Congratulating Best Friend On Pregnancy

circe maia / poems by Fernando Guerreiro

I

When
final each have their little landscape
to clear with him that penumbra
sick room.

This stretch of river is not bad, for example,
to save this: the costs
surrounding green, bright, quiet.

And there are two movements:
as the boat moves
noiselessly forward
the image, by contrast,
going back, silent, opening
thought
and deep anchor.

When playing
cast off once and forever
the traveler will not see the walls
-bottles, bed, medication-
but the river still
under the light of sun shining.



II Small havens

imperfect and yet still, heavenly
fragile moments. Surrounded

at certain times by strange perfections
short duration, sudden
arrival
surprised by unexpected light tone
that illuminates the still air.

(From the smell of rain tree leaves
smell of damp and wood)

airborne
a willow leaf trembles and turns.
a spiderweb holds.
The fabric is invisible.
The leaf is a sign
yellow in the air and turns

.


III

Several watches measure invisible
the passage of different times.
slow time, the stones around
channel sand and river
.


Time stretching:
sluggish, invisible
plant clock tells time
green red and gold when the dwelling
Cinderella.

All rhythmic, silent
are or a dark, we do not hear. Supported

both rock and tree
a being of flashes and beats a being
memory made of dust is there
stopped.

and secretly wants to penetrate
in another rhythm, once
others.


IV

head and tail of a blue metallic sheen
.
finest body and wings.
fly in pairs, without noise.
branches creak under foot. Hum
of other insects, bird shrieks
sound of water and foliage, wind.
Even closing my eyes, everything exists.
is a noise, a smell of earth and water
a freshness to the skin ... Only

by themselves are given only to the eyes, briefly.
Small, thin, silent flight
fast celestial rays.
here and no longer. Now and no longer.
Dragonflies.


V

River and fog covered forest
easily enter in the "already seen"
are dumped without conflict in the memory.
come and so modestly
faded! So just
announce their presence. Nothing imposed.
suggest vaguely
without much conviction, as if they spoke
fog-language-medium tone.
course they can raise anxiety
but only want to force them, disclose them. Let
well. Accept this soft light.
Leave the bandage wet
touch the injured eye. Let
.


VI
Nothing
high, sharp and white.
Only these green hills, these
truncated cones that seem to show high walls and ruins.
Go up just like that, not a climbing feat
where round is a circular horizon
remote.
The strong green assaults. Knock
blue.
you stand in the center clear day.
're dressed in a round light.
The air will hold.

born Circe Maia in Montevideo in 1932 and has lived for years in the city of Tacuarembó. After studying philosophy at the Faculty of Humanities and Sciences, he devoted himself professionally to teaching in High School. Member of the Academy of Letters of Uruguay.

Her poetry, which began in 1958 with the publication of At the time, comprises nine titles, including the book in prose Destruction (1986), and appears collected poetic work (Montevideo, Rebecca Linke Publishers, 2007, 2010), whose first edition won the National Poetry Award of Uruguay.

has translated English to several authors in English and Greek. In 1999 the Standard editorial published his translation of Measure for Measure of Shakespeare. In 2001 the English publisher Brindin Press published an anthology of over seventy poems (Eucalyptus Yesterday A) selected and translated by Brian Cole. Three years later The University of Chicago Press published the English translation of his short novel A trip to Salto (1986).

The sequence "Caraguatá Poems" was originally included in his book Two Voices (Montevideo, Seven English American Poets, 1981).

From years in the network maintains page personal http://circemaia.org/ .

.

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Was Dimebag Open Casket

last encyclical on celibacy

Cures the world. Come. To marry and reproduce all at once. True celibacy is
marriage with children.

Top Of Pinky Toe Itch

PAPAL paste Giuliana (praise domestic food) UN'ALTRA

not searched. I did not think it could happen. But it is. Gradually, more and more, it has increasingly become an essential truth, a fundamental part of my life. The best thing that can happen in a day's work or a party is that a home cook in Giuliana pentolone pasta and I can bring my plate to its periphery and serve a discrete portion. Gone are the thunder, tigers, lightning, but also the chopped chicken, mayonnaise and apple in her mother's house in Valencia, Venezuela, called chicken salad and it was until late last my favorite dish. Something similar happened to hallaca impossible to eat right around here: missing the banana leaf, banana Naguanagua, and if a miracle would allow customs to aéreotransportador, missing the atmosphere and perhaps a tear left over, a stream of them. But those are the reasons why the pasta, pasta, Giuliana, has been consolidating in my language, my brain and my heart. Giuliana pulp has grown for its own reasons to merit carved freehand, by dint of battles won and lost with the affections, tastes and nostalgia. Together we kicked countless streets until the best pot, pentolone , the first store. Lovingly we have experienced and discussed about what tomatoes used, to what extraperlista get to finally decide that the tomato as the water had to be the place that gave us the fire. The only thing we have not altered the original recipe is pasta, which has to come from Italy, but that's not a problem because Barilla and De Cecco years sailing all over the streets of the world, flooded with Lambrusco. This is how any noon just before thinking of what to eat, just a four-eyed gaze to decide without even a word we want to eat a bel piatto di pasta al pomodoro . Yes, why not? And the pasta is coming out of the sky of your hands, quickly and slowly, in just a few minutes when the kitchen is filled with the heavy smell of tomatoes and starches because the air on the other burner boiling water and pasta fattening threads wait a minute the President that occurs sixty seconds before marking the box in which they have traveled and come home. Then both are merged, pasta and tomatoes, as a matter Malabar. They are the hands of the magician Giuliana you do not see how but blowing pots and screen and presented to our astonished eyes the miracle of the day. That is when I approached my plate and I use a discrete portion to which I add just a teaspoon of Parmigiano and then slowly devour each chewing stroke as if it were a blessing to consecrate the marriage tripartite food that fills my mouth. It's been three minutes and the dish did not see any spaghetto . So bless me for having served a discrete portion and I know that I can repeat. Fall on my plate two or three nutritious pasta cucharadones over consecutively admitted in my mouth, this time from a more deliberate way in which the holder chooses one by one the spaghetto swimmer. Finally, firing all the manuals of etiquette (Goodbye, Galateo. Good bye, Carreño) will be necessary to wet a piece of bread in the tomato that still inhabit the bottom of the plate with the Scarpetta fare.
"Look what Dad's doing then begin to alter children and pleading eyes sent immediately granted Giuliana desire and then start all sweep, turned the bread in powerful language, our dishes until they were translucent, as if the best dishwasher had passed through these mountains.
is a divine pleasure and shared delicious, so simple addition, but only the hands of Giuliana allowed: Giuliana paste.

Jennifer Tilly Gina Scene

VOLTA: NAKED PILGRIMS

Perhaps 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 when the fall of the Berlin Wall, have turned their gaze northward. To no avail South and the saints. 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 in Italy in an effort to reach the goal. Station Rome Termini 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 a strip club where while a little-known promise them something, will fall into the clutches of a consigliere to take your cell phone number in memory, listen 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, two dances a given faces, go to the house of the saint and climb into a magic box or staying at home watching it forever, criticizing, sputtanando with grandmothers who have always voted as 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 Viagra pill in his 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 parting, she kissed the holy and not at all discreetly handed them an envelope with five thousand euros and a card gold letters: "When you grow old, vote Berlusconi."

Strabismus Surgery Cost

caraguatá / 6

temple

The world is a declared absence of what remains

just in the mood as a feeling of track.

I mean that when the feeling is just

things slowly removed his exile.

Lost in the horizon The temple stands on the paucity

your destination silverware that burns under

coating of zinc. What look would get, then get deeper?

Or find a name for the statues

placate the gods? The thinker scans the horizon with a shy smile

. "Anticipation of death is the only

measure of things before all is consumed ..."

¶

family album

memory is constructed as a puzzle

photographs in which only what you see is the possibility of one day

become recognized: Invention, finally, from places

common, not be shared, no longer

less desirable. Perhaps because nobody owns

-is satisfied, and having lived

only guarantee is that passport

anonymous to another destination.

"We all die in a photograph? But perhaps

that death is the only concrete evidence that one day

have lived. autobiographical grafts

recognized in the photos

heartedly even any memory of what happened.

A death revived early in the photos

-invented matter what might have been.

¶

end of the speech

really nothing to talk about. Much less

what to write, as all owners are old. Just

for drinking, no one now comes to the source and livestock loose

forsaken approaches the slope of the cliff. Even the words

seem to have lost the support of the miracles at first

they had been promised. In the eyes of children

what can you see yet?, just whitewashed patios, balconies

where an old wooden walker

finally feel enthralled to watch the solstice.

But along with the men also abandoned house

words. Behind them stretches what is

Language: dried fruit, uninhabited,

which metaphors are absent-for

always pinned to the recurrence of a memory sheet

the breeze gathered for the arrival of dusk.

¶

san juan high

As we die we say that the style becomes more precise,

and the eyes of others, perhaps, also more peaceful. Meanwhile,

to this work of mourning "for ourselves and the world I do not know

if it should give the name, as romantic literature.

do this wastage of style is, what the sense that free?

In fact, there is joy in the mouths of others, such voracity

in the living, who does not agree with right-thinking the idea of \u200b\u200bliterature. Ethics

experimental, so we could define poetry at all

like a body falling on the page and then emerge from it as

a ghost in search of burial. In any case

too many words there is always a body wrap sweetened

and where only silence would answer the call of unclean.

Because poetry can arise even in a read error.

¶

critical feeling

poetic There are no criteria, just some light loss

across the plain where crows are obscure vices.

not let that thought yet ravaged the landscape

or that words pink carpet the cliff.

In poetry there is no actual feelings,

only passing caravans, and with his slow

interrupt the speech. In the hollow of the wave, reverberating

at its center, the ocean floor is transformed into

polished by fate. Because there are no laws

for the passion and who experience

learn how anonymous is meaningless. So

feeling, in poetry, not a cut

in the landscape, nor nature is confused.

But inside, it has to do with how

to miss the herons in the sky

hallucinating with shouts of future flight.

¶

falling off

By abolishing the words to sacrifice feelings

confirmábamos perhaps that was enough to leave the grammar

to attend, serene, rotting fruit.

However, poetry should not be confused with a road

accept long or metaphors that men treat

of his secret in the comfortable surroundings of the stoves.

quarreled words to

birds in nature, thinking maybe they should return

most desirable fruits. We kidded.

forgot a landscape that is bitter

returns us

resentment in the literature.

Could we then doubt,

before picking,

to share with the birds

some dried fruit?

¶

Fernando Guerreiro (1950) is one of the most important Portuguese authors from the 70's emerged in the . He has spent most of his career in magazines that might be described as marginal, stressing mainly for its close look at the cultural movements of the time, but isolated, forever, for what he considers spurious visibility ceremonies. The poems translated here are from A Ballad of Liverpool and Brussels (Or store-tion, Guimaraes), and the last two of Literary Theory (Black Sun, Lisbon).

Translation José María Castrillón

Counter-strike Source Heapsize

son of a renowned psychiatrist, as doctors used vivitar paper with the names of their products that were gifts for several years believed that Prozac was a brand of whiskey.