Santa Barbara Reset Suitcase Lock

pierre joris / seven minutes on translation

The opening text of my recent book of poems, Aljibe II, begins with a verse that came to me spontaneously, out of nowhere. Reads: "My father was a healer and hunter, is it any wonder that I've become a poet and translator?". The algebraic ratio would equal the proposed sentence healer poet and translator hunter. This may seem a little easier, linear, and perhaps more useful to imagine that the terms occupy the four corners of an X, cross beam, a figure in motion and chiasm that creates links between the four terms. And more, I can see the poet as a healer and hunter, and the translator as a hunter and healer. But details of that discussion will have to wait a better time ... Today I want to briefly mention the issue of translation. Let me do it through a kind of list, such as a list poem, perhaps.

Why translate?

Because I am happy.

For than television, except when they put the Mets, but most of the time play so badly that his eyes away and continued translating, looking up only to see the scoreboard.

Because to be honest, I know what they're tucked the poets in Ghana.

Because I'm foolish enough to believe in the philosopher and poet of XVI century, Giordano Bruno, who said that every science has its origin in the translation, and was burned at the stake for this and a few other peccadilloes in 1600 in Campo Fiore, Rome. Bruno is, of course, the patron saint of translators.

by accident because I was born cursed or blessed with a lot of languages different and a perverse pleasure to face these languages \u200b\u200band their music.

Because I can.

Because I love doing it.

Because I have to, because if I and everybody else does not translate, the world will be a lot more crap than it already is.

Because when I can not write poems, still I can do to translate the poems of other poets.

Because once upon a time in a faraway country of this galaxy I was foolish enough to believe that possibly could be insolvent (translate that word!) young poet who was paying the rent with a translator gigs, something that did not work because I realized that I hated those books translated -novels, nonfiction treaties, manuals how-do-do, etc. .- that would have generated enough money to pay the rent.

Because trífida speak with a language and always wanted to be a healer-Mescalero Apache.

Because the cold mass of ugliness Anglo-gringa (1 ), greed and Christian Fascism continue basic busting people and libraries and museums a hundred homes and Bagdads, unless we can make many U.S. citizens realize the beauty of another, the poetry of others, the speech of all others.

Because I've never been able to convince my department (at the University, ie not in the store where most things in fact manufactured in China, Mexico, Korea and elsewhere) to impose learning (at least) two languages, one of which should be a non-Indo-European language, in the graduate program as a conditio sine qua non (translated that) for anyone to be admitted to a doctorate in literature.

Because, besides writing and cooking, is the only practical translation that I have the ability and know how to do.

Because I love to draw lines and images and sounds of all foreign poets to read and incorporate them into my own poems (that's the poet as a hunter).

For is the best excuse I've found to buy many books and travel to many countries to interact with poets and other perverted strangers.

Because the best way learn to read poems is translated.

Because the best way to learn to write poems to translate the great works of other poets.

For to have new thoughts have to renew the language and the best way I've found is to create with him a spindle, mutilate and mutarlo to write in English as foreign language poet ( vid. the operation of the Greek language in the German, who held Hölderlin) (2 ).

Because allows you to have intense love affairs with people who are far away or long dead.

Because I have this weird sense of ethics, as I can, I have to do to help my concitoyens (untranslatable by the inevitable loss pun) linguistically challenged ( 3 ).

Because the translation and its social counterpart, miscegenation, are the only things that could possibly make this world a safer and feasible.

Because, although a few years ago I stopped translating into French, last year I could not resist to say yes to translate 25 pages of poems by Allen Ginsberg for a French version of the opera Hydrogen Jukebox by Philip Glass, since the last time I saw Allen in Paris asked me to get involved in the translations of his work something that until now, when the opportunity to re-pay my respects appeared out of nowhere, I was busy.

Because 40 years later I still have not translated all the works of Paul Celan and for some unreason feel it should.

For most of my fellow poets States United along with their compadres Francophone French and translated to each other with fierce intensity, which gives me the space to concentrate on translating the poets from North Africa who otherwise would not be translated, so there next books Tengour Habib appearance, and Mohammed Abdallah Al Amrani Zrika.

Because the Mets are losing again.
[[and damn, would not the Mets lost two straight against the Brewers last night ...?]]



Notes text

( 1) I thank the poet and translator Joseph Mulligan (http://jwmulligan.wordpress.com/) the exchange of emails in connection with the use of Joris of the word "Anglo-'merican." Mulligan sees the use of this word "mid-western" (in the region near the Great Lakes and some states in northern and central regions) a mockery of American ignorance. Knowing this, I tried to reflect this mockery restricting to a specific population segment: the WASPs (White Anglo-Saxon Protestants, initials also represent the word 'wasp', 'wasp') or supporters of the infamous and racist Tea Party.

( 2 ) In connection with this statement, I think to quote the words of George Steiner's translation of Friedrich Hölderlin of Sophocles' Antigone, which I will translate: "He believed that the ancient meaning of words, particularly in the drama Tragically, had an aura and a materials result which lacked modern epistemology. A prophecy, oracular precept, a formula of anathema in Greek tragedy carried a literal fate. Speech does not represent or describing the fact: it was done. Antigone not only overshadowed mental anticipation of threat and blood, darker, more bloodthirsty, words scripts are already revolt and suicide. καλχαίνουσ ' means "blush." Ruling-stained red-the epos Antigone has become a fact fatal, ineluctable. Anthropology, a linguistic contrastive role of discourse in ancient and modern societies need to and behind the literalness of Hölderlin, its paradoxical purpose of understanding and improving the original word for word as it proceeds. The tactic is often violent and absurd, but many recent reflections on the speech habits in primitive cultures and the physical strength of the mandate for example, ancient Hebrew, corroborating the view of Hölderlin "( After Babel: Aspects of Language & Translation , Oxford University Press, 1998, p. 346).

( 3) The word used Joris, concitoyens , there are two ways. On the one hand, the literal translation of that word: citizens, on the other, as with French for bastard, bastards citizens (one of the most outstanding uses of that word is in the song Requiem pour un with , Serge Gainsbourg).

Pierre Joris was born in 1946 in Luxembourg. At 19 she moved to the United States. He lived in Britain, North Africa, France and Luxembourg. In 1992 he returned to New York. Currently a professor at the State University of New York at Albany.

Forthcoming books are Paul Celan: The Meridian (Stanford University Press) and is my Trade Exile: The Habib Tengour Reader (Black Widow Press).

has published over forty books. Among its books of poetry, stand The Fifth Season (1971), Trance / Mutations (1972), The Tassili Connection (1978), The Book of Luap Nalec (1982), Translations from 5 Arthur Rimbaud (graphics, 1984), Breccia: Selected Poems (1986), Winnetou Old (1996), Poas : Selected Poems (1986-1999) (Wesleyan University Press), The Stations of Mansur al- Hallaj (Anchorite Press, 2007), and Aljibe Aljibe II (bilingual edition with French translation by Eric scabies, Editions PHI, Luxembourg, 2007 and 2008). The newest The Tang Extending From The Blade (Ahad Books, E-chapbook, 2010).

Books of essays A Nomad Poetics (Wesleyan University Press, 2003) and Justifying the Margins: Essays 1990-2006 (Salt Publishing, 2009).

recent translations: 4x1: Work by Tristan Tzara, Rainer Maria Rilke, Jean Pierre Duprey & Habib Tengour translated by Pierre Joris (Inconumdrum Press, 2002); The Malady of Islam by Abdelwahab Meddeb (along with Ann Reid, Basic Books), Green Integer published three volumes of translations of Paul Celan: Breathturn , Threadsuns and Lightduress (which won a prize: 2005 PEN Poetry Translation Award).

Other English translations include books by Pablo Picasso, Maurice Blanchot, Edmond Jabes, Kurt Schwitters and Michel Bulteau.

has translated into French books Carl Solomon, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso, Pete Townsend, Julian Beck and Sam Shepard.

The information in this note can be found at:

· http://www.pierrejoris.com/blog/?page_id=4481

· http://wings.buffalo .edu / epc / authors / joris / joris.bio

translation and notes by Mario Dominguez Parra

.

Cubefield Level By Level

Happy happy new year. Valencia, Venezuela. Double

What thing is, what dance macabre intended to represent the two hearses running at full speed down the Avenida Bolivar Valencia, sometimes below the black body, sometimes the gray? It's three in the morning of January 1st and I've come to the street to think about my newborn son or perhaps to see the last glimpses of the fireworks, I find two coaches who seem to compete at night Valencia along the busy avenue, at this time only traveled by drunks, whores and wrong of all kinds. Moron
me, instead of asking which of the two coaches to win and reach first to the flask Guaparo if indeed this is the goal, the first question that goes through my mind is whether the float will be full or empty, if these coffins appear peep out of the rear glass does not contain or a lifeless body.
La kitsch Christmas momentarily makes me see in this situation a grotesque caricature of the death and resurrection: the death that runs through a hundred miles per hour or less deserted avenue and the man who takes to the streets to remember the face of his newborn. Luckily immediately gotten past that, I keep seeing in the parade that's already about to crash into the flask Guaparo anything that two coaches not to crash against Guaparo flask, stop the car and asked a beer hawker What:
- Do you have much time off, sir? "He cross-examines him.
"No, but ... Blatantly-up knowing that such a confession could easily cost me my life or wallet.
"Then he leaves very little because it is spending almost three years.
- Yes? "I say as opening the flow of information while the right hand I extend a five a sign and a sign that I will take at least a beer and he will not lose your time.
"Indeed, it is the undertaker Arismendi against the Salon. Make this competition every Friday at one o'clock. Sometimes win some, sometimes the other, but we bet everyone in town.
As he speaks, the coaches back, this time in the opposite direction, from north to south. And the gray takes at least twenty meters ahead.
-is that the race ends in Cedeño Avenue, where they are doing underground work. Can not you see there is that they are the funeral? Which is winning is the undertaker Arismendi. I bet twenty Bs. Alfonso manages and I have said that he does not take thirty-one.
"But the result? How do you know a result? I ask impatiently, still half a bottle of beer in his left hand.
"I say by Radio America at three and a half.
"And the the the the ... -Stuttering, do it on purpose because I know that this is my question because I'm strong and ready to go, "coffins," are full or empty?
"Please. How can it happen? Sure are full. If not what would be the point.

Brazilian Wax Bangkok

Quique Campos, Vicente Miranda and Gustavo Vivas

In Naguanagua, my two brothers and I were known as "The Chavecitos." That's because in the party Carnival of 1992 my older brother, Stanley, who was then twenty-five, he came disguised Chavez. That was the year of the coup and the red beret on his head was no exception. But perhaps Stanley was the only adult and the way she wore the uniform, the character that he displayed to repeat the notorious "for now" and some physical resemblance to the commander made his election as the best costume parade in Naguanagua. When asked how his character was called, he replied: "Chavecito, for now and forever." That was enough for thereafter he would stay with that nickname and his younger brothers Jefferson and I, as we were growing up, somehow I heredásemos: Chavecito Chavecito II and III. Together we were "The Chavecitos", the saga of "The Chavecitos" and if the President Caldera had not taken the commander of the prison, Chávez would not have gotten a political and perhaps nothing would have happened. But once on the street the commander began his campaign, and we, because we wanted Chavez to become president. Initially seemed a crazy thing, and in Naguanagua, everyone laughed at us. The candidate then looked more chance was compared Irene Sáez and all its beauty, had been Miss Universe " with the ugliness of Chavez. In such situations, if the odious comparison is produced in the presence of Stanley, Jefferson or mine, we offended because it was increasingly obvious that "The Chavecitos" were almost a copy of Hugo Chávez Frías. And three were adults and had body of a man. We wore green clothes bought in stores or Graffiti gives us the friends who had gone through the army, we used military boots, walked with a step that we thought martial and even spoke with a serious voice resembled that of the parades at the bottom of the TV - "A discreciónnnnn", "Mmmmmedia back ',' Firrrrrrmes "- but that only meant resemble that of Hugo Chávez. Clear that when talking about who did it was Stanley, not only by the voice and determination that made him, but because at night he read the authors and books always quoted the commander: Marx, Achilles Nazoa, Engels, Old Testament. Jefferson and I, however, we simply walk, sit and repeat "for now and forever", but Stanley went further: he spoke with passion of socialism, cooperatives, new and old schemes, the required change, and so forth. With these attributes, it is going to campaign and we with it. Our campaign was twofold: firstly to ensure that our candidate win the election and on the other seem increasingly to him. So if we saw a military jacket of our height, we bought, we did exercises to strengthen biceps and pectorals, we climbed to the platabanda at noon for the sun roasted us and we rizábamos hair with coconut oil or adding to shampoo Cayenne crushed leaves. So, gradually, increasingly seem to get Chavez. Stanley the most, first, the better. And if Stanley did we with him, because he was the elder brother, because I wanted a lot and mainly because he always had a special gift that we were forced to do what he wanted without even having need to talk. Enough that I looked into his eyes and marches, and I was mesmerized.
After Chavez won the elections, promised to rallies across the country before becoming president. In Naguanagua too. We went to the Plaza Bolivar of primeritos Naguanagua. We were in the front row. As the commander took too long to arrive, the meeting was originally scheduled to begin at five in the afternoon and were already eight o'clock everyone started to get discouraged. People started to leave. Every time the animator took the microphone and said the next president Venezuelans was stuck in a queue at the central regional highway, everyone booed him. All but Stanley remained unmoved by looking at the microphone. That is until Euclid, Euclid Perales, who had led the campaign Naguanagua, noticed him, walked to the edge of the stage and from there in her eyes held the eyes of Stanley without saying a word, both broke, in a flash, the idea of \u200b\u200bpolls and saving our lives, especially that of Stanley. Euclid
disappeared from the stage and then I could see down the stairs with a red jacket in his hands. Stanley approached, he heard and immediately spoke to-remember clearly that at that time Stanley turned his head toward us, Jefferson and myself, and we winked at the group departed. After two minutes, the host announced the arrival of Chavez and the three, Stanley was there at the microphone speaking to the people of Naguanagua as only Chavez could do it. Partners
-patriots ... Finally we come ... Overcoming ... Thanks to the joint efforts ... As Achilles Nazoa said, that old poet, the wise singer of freedom ... From the beginning ... The sweetness ... Of hope ...
The speech was a hit, total and unequivocal: all were delighted. In the end, even went to get autographs and give Stanley slips, always believing that he was the commander. The only problem was that Hugo did not come true. Stanley and we were commanded to call me and we were Jefferson and four - "The Chavecitos" and Euclid scared, full of fear, not knowing what else had happened, and harder still, what else could happen.
At ten o'clock at night the commander's bodyguards Perales called and told that nothing had happened, that as the queue was not moving just been arrested in San Joaquin and the commander had taken to eating some panels, but already ingested the delicious food he wanted to talk to to send their apologies to the people of Naguanagua. When I went to the commander, Perales turned purple, pride and satisfaction, and began telling what he and Stanley, and somehow, Jefferson and I-had done. Initially the words gushed from his mouth, but as they passed the second was pale, slowing his speech, stiff as if she were entering the fear.
"Do not worry, sir. Now go home and hope to party there.
closed the cell phone, "was a stout, the first that came with cap-and, walking toward us, began to curse:
"The bloody high, now it is true that the cagamos ...
"But, what happened, Euclid? What did the commander? "Interrupted Stanley. "It's
horny, pussy. Said that it seemed incredible that we have dared a. ..
"But you told him we did not to disappoint the crowd waiting at the square?
"Sure, but just as pissed-Euclid is more to talk about screaming, as if fear had given way to despair. Now it is true that Chavez ran out for us.
"Do not worry, Perales-started telling Stanley behind him, but seeing that Euclid was ignoring her, in a move that surprised everyone, grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, stood before him and looking into his eyes, said in a determined voice: "I talk to him.
Chavez arrived at the house of the movement almost midnight. First came two gray Toyota pickup trucks with the ex-militants of Rupture: got out, all dressed in leather jackets despite the heat, and surrounded the house. Then a command car with the national campaign and two trucks with soldiers. In the sixth vehicle, which stopped right in front of the door, it was assumed that it was Chavez. We were three other trucks, but we could not fix them, because a hand appeared through the window of which had been stationed outside the door. It was the left hand of the commander and Euclid ran out of the house and put his head in the truck through the window. After two minutes, came home and told Stanley he was talking to the commander. This conversation was much longer. It lasted about twenty minutes. We were worried. Jefferson believed that the commander would kill Stanley and asked for the cell to call Perales old. She had always been adeco, I ordered that set me on the phone and, soon, began to scold:
- How it occurred? Why not stop it? You who are the most sensible ...
would have stayed that way, endlessly, if not for Stanley came back and I had to close the cell. With a smile from ear to ear, jumping on one leg, very happy.
"We're going to Caracas, pussy. We work.
Within two days we went. Toyota came to look for a home, say goodbye to the old, we took the regional center in the curve of Girardot. Euclid was a driver and, thereafter, we became the official double Hugo Chávez. Stanley, being the best, the owner of the idea and the best speech, it would be number one. I am the second and Jefferson the third. Depended directly from the Secretariat of the Presidency and they called us something like improvisation and Contingencies Unit. A Perales was named coordinator of the unit, but in reality was the utility, the buenoparatodo. He was the one who made the purchase, we brought the suits, which leaves cayenne getting to the shampoo, which we tried not we moved to the apartment on the main avenue of Sebucán we allocated as housing and office I would say that as a shell.
The apartment had four rooms, each with its own bathroom. Prick was air conditioning, blue carpets, computers, a television the VHS in each room, a weight machine in the lounge, microwave, refrigerator and tostiarepas. Had a good library and even original boxes with names that appeared in art from the book: Soto, Cruz-Diez, Poleo, Tellez and Kandinsky. The fridge, by Euclid, was always full and the replacement of the films was permanent. The only bad thing was that, for security reasons, you could not leave, not even to take some sun in the garden. To tan brought us an ultraviolet ray machine.
"It's dangerous. You and your brothers have to be subjected to the same security measures as the President. In addition, we may find, he explained Euclides a day trying to convince to go to the auction of horses in the corner. If you want to drink, I bring the beer. And if you want to bet, I say the names of the horses and I go to the corner and make the bet.
So when we had to work, go to an opening or a parade if it was me or Jefferson, the television program or press conferences in the case of Stanley, we did so well. We were happy to go out into the street, if only temporarily leave the apartment. We drew Sebucán bubble and we threw into the ring. Then every man for himself, Stanley Jefferson and I smiled, hugging old ladies, drinking coffee, walked with people, we bought things in markets, including terminals in lottery sales. Stanley's case this time also was special. From ten o'clock, at that time ended the joint program that began at seven: exercise, breakfast and a hairdresser with cayenne-each could do what he wanted. Jefferson and I we used to watch TV, sleep or play with the NES. But Stanley: Daily picked up a new book from the library and began to read. In the first year read the complete works of Marx, Ortega y Gasset and a gigantic edition of Euclid gave the speeches of Fidel. When call us old-was the only outside person with whom we spoke-and he said he was reading, she scolded.
-Care, mijito. You were not born to study. Here in Naguanagua, nobody has ever read so much.
Obviously, Stanley paid no attention and continued reading and speech. Sometimes, in an interview or television show that Chavez got tired of going to six months and is almost exclusively commissioned Stanley was in contradiction with the commander, but then he called Sebucán and within minutes he and Stanley arranged it all:
"If not you do it tomorrow in the graduation of doctors, I do at night, I have an interview with CNN.
Obviously, the resemblance to the commander was growing. Among the diet, shampoo, cayenne, Stanley readings and the exercise of the morning, every time we looked over to Hugo Chavez. Once he even invited us to dinner at the presidential palace. The commander hugged us one by one, but then asked about Stanley and it literally melted. The four dressed alike: red beret, military jacket and jeans. The commander was still married to Marisabel Rodriguez and summoned. When she arrived at the presidential dining room nearly fainted when he saw us all four. We, the commander also remained impassive and expressionless face. Diosdado was the minister, who approached him and suggested Marisabel to tell what the real Chavez. Marisabel approached each of us and we immediately rejected Jefferson and me. After nearly a minute was hesitating between Stanley and Hugo. Finally opted for the former.
- Is that you, right? Stanley asked as he pulled his left ear.
"Nothing to do, my love," snapped the captain and together they were laughing at the yard where Euclid said he had a pool. Immediately
us, we had lunch, we left. That day, I remember, everyone left the presidential palace with a different destination: Stanley Venezolana de Televisión, Jefferson Petare Barquisimeto and I at the opening of a popular market. It was a difficult and demanding, but we did it willingly, because the revolution was a project that we thought too.
All remained so well until March 2002. The second Saturday Euclid led back to the presidential palace. There we got Hugo Chavez who, unlike last time, looked worried. He invited us to sit in his office and, bluntly, was to the point.
"Boys, now yes will start the revolution. We will be owners, to finally get hold of our oil and lots of people will be pissed. You have to be careful because anything can happen.
From that day decreased public events and, therefore, our work. But when we played out, the issue was more complicated: more bodyguards accompanied us, we had to walk faster and basically having a more serious attitude, not at all relaxed.
April 11, the day of the march that became the coup, we were in Sebucán. When television said that Chavez had resigned, Euclid began to mourn:
"I killed them, pussy. He was killed. Sure he was killed.
Stanley, Jefferson and I rose up off the couch and tried to comfort him. Again, it was Stanley who did it:
"Do not worry, Euclid. Diosdado call now and try to solve everything.
What happened since then seems to know everyone, but I have my own version and I know it's good. Some say that it was a coup, others that led to Chávez to La Orchila and there the faithful soldiers rescued him once they found that he had not resigned. I know that none of those things happened. I know because I saw Stanley when dialed telephone Diosdado, because I listened as he proposed his plan, because I left him with a hug:
"I've arranged for you and Jefferson are going to Miami. There will also be old. Nothing will be missing.
In the corner a group of masked men burned some rubber, but Stanley did not come out dressed in the clothes of the commanding officer, but theirs, of Stanley before. Euclid accompanied him with a backpack. Beyond the light, I saw everything from the balcony, climbed into a gray truck that started at full speed.
Jefferson and I could not sleep even for a minute. We stayed the whole time crying and laughing simultaneously sitting on the edge of the bed of Stanley, watching television. We knew everything already, that Hugo Chavez had been killed, that our job as Commander-double was over and that the man who, hours later, appear on television saying that he, Hugo Chavez assumed the presidency again and appointed Minister of Perales Euclid Secretariat and Vice-President Diosdado Cabello, was none other than Stanley Rivera, our soul brother, a fellow revolutionary, the prince of "The Chavecitos." President of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. For now and forever.

Poem For My Daughter 3rd Birthday

derek walcott / in the village

I

I left for the subway and there were people
standing on the steps as if he knew
something I know. Cold War Era,
fallout. I could see
Avenue was deserted, all of it, and I thought
birds had left the cities and a plague of silence
covering your arteries, in the war
had fought and lost and nothing vague or subtle
's in New York this terrible abyss.
The insistent roar of a speaker warned
the stragglers, perhaps lovers stroll,
that the world was going to end this morning
no one at work in the Sixth and Seventh Avenue
perspective in that horrific and unexplained.
was not way to die, but neither was life.
Finally, if burned, at least it was in New York.


II

In New York people are in a sitcom.
I appear in a English soap opera, a
where an old man with hair like a heron
invisible penalty makes him tremble, an affliction obscene,
and has a secret until his face betrays
wrinkles which his fiction reveals parentheses
for deep shame itself. Hey, it's the old story
quixotic a heart that never stops in its efforts
no matter what it faces. one of those things that nobody
break your heart, or even a colonel
donkey horse is released during loading,
a battle that will not statue. Is hell
common love, unrequited. Watch herons tiring march
which disheveled troops, banners
tied trailing white are the great plague
pale an old man in his memoirs, written songs
to spread their wings and open secrets .


III

Who here has taken my typewriter, I
has become a musician without his piano
that it presents a clear gap and grotesque
as another spring? I sprout veins, tired
poetry I am black wire bin.
Visible are the notes: antennas
sparrows fill as staves, and was in the spring,
roofs are cooler and the great gray river
by slipping a vessel, imposing that Mount
winter, as the years progress imperceptible
accumulated. There is no reason to forgive
so I searched myself. Lies behind the hatred,
back my longing for Italy, there blowing snow,
acquitted and graying a chain of
knees on the outskirts of Milan. Through the window I look
to the whistle of a bird spring start
crazy, but I feel strange work
hands without my machine and his music faded. No words
transatlantic for Hudson, for scabies
the roofs clear of snow. Or verses, or birds.


IV. THE GOOD LIFE CAFE

If sometimes I fall into a grizzled
quiet sitting at a table with red tablecloth tables
coffee on the terrace of La Buena Vida, traffic
Sunday at the Village is silent and smooth which moth
be working in a warehouse, is due to age,
and it's hard to admit it, or, indeed, to think.
persist in me rages, and though my anger at home
is illogical, diabetic, my love has not waned despite
I shake your hand, but not on this page.
Very healthy is my lust, but if by chance
all my towers are dried to crumble,
that bend the reeds and rushes with the euphoria
my pen Vieuxfort way, the lemongrass
white sun and sea in the bay breaking
Praslin, it's all in the
grace consort that death will one day tear of the hands
today on this tablecloth tables in this good place.

Translation Luis Ingelmo

Derek Walcott (Castries, Santa Lucia, 1930) is a poet, playwright and painter. In 1992 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Walcott is the author of a vast work that includes more than fifteen books of poetry and over thirty plays. Among his many titles include Another Life (1973), The Star-Apple Kingdom (1979), The Arkansas Testament (1987) and Omeros (1990), based on the epic poem Odyssey .
.
These poems belong to his latest book, White Egrets (2010), which arrives tomorrow at English bookstores in Translation Luis Ingelmo With the title of White Egrets . We thank the translators and editors Bartleby their kind permission to offer this preview of the book flyer reasons.
.

My Poptropica Screen Is Not Proper. What Do I Do?

Chavez writer, where do you from?

has to be a writer, a great reader maybe. Or a devourer of appetizers. Its particularity is to be present in all literary encounter, regardless of city, country or continent in which it is performed. At the end of each activity is about a writer and, without further ado, he launches his question:
-writer, where do you from?
I first came to me was in Malaga, my twenty-five years after an eschatological reading of literature.
Until then I had lived in Venezuela, in a mountain village called La Entrada because through its trails are accessed from Puerto Cabello to Valencia. Looking out the window, he saw the road go through thousands of trucks carrying goods to the city and almost every evening, the village boys who came out to parade with their donkeys One night, during sleep, I heard a detonation. Half-awake, mediodormido I ran to the window and saw four men armed with guns and knives walked among them being a prisoner. I always thought it was Niehous and her companions were guerrillas who through the years I've been changing the name: Douglas Bravo, Teodoro Petkoff, Jorge Rodriguez and Hugo Chávez. At twelve years, I dared to leave her mother's house and started to cross the driveway. It was a long road and old who walked all days to reach a point where the branches of trees on either side crossed. Initially, there I sat and began to read. Then I sat and I started to write. For all that, as the hors devours asked where I was, I replied that of La Entrada.
"But you're not in Venezuela?
"Yes, but primarily from the introduction.
Then I lived in Barcelona. First, a few months in Grace. And then several years in Sant Gervasi, where I was because she had started out with Giuliana and she was afraid of junkies. In Sant Gervasi Bisbe Sivilla carrer, I spent years writing and dreaming that he wrote while watching the abandoned garden of the former Child Care Institute. And the third year, I knew I was also there.
- Where are you from? "This time I took a drink before the presentation of a book.
-Input and Carrer Bisbe Sivilla.
Once married, Giuliana and I decided to invade the house of his mother in Salerno, at number 122, Via Arce. They were just eighteen months, but they learned Italian, I started and finished my thesis, I saw the best movie of my life, I read books and started sopotocientos waiting for my first son, Alessandro. There was, as always, a window, and a castle in the background, the Arechi. And as he left the balcony, the pescivendolo I waved an eel and shouting my name.
- Where are you from?
-De La Entrada, the Carrer Bisbe Sivilla and Via Arce.
football team Salerno I terminated the contract. Doctor, of course. And I returned to Venezuela. Not her mother's house. Not even to La Entrada. But to Caracas. He worked in a psychiatric hospital, The Rock, and Sebucán lived in an apartment that had rent the acupuncturist of President Caldera. I did not write much in those years, but lying in bed and saw the Avila, when he went for a walk, a hundred kilos black Elpidia call me selling daily newspaper and other former gave me that against all logic kept in his kiosk.
- Where are you from?
-De La Entrada, the Carrer Bisbe Sivilla, Via Arce and Sebucán. Giuliana
then came to live in Valencia, Spain. And I came up behind her, chasing her. Letizia was born. So we decided to live in a cottage on the outskirts of the city, near a town called Puzol (as Pozzuoli of San Gennaro). Here, when Labour came in Castellón, I order my books and, crucially, weeding the little patio.
- Where are you from?
-De La Entrada, the carrer Bisbe Sibilla, Via Arce, Sebucán and Puzol.
- Have not you forgotten something?
"You're right. Of all the books I have read and made me a little hole in the heart.

Which Factory Herr Or Utz Better

NAKED PILGRIMS TO REVERSE INTERNET

Perhaps because of the lack of hygiene, speculation or the precariousness of the services offered around, San Giovanni Rotondo in southern Italy has ceased to be the preferred destination for Italian whores. Not that I have left alone and poor parishioners to Padre Pio, the saint of the wounded hands, stigmatized, born in Pietrelcina. Not at all. No. I still have the look, sings his miracles, prayer card and try retains its floral scent that perpetuate the apparent corpse. But surely have more than thirty years. The rest, all the others that were less than ten years old when the Berlin Wall fell, have turned their gaze northward. To no avail and the saints of the South. Sicilian Lucani, Naples, Apulia, Calabria. These saints and miracles and turn them not worth even half of a candle. Now, go to Rome, Milan or maybe to Sardinia. That's what makes sense at this time, the beautiful, the trend. This is not a saint again. It is old, born just a year after the death of Gardel. War II lived and drank condensed milk from the American aircraft launched in huge packages. Might be insane. Parkinson's, Alzheimer's or vascular, why not? But like miracles. So the young sluts collapse roads and trains Italy in an effort to reach the goal. Termini station is a Putiferio now. The screaming is deafening and there is nothing particularly as it always has been. The only thing really different is that the toilets smell has changed. If you have always casually smelled like shit, now smell perfumes of all kinds, cheap and expensive, good and bad, tasteful or devoid of it. This blend is what has always been known as a smell of whores. They smell like a whore, then. Termini lavatories smell whore. And the Central Station of Milan as well. The young pilgrims are changing the aerial view of Italy. From the sky look like a line that seamlessly connects all cities and towns to Rome and from there goes to Milan and Sardinia. These lines are nothing but a whore after another. If we enlarge the target would look like dots of different colors. Are your hair. Dominated by dark, but there are blondes and redheads. Points are coming even from Africa. They are also young pilgrims. Converts. But especially the young. All under thirty and most less than twenty. Those who are seventeen known their advantage. Will be a favorite of the saint. Reach all around, trample any strip club where while a little-known promise them something, will fall into the clutches of a consigliere to be carried your phone number in memory, you will hear a thousand times the promise to bring them into contact with him. Feel they are about to touch his clothes, to bite into his pants. But only those who are seventeen years, no matter where they come from, who you have slept the night before, if they have washed or not, whether drugs by nasal or just the smoke, will be chosen by a satirical newspaper. Don Emilio knows the tastes of the saint, known for its exact dimensions, has felt its capacity. He is the controller of this caravan infinite. He decides who deserves to go and who, regrettably, perhaps you should stay or return. In his office, before news of the eight dances a two-sided die: go to the holy house and climb into a magic box or staying at home watching it forever, criticizing, sputtanando with grandmothers who have always voted like Forza Italia those long legs, these cleavages infinite. If Don Emilio
allows some may pass. Twenty or twenty-five per night, maybe by the weekend. Among them, best chant the anthem of the party, which are more hookers but can pretend not to know very much that tolerate the company of young ministers in tits withered because of jealousy, they can get in the pool and then , prostrate before the holy, to introduce a pill of Viagra mouth and then let journalists enter while friends, a singer and the other whores crying "Bravo, bravo." From that moment his life changed because the miracle will be granted. Depending on your mood may participate in Big Brother or later be designers, deputies, ministers or just famous. That depends on them. The saint is always willing to help, to reach out to and change their lives and fill in the leggy senile Italy. But even if everything goes wrong, if they had to return to the village and the truck ran over there and then in the hospital rats eat them, never, never be forgotten that at the time of farewell, the saint of anything quietly kissed and handed a five thousand euros on a card and gold letters: "When you grow old, vote Berlusconi."

I Have A White Dot In The Middle Of My Lower Lip

Alvaro Diaz Huici / north introductory poems

Let the words come back and kiss the beauty bare
love in the room where it started the summer
the evening, the cormorant on the water bright
who despises pride the powerful;
the unwavering love of horses;
the appearance of the flower, before the night explodes under sun of sand
the beautiful wolf distracted in the garden. That
back, compassionate, words and kiss the truth.
. Δ

.
real things are a woman crossing the street, laconic
news on the radio, the ashen buildings, a dog eager
between people, two children with a swing
"Suddenly, she takes something out of hand and escape,
a man sitting on a bench,
the old detainee before a cypress swing waves
against the pier in the mirror of the car ...
unreal things are passing.
. Δ

.
The dark wolf out of the thicket
and looks at us from the bottom of the street.
A woman washes her hair
-see her topless in the window lit-
and then wrapped with a white towel.
The street lights shine on the pooled
-seems to tremble its light yellow-
and we live in another place, another scene:
thoughtful, we turn to wolf down to the beach.
The woman looks for a moment into the street
and off the window.
. Δ

.
happens there on the beach, my life happens in that place
white silence where awake
fog and wind on silent,
happens in water to cover and uncover the rock.
happens in the moment in which nothing moves
and the breeze dies down and stop the tide,
and hidden in the cliff
Cormorant sleeps his long journey on rough waters. Nobody expects anything
, nobody expects anyone.
live in the black night in the dark beach,
the end the take with you anywhere incessant
while the waters cover and uncover
the black rock.
.
..
.
.

Huici Alvaro Díaz (Gijón, 1958). Along with his intense career as a publisher, which began in 1978 and continuously since 1990 Noega stamped Trea, Alvaro Díaz Huici has drawn creative work quietly articulated so far in two titles: characters water (collection of poetry bard, 1980) and Introduction to the north (KRK Editions, 2002), gradually expanded through the publication of several private notebooks.
.

Women That Want To Go On A Cruise Topless

The detailed method (Eurocode 3, 2003)

Deputy

an interesting article by a colleague, M. Gonzalez, senior engineer of the company on a final draft of Career monitor:

The structural calculation, the emergence of a new law has on those who work in this field , news to which we must adapt, studying them in depth to meet both those regulations to be able to meet and get the best performance.

all know from the Technical Code its entry into force in the field of building and construction, but we will stop at a new calculation methodology that was published in the Eurocode-3 (EN 1993-1-1: 2003) for non-conventional metal frames, as are the profiles of variable inertia.

Following the line of collaboration that the company has with Polytechnic University of Catalunya , the engineering team Vircop Building Systems helped draft limit one of his students.

The initial idea for the project was to build on a structure implemented by our company to build a sports center and from there was a comparison between a conventional analysis and an analysis according to the new general method for proposing Eurocode.

Being a relatively simple, let follow step by step, clearly and to manual, all steps required by the new method, and can thus better understand, let's call it, inner workings .

This again is, in simplified form in three steps.

The first is an analysis at the item, evaluating the effects of design loads on the strength of the elements of the structure, considering only their behavior at the level of porch.

Later, an analysis of buckling out of plane structural elements to determine the load that leads to failure of the structure out of plane buckling of the frame.

Finally, it concludes with the verification of the structure considering the interaction between behavior inside and outside the plane of the structure.

This analysis requires us to introduce new restrictions, as the effects of imperfections, both residual internal stresses caused by geometric as well as new parameters in the calculation, allowing improve and adjust the results to the actual behavior of the structure.

The end result project showed us that the conventional analysis, the building did not comply for reasons of instability, while after making a calculation using the advanced approach, they themselves were completely valid.

These results lead us to the conclusion that, although a priori introduce further restrictions in the new method of analysis, a calculation tighter and allows us to further optimize best structures with the economic benefits that entails.