FOR THE POET, ITS 90 YEARS, THE WORLD IS FUN
THE TIEMOP eltiempo.com / tiempoimpreso / edicionimpresa / landscape, April 21, 2007
http://www.eltiempo.com/tiempoimpreso/edicionimpresa/panoramaimpreso/2007-04-22/ARTICULO-WEB-NOTA_INTERIOR-3522936.html
Photo: File particular http : / / www.eltiempo.com/tiempoimpreso/edicionimpresa/panoramaimpreso/2007-04-22/IMAGEN/IMAGEN-3522988-1.jpg
Gonzalo Rojas was born in Lebu (Arauco) in 1917. has been a university professor in both Latin America and Europe. He was exiled during the Chilean dictatorship and has received awards such as the Reina Sofia and Cervantes. Today, at noon will be at the Book Fair.
Visit the home of the greatest living poet of Chile. Rojas lives alone and happy.
Five hours south of Santiago, the greatest living poet from Chile, Gonzalo Rojas (1917) waited at the train station Chillán. Poet brought his beret. "I put to I recognize " was his greeting.
way home, said people living in that no more than 200 thousand inhabitants, because his second wife, who died 10 years ago, was born there. And he says no want to move. He lives in a home as long and narrow country, with many stairs to have only two floors. "Here I sleep," he says in the first room. And she repeats in the following. Sleep in seven beds .
"It's fun to wake up not knowing where you are," explains . Every night, Irma tells the employee, who enlists the selected room.
The poet, who calls himself "Rojas, Gonzalo" pours a drink. "Say you got drinking tequila, not Chile's health but the health of Latin America. Because I feel so Bogotá like you and a fellow of Peru, Venezuela, Argentina, Central America, Uruguay, Bolivia and Brazil."
Rojas, invited Book Fair, recalls his trips to the International Poetry Festival of Medellín and his visits to the House of Poetry Silva. The conversation is interrupted for lunch.
In his first poems had one, 'Salvation' ...
I wrote a little boy. He was 20 years. I have not made any progress. You know what means the number nine? Nine months sleeping in a mother and screaming from the inside out because it takes oxigenazo that gives the sky and almost choked to this world disgusting. When you're 9 years from the edge of the second childhood. At 90, like mine, the world is fun and nothing has happened. Then, clear, delete the zero and I have 9 years. Back to nine of my mother and my childhood. Reniñez vivo. Got it?
Wonderful ...
Get used to that idea. Gold is the woman in the world. But the male, old, like me, kids can still grow. What fun! It is only a small advantage. It means nothing. Health, my child.
In Chile, Neruda and Mistral overshadowed. What was at that picture?
No problem. I wanted both. But more to it. She is huge.
not followed the line of Neruda ...
is that his was not my case. Each has its game, my child.
And what was yours?
One to play the very human, complex, demon. The enchantment of the beauty of the world. And a project that the imagination operates on a larger scale.
Did visiting fans? Fans
not know, girl, but come. I'm rather secretive. I do not like figuration. Or tributes, or prizes or anything.
But he received the Cervantes Prize ... Full
shame. So many others deserve awards and were not given. I have no more merit. I am the son of a coal miner who died early. He died when I was 4. We were eight children. I am the seventh. I have a sister who is 94 years. Is healthier than me. And he laughs at me. And another brother, who was dean, is half Tonton. The remainder are in the ground. This is Earth, pretty girl ...
From the first verse talks about the death ...
Because it is so. At 20, he was like now. Death is one from birth.
and minerals with the poetry of Chile ...
We are elementary. We are earth and stone. Humble. Humble comes from humus, fertile soil. Thus is human, man. We are land animals. We are not cults. Let's leave that to the Argentine. The Borges does well, is educated and urban. I'm not urban. Nor villager. I'm from a world genesic, tied to the little bit of land. The Neruda, when it was good, wrote Residencia en la tierra. did not have to write more.
And you never felt he 'did not have to write more'?
I write little. Also back on what I write. There are two lines. The linear, boring. I do not believe in it. I like this dish. start from this vertex and give back. Twist and turn. I am the same when I was 7 years old when he was 70. I have not spent anything ... Unless
have fun ... Yes
Look: My mother died at 60. A woman clean, beautiful, graceful. For: She. dying. And the eight little children are surrounding the creature, put in a cot. A mediocre cot, iron, penniless in a neighborhood of Santiago. We are sad. I have a 20. While lying wholly to die, it seems to me a wink. I walk slowly, with respect. And I put my ear in his mouth speaking low. And he says What fun this is!
Noooo!
is that life is fun. Look how beautiful mood. Shows the imagination that was that creature. Died. I was sad. I went to the streets. I took the pulse here, with this finger. And I saw the artery and the finger were alive. Beat that. There was the mother. She was alive! I tell you I'm a poet physiological. I'm not metaphysical. I am a writer frugal, sober and strict. I like to live poetically. Nothing. Now ... let me eat the pie.
(I had to respect his wish. With the soup, he spoke)
I do not complain of any loneliness. But tell me, tell me the truth. "When Gabo fear him, envy him, love him or hate him a little?
A little bit of everything that happens to the big ...
Exactly like me. Not because I have their merits. The other day, wrote: "A Rojas, Gonzalo loves or hates him." I do not understand. If you hate me, hate me. Because I do not cheat and say it. And I'm izquierdón and I allendero-de Allende. I am neither communist nor socialist or anything. But I was friends with my dear friend and I believe in that. I am not fanatic.
Another day, a reporter asked me: "What we do is going to burn the Earth." He said: "Young man, write: Let this planet fag burn once, for a return man." Published it in huge letters: Rojas, Gonzalo says, does it burn ...! So many things, my child! As if the earth had not always been like: spinning, volatile, crazy, beautiful, volcanic, fantastic ... Tell me, how is the Gabo?
Why the interest in Gabo?
it is good. In America there are about four writers: one called Rulfo, Garcia Marquez, Neruda and Borges, this beast of Buenos Aires! Full of resentment, but singular writer. The Mexican was formidable: two booklets and without entangling tribute or dirty stuff called Nobel Prize.
And if they give the Nobel?
Would like Sartre: Adieu, Farewell. Kangaroo, my child. That would have given the prize to Dostoevsky, Kafka, geniuses like Ezra Pound. No matter who has been fascist. There are fascists who are geniuses. How do we go judging well as a priest vulgar, wild, giving a blessing and a curse others? No. We must be open to ventilation head, the wind of the stars. I'll say in Bogota, far to go. Without fear. Neither life nor death or relocation. Such as my mother in the bed of iron: "What fun is this!" Here was a human creature, Gives Birth kidding, well, she ... How was the soup?
(Irma brings a fresh peach. The poet takes a breath before dessert ...)
How much does a small apartment, not people who take care of me, making me food, with a cot, a desk and a role? How much money an old man living in Bogota? With $ 3 000 I can live, buy a newspaper and a book out there?
Do you live in Colombia, Gonzalo?
I'd like. You might die out there. It would be nice.
Rojas's work
The first book of poems by Rojas came in 1948, is titled "The misery of man." Other works include 'Against Death' (1964), 'Dark' (1977), 'transtierro' (1979), 'The Lightning' (1981), 'Lighting' (1986), 'Matter of Will' (1988), 'air Anthology' (1991), "Idle reader '(1990),' The Beautiful '(1991),' Hum '(1991),' America is home and Other Poems' (1998). LILIANA MARTINEZ
POLO, EDITOR OF THE TIME, Chillán (CHILE)
THE TIEMOP eltiempo.com / tiempoimpreso / edicionimpresa / landscape, April 21, 2007
http://www.eltiempo.com/tiempoimpreso/edicionimpresa/panoramaimpreso/2007-04-22/ARTICULO-WEB-NOTA_INTERIOR-3522936.html
Photo: File particular http : / / www.eltiempo.com/tiempoimpreso/edicionimpresa/panoramaimpreso/2007-04-22/IMAGEN/IMAGEN-3522988-1.jpg
Gonzalo Rojas was born in Lebu (Arauco) in 1917. has been a university professor in both Latin America and Europe. He was exiled during the Chilean dictatorship and has received awards such as the Reina Sofia and Cervantes. Today, at noon will be at the Book Fair.
Visit the home of the greatest living poet of Chile. Rojas lives alone and happy.
Five hours south of Santiago, the greatest living poet from Chile, Gonzalo Rojas (1917) waited at the train station Chillán. Poet brought his beret. "I put to I recognize " was his greeting.
way home, said people living in that no more than 200 thousand inhabitants, because his second wife, who died 10 years ago, was born there. And he says no want to move. He lives in a home as long and narrow country, with many stairs to have only two floors. "Here I sleep," he says in the first room. And she repeats in the following. Sleep in seven beds .
"It's fun to wake up not knowing where you are," explains . Every night, Irma tells the employee, who enlists the selected room.
The poet, who calls himself "Rojas, Gonzalo" pours a drink. "Say you got drinking tequila, not Chile's health but the health of Latin America. Because I feel so Bogotá like you and a fellow of Peru, Venezuela, Argentina, Central America, Uruguay, Bolivia and Brazil."
Rojas, invited Book Fair, recalls his trips to the International Poetry Festival of Medellín and his visits to the House of Poetry Silva. The conversation is interrupted for lunch.
In his first poems had one, 'Salvation' ...
I wrote a little boy. He was 20 years. I have not made any progress. You know what means the number nine? Nine months sleeping in a mother and screaming from the inside out because it takes oxigenazo that gives the sky and almost choked to this world disgusting. When you're 9 years from the edge of the second childhood. At 90, like mine, the world is fun and nothing has happened. Then, clear, delete the zero and I have 9 years. Back to nine of my mother and my childhood. Reniñez vivo. Got it?
Wonderful ...
Get used to that idea. Gold is the woman in the world. But the male, old, like me, kids can still grow. What fun! It is only a small advantage. It means nothing. Health, my child.
In Chile, Neruda and Mistral overshadowed. What was at that picture?
No problem. I wanted both. But more to it. She is huge.
not followed the line of Neruda ...
is that his was not my case. Each has its game, my child.
And what was yours?
One to play the very human, complex, demon. The enchantment of the beauty of the world. And a project that the imagination operates on a larger scale.
Did visiting fans? Fans
not know, girl, but come. I'm rather secretive. I do not like figuration. Or tributes, or prizes or anything.
But he received the Cervantes Prize ... Full
shame. So many others deserve awards and were not given. I have no more merit. I am the son of a coal miner who died early. He died when I was 4. We were eight children. I am the seventh. I have a sister who is 94 years. Is healthier than me. And he laughs at me. And another brother, who was dean, is half Tonton. The remainder are in the ground. This is Earth, pretty girl ...
From the first verse talks about the death ...
Because it is so. At 20, he was like now. Death is one from birth.
and minerals with the poetry of Chile ...
We are elementary. We are earth and stone. Humble. Humble comes from humus, fertile soil. Thus is human, man. We are land animals. We are not cults. Let's leave that to the Argentine. The Borges does well, is educated and urban. I'm not urban. Nor villager. I'm from a world genesic, tied to the little bit of land. The Neruda, when it was good, wrote Residencia en la tierra. did not have to write more.
And you never felt he 'did not have to write more'?
I write little. Also back on what I write. There are two lines. The linear, boring. I do not believe in it. I like this dish. start from this vertex and give back. Twist and turn. I am the same when I was 7 years old when he was 70. I have not spent anything ... Unless
have fun ... Yes
Look: My mother died at 60. A woman clean, beautiful, graceful. For: She. dying. And the eight little children are surrounding the creature, put in a cot. A mediocre cot, iron, penniless in a neighborhood of Santiago. We are sad. I have a 20. While lying wholly to die, it seems to me a wink. I walk slowly, with respect. And I put my ear in his mouth speaking low. And he says What fun this is!
Noooo!
is that life is fun. Look how beautiful mood. Shows the imagination that was that creature. Died. I was sad. I went to the streets. I took the pulse here, with this finger. And I saw the artery and the finger were alive. Beat that. There was the mother. She was alive! I tell you I'm a poet physiological. I'm not metaphysical. I am a writer frugal, sober and strict. I like to live poetically. Nothing. Now ... let me eat the pie.
(I had to respect his wish. With the soup, he spoke)
I do not complain of any loneliness. But tell me, tell me the truth. "When Gabo fear him, envy him, love him or hate him a little?
A little bit of everything that happens to the big ...
Exactly like me. Not because I have their merits. The other day, wrote: "A Rojas, Gonzalo loves or hates him." I do not understand. If you hate me, hate me. Because I do not cheat and say it. And I'm izquierdón and I allendero-de Allende. I am neither communist nor socialist or anything. But I was friends with my dear friend and I believe in that. I am not fanatic.
Another day, a reporter asked me: "What we do is going to burn the Earth." He said: "Young man, write: Let this planet fag burn once, for a return man." Published it in huge letters: Rojas, Gonzalo says, does it burn ...! So many things, my child! As if the earth had not always been like: spinning, volatile, crazy, beautiful, volcanic, fantastic ... Tell me, how is the Gabo?
Why the interest in Gabo?
it is good. In America there are about four writers: one called Rulfo, Garcia Marquez, Neruda and Borges, this beast of Buenos Aires! Full of resentment, but singular writer. The Mexican was formidable: two booklets and without entangling tribute or dirty stuff called Nobel Prize.
And if they give the Nobel?
Would like Sartre: Adieu, Farewell. Kangaroo, my child. That would have given the prize to Dostoevsky, Kafka, geniuses like Ezra Pound. No matter who has been fascist. There are fascists who are geniuses. How do we go judging well as a priest vulgar, wild, giving a blessing and a curse others? No. We must be open to ventilation head, the wind of the stars. I'll say in Bogota, far to go. Without fear. Neither life nor death or relocation. Such as my mother in the bed of iron: "What fun is this!" Here was a human creature, Gives Birth kidding, well, she ... How was the soup?
(Irma brings a fresh peach. The poet takes a breath before dessert ...)
How much does a small apartment, not people who take care of me, making me food, with a cot, a desk and a role? How much money an old man living in Bogota? With $ 3 000 I can live, buy a newspaper and a book out there?
Do you live in Colombia, Gonzalo?
I'd like. You might die out there. It would be nice.
Rojas's work
The first book of poems by Rojas came in 1948, is titled "The misery of man." Other works include 'Against Death' (1964), 'Dark' (1977), 'transtierro' (1979), 'The Lightning' (1981), 'Lighting' (1986), 'Matter of Will' (1988), 'air Anthology' (1991), "Idle reader '(1990),' The Beautiful '(1991),' Hum '(1991),' America is home and Other Poems' (1998). LILIANA MARTINEZ
POLO, EDITOR OF THE TIME, Chillán (CHILE)
+ + +
Complements: April 24, 2007
ONCE CALLED THE CHANCE TO GONZALO ROJAS
Juan Manuel Roca, Colombian poet.
* Text read at the presentation of the poet Gonzalo Rojas at the XX International Book Fair of Bogota. Taken
CRONOPIOS *, April 24, 2007
is back in Colombia Gonzalo Rojas. What he means is an advocate of re-childhood, someone who knows, as do children, wizards and warlocks, giving animism inert beings to take their apparent hybridity, as did his father a miner in the tunnels of the mine in Lebu, in a village in his native Chile. It's no different
the highest office of our poet than his father, drawn from the vast, dark tunnels of language coal as a fuel for his poetry, discriminates the trash rhetoric of matter which is demanded by the poem .
is not the brightness but true. Some people revel in what shines in the mines, as in the catacombs and tunnels of the salt, and are on call Marmaja, shiny but worthless, something that alerted miners call "fool's gold." These stones are more appearance to salt, but they are useless and worthless. Gonzalo Rojas
it is not going after fool's gold of the lyrics, which is the verb, but after the essence of language, which is the raw material of his work.
One day I said in a speech in Medellin, as in the title of one of his books, poetry is a moving, a "Metamorphosis of" a slow transformation of the world. Tan
slowly add, that after his first book of 1946, only 16 years after he published his second volume against death and 13 years after his splendid Dark, which was released in exile in Venezuela. This
want say it is a poet of slow digestion, leisurely modes of writing, though master of a style that Paul Valery forgotten that poetry is an oscillation between meaning and sound, as they remember.
sometimes evokes the headwaters where it comes from his love of poetry, Cro-Magnon men in aesthetic education. Love
Quevedo, like Garcilaso and San Juan de la Cruz, Vallejo love poets rather than verbose, belongs to a tradition that started with high Ercilla and stop in the front Vicente Huidobro.
Gonzalo is in the body of the poetry of his country, the more dissatisfied, the tab without accommodation or docile in the large puzzle, the more free and renewed its poets. After a youth
conquered after completing their first 60 years in search of what he calls, with skill and ease, the re-childhood, has never failed to be an apprentice.
also loves, and many words found like a needle in the huge haystack of language, the word lightning, "the gravest trisyllabic that I heard my little brother when we were playing in a house, and the father died," according to their own words.
lightning, lightning do, we would add, has much to do with poetry.
Lightning is, just in case, a vivid and instant glow in the clouds produced by electrical shock. This is defined the dictionary of the English Language. That, speaking of phenomena produced by the atmosphere are a straight shooting after drawing on the blackboard in the sky. While this has occurred, lightning records its strength in a fleeting association with thunder.
Now, as the lightning that lives in the verses of Gonzalo Rojas for that magic which involves poetry and is an art in time, it does not have the fleeting instant glow, as has the gift to continue to dwell, after the first flash, the good reader poetry.
So the chance, as announced and held for the poet Jorge Caceres, once called by Gonzalo Rojas, although it may also be called forward, freedom of speech, thing spoken and metaphorical thing, landscape, childhood and eroticism, all one as in the many records of his poetry and his no bondage.
A poem of his, Money, overwhelms us more than any economic theory, more than any statistics, much more than the upheavals of the electrocardiograms that all the blessed day the Dow Jones issues. A poem of his, Leprosy, remember that rhetoric classes taught in the classroom are "a plate of rotten meat."
A poem of his, for Vallejo, remembers when the poet of Santiago de Chuco snatched a "feather in the old condor of emphasis."
A poem of his, The beautiful, feels the journey of women who walk as if pushed by wind, "as wild plants germinate in the street" and its mere evocation makes, like a tango, the heart of punches us We ligation.
A poem of his, the fornication, displays the hands of Eros in the body of the beloved, a "white guy" of "feline air," a "ragazza" as a departure from Genesis, in an area which is a kind of version modern, unfriendly and Lewd of the Song of Songs. This is clearly something more than a wedding song concluded by the Cantor of the Singers,
A poem asks him "what you love when you love, my God, terrible light of life or light death? "in the air leaving the cruel realization that we do not know what is the invisible thread of a spindle that separates the breathing and silence is what is and what it was. Hear
Gonzalo Rojas said his poems, reading them as one who speaks to the best of themselves and of us, is one of the few great pleasures that poetry offers us living in our common language.
As far as this continent is concerned, to which he was much better when the world was flat, our guest poet is without peer.
's someone called Gonzalo Rojas chance but who could call a man who for many, even without knowing in human fleshiness but in his verse, has become, as Auden reminded about the authors visited with devotion, "a character of our biography." His poetry is a good company to continue in the old, the vicious and sometimes uncomfortable habit of breathing lungs, as does this man who suffers from a kind of young chronic re-childhood.
is one seamless, a rare specimen of freedom to whom fate chose to be called Gonzalo Rojas, though he could call one of the synonyms of the air. -------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------
* Cronopios arrives daily to your mailbox because you or a friend what requested. Cronopios works for pure love of art. The International Red Cronopios extends worldwide and reaches more than 50 thousand subscribers free. Our articles are reproduced for more than 30 newspapers and magazines in Colombia and international print media, along with numerous Internet sites. If you want your name included on our database, please let us know ignacioramirez@cable.net.co or cronopios@cable.net.co . Cronopios is an open house. If you like Cronopios, spread the word ...
ONCE CALLED THE CHANCE TO GONZALO ROJAS
Juan Manuel Roca, Colombian poet.
* Text read at the presentation of the poet Gonzalo Rojas at the XX International Book Fair of Bogota. Taken
CRONOPIOS *, April 24, 2007
is back in Colombia Gonzalo Rojas. What he means is an advocate of re-childhood, someone who knows, as do children, wizards and warlocks, giving animism inert beings to take their apparent hybridity, as did his father a miner in the tunnels of the mine in Lebu, in a village in his native Chile. It's no different
the highest office of our poet than his father, drawn from the vast, dark tunnels of language coal as a fuel for his poetry, discriminates the trash rhetoric of matter which is demanded by the poem .
is not the brightness but true. Some people revel in what shines in the mines, as in the catacombs and tunnels of the salt, and are on call Marmaja, shiny but worthless, something that alerted miners call "fool's gold." These stones are more appearance to salt, but they are useless and worthless. Gonzalo Rojas
it is not going after fool's gold of the lyrics, which is the verb, but after the essence of language, which is the raw material of his work.
One day I said in a speech in Medellin, as in the title of one of his books, poetry is a moving, a "Metamorphosis of" a slow transformation of the world. Tan
slowly add, that after his first book of 1946, only 16 years after he published his second volume against death and 13 years after his splendid Dark, which was released in exile in Venezuela. This
want say it is a poet of slow digestion, leisurely modes of writing, though master of a style that Paul Valery forgotten that poetry is an oscillation between meaning and sound, as they remember.
sometimes evokes the headwaters where it comes from his love of poetry, Cro-Magnon men in aesthetic education. Love
Quevedo, like Garcilaso and San Juan de la Cruz, Vallejo love poets rather than verbose, belongs to a tradition that started with high Ercilla and stop in the front Vicente Huidobro.
Gonzalo is in the body of the poetry of his country, the more dissatisfied, the tab without accommodation or docile in the large puzzle, the more free and renewed its poets. After a youth
conquered after completing their first 60 years in search of what he calls, with skill and ease, the re-childhood, has never failed to be an apprentice.
also loves, and many words found like a needle in the huge haystack of language, the word lightning, "the gravest trisyllabic that I heard my little brother when we were playing in a house, and the father died," according to their own words.
lightning, lightning do, we would add, has much to do with poetry.
Lightning is, just in case, a vivid and instant glow in the clouds produced by electrical shock. This is defined the dictionary of the English Language. That, speaking of phenomena produced by the atmosphere are a straight shooting after drawing on the blackboard in the sky. While this has occurred, lightning records its strength in a fleeting association with thunder.
Now, as the lightning that lives in the verses of Gonzalo Rojas for that magic which involves poetry and is an art in time, it does not have the fleeting instant glow, as has the gift to continue to dwell, after the first flash, the good reader poetry.
So the chance, as announced and held for the poet Jorge Caceres, once called by Gonzalo Rojas, although it may also be called forward, freedom of speech, thing spoken and metaphorical thing, landscape, childhood and eroticism, all one as in the many records of his poetry and his no bondage.
A poem of his, Money, overwhelms us more than any economic theory, more than any statistics, much more than the upheavals of the electrocardiograms that all the blessed day the Dow Jones issues. A poem of his, Leprosy, remember that rhetoric classes taught in the classroom are "a plate of rotten meat."
A poem of his, for Vallejo, remembers when the poet of Santiago de Chuco snatched a "feather in the old condor of emphasis."
A poem of his, The beautiful, feels the journey of women who walk as if pushed by wind, "as wild plants germinate in the street" and its mere evocation makes, like a tango, the heart of punches us We ligation.
A poem of his, the fornication, displays the hands of Eros in the body of the beloved, a "white guy" of "feline air," a "ragazza" as a departure from Genesis, in an area which is a kind of version modern, unfriendly and Lewd of the Song of Songs. This is clearly something more than a wedding song concluded by the Cantor of the Singers,
A poem asks him "what you love when you love, my God, terrible light of life or light death? "in the air leaving the cruel realization that we do not know what is the invisible thread of a spindle that separates the breathing and silence is what is and what it was. Hear
Gonzalo Rojas said his poems, reading them as one who speaks to the best of themselves and of us, is one of the few great pleasures that poetry offers us living in our common language.
As far as this continent is concerned, to which he was much better when the world was flat, our guest poet is without peer.
's someone called Gonzalo Rojas chance but who could call a man who for many, even without knowing in human fleshiness but in his verse, has become, as Auden reminded about the authors visited with devotion, "a character of our biography." His poetry is a good company to continue in the old, the vicious and sometimes uncomfortable habit of breathing lungs, as does this man who suffers from a kind of young chronic re-childhood.
is one seamless, a rare specimen of freedom to whom fate chose to be called Gonzalo Rojas, though he could call one of the synonyms of the air. -------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------
* Cronopios arrives daily to your mailbox because you or a friend what requested. Cronopios works for pure love of art. The International Red Cronopios extends worldwide and reaches more than 50 thousand subscribers free. Our articles are reproduced for more than 30 newspapers and magazines in Colombia and international print media, along with numerous Internet sites. If you want your name included on our database, please let us know ignacioramirez@cable.net.co or cronopios@cable.net.co . Cronopios is an open house. If you like Cronopios, spread the word ...
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