Milena Velba The Leter

The hangover of happiness or the flight of a post-awaited birth of a daughter

Vengo landing. There were previous attempts but failed. Of course, I and my moon, would not fail if given to me by landing on the moon ... right-or concrete-is that more than a month ago I was the ball of helium from the mapocho station projected out to my dear heavenly.

Again I scratch these walls again, for now just to acknowledge the presence of each of you in that special moment for me as it was the launch of the " hangover of the sadness. " Not only could fulfill the dream of walk to see my little girl but I appreciate of love a privileged position in concert. I do not know if he felt but there was a delightful tune that beyond of reading the protocol could not help but be happy. If it is to be happy is "made" because I was, or of BE more than happy to do, but if I was (being), it was thanks to the construction (do) of you. Those who could not be able to imagine from what I tell them. He spent what happens when everyone decides to enter the game.

There are more trade fairs, national and international, where he will participate. It is the fair forest park in January and the Vineyard. Perhaps the one in Havana. There is a possibility of a launch in Valpo. Meanwhile, we will continue to broadcast news and other spaces. I will support the editorial the best distribution in bookstores, stgo and regions, among other things that demand this company.

Finally, an anecdote. During the launch a presenter, Roxana Correa, and one participant argued for inclusion in the book of a poem called "Letter of a lion to another." It was felt that it was not in the surf line of sadness and I was of the under editor-in their exclusion. This is a different poem, medium and bold perversillo. Les infidencio also mischievously told me someone had not been able to identify (me) in the protagonist of this poem, after a question of of Arturo Fierro during the launch of the lyrical speaker . .. Well, if it did, and it was not clear, I say yes I am there too, it's me, the real and the imaginary.

In order to avoid further land speculation and land on the moon or expectations, then I attached the final version of this parapoema mented (different from the original published a couple of years ago in this very blog).

Charter of a lion to another

That was so often my friend.
the Apparently this is only a moment,
the "esquisítum", the "momentum."
The confluence. The scheduled match . I

the all night with a desired image.
The elaborated to seduce ...
the actually brought under the same sky of my car.
There were no beds, presentations, or CV, also agreed tolerances. It would have been instructive
you were there enjoying of that song for two voices.

Why I think I still see it?
do not know. It may be because I did not question.

is bullshit it has everything you want of them.
That you recognize when it is there only exceeded in your hands. It has that delightful unconsciousness

of wanting everything and of no limits,
for the simple reason of not known to exist.

has that almost beautiful, sassy and planted lush
natural and imperfect, but neglected
grateful of skin still smelling skin and
of tired eyes only for sleep.

has that tonus,
that deep subcutaneous fat
the youth not sick, that it only provides
the delicious taste of bones. I'm really enjoying

friend
perhaps the first time the real power of the experience.
I am relentless. Just exist.
Given that lightness that is so peaceful to me the time
'm a whole may be little, but she sees little of a whole.

Thank you for coming to the game and still have not Salieri can do so by clicking here.

Confidentiality Clause, Sample

The undertow of sadness

At that time, cowardice and fear had left me speechless. We had little time (...) did not know what to say. Whatever it was superfluous. What he said was the start of the farewell. Until she said. "I call this the undertow of sadness. I was impressed by without trying to interpret it. And in an act almost convulsive hugged her so hard that our skins are merged and connected terminal pain. I began to feel the anguish of her departure and immobility to the tyranny of fate. It was the punishing God, who gives and who takes away. (...) At that time did not fit more than two choppy breaths, unable to bear the detachment, the disabled to the sadness like a pendulum back and forth to ravage our flimsy humanities. I was reminded of Schopenhauer and felt hopelessly unhappy, irretrievably doomed. Only managed to say: - And happiness, fleeting, as this island is surrounded by an ocean of suffering. If so, I want to stay there with you, although we are shipwrecked and has no reality with which to compare our deep joy. She looked at me (...) to notice a little unfocused, as if trying to go further, he took my face and thanked me. "I, you, now I know what a pendulum and the route from end to end has been the most beautifully wonderful that I could have happened. I do not know if I love this corner of life you I love you, but I can finally make sure that any space behind, hidden somewhere or dimension along the way, living a possibility for the meaning of my life.

(excerpt from the story "pendulum of infinite sadness" of JP Belair)

do not know why I begin an invitation to the launch of a book of poems with an excerpt from a story. Perhaps it is a more clearly what is mine and integrated este libro con mi historia, la real, la imaginaria, la poética, con lo que ha salido por estos dedos torpes para quedarse en un papel de manera perpetua, para toda la vida, más allá de la propia inclusive.

Sin más retórica los quiero invitar a la presentación de mi primer libro de poemas llamado “la resaca de la tristeza” para este domingo 9 de noviembre a las 12:30 en la feria del libro del Centro Cultural Estación Mapocho.

Lleguen con gente, entusiasmo y por sobre todo avidez de poesía emergente. Hagamos un concierto de versos several voices and that, beyond the ears, echoing rumble in the hearts intertwined with daily excitement that any release of this book.

A full house !!!!!!!!!!!! Camilo Mori

Peru

Watch What About Brian

things cuerpo_watanabe Peru Lima

I still have to intervene in this strange body whose function is the poetic delight. Follow this further and convincing eye seeing that the mission is fluidized in foreign words that soak volunteers, eager to become one through the emotion. And there was Watanabe, this time not Cisneros was not Vallejo, Joseph is a poet who shakes the inner body with his verses.

opened the window, sensitive, powerful, that frames the world may seem far as possible. Shivering and felt the body aches. Was the transformation, was out of the shell and exude from one side to another without any time or dimension.

And how far away I saw you. In how far will I have left. And I went back and forth while you only managed to watch the ground. I smile, I sing and fly, and the moment that my body crumbles, is suspended air and is transported around the universe you just open one eye and yawn.

Joseph you share name with Toru Watanabe, the endearing character of Murakami in Tokyo blues, did you shudder to the marrow, it was as if a magic hand is introduced into my mouth surprised even the guts, and give me back to see me on the back.

Animal Winter (José Watanabe)


Again it's time to go to the mountain
to find a cave to hibernate. I will not lie

: the mountain is not mother, caves are like eggs
gaps where
pick my flesh and forgetting. Again
see on the slopes of solid mineral streaks
petrified as nerves, perhaps
in ancient times were traveled by chills
living creature.
Today, after millions of years, the mountain
is timeless and does not know how our life

or how it ends.

There is, beautiful and innocent in the fog, and I come in perfect indifference

ball and delivered me to the idea of \u200b\u200bbeing of another substance.

I came for the umpteenth time to pretend my resurrection.

stone In this world no one is happy with my awakening. I will be myself and I'll play

and if my body is still the soft part of the mountain know

am not yet the mountain.

(for body Stuff , 1999)

The guardian of the ice (José Watanabe)

And the breeze
agree with the ice cream truck and I damaged

running after the birds had fled from the fire
of the harvest.
also agreed the sun.
In this situation how to refuse a favor Level:
the ice cream man asked me take care of their ephemeral ice. Oh

fleeting look under the sun ...

The ice began to melt under my shadow
so desperate
as useless.

diluted slender beings
primary drew only a moment
firmly harping

quartz crystal and then were pure forms as mountain

that devastates the planet.

can not love how fast it leaks. Ama
fast, I said the sun.
And so I learned, in his ardent and evil kingdom,
to comply with life:
I am the keeper of the ice.

The first operation of your insomnia
is a game of time: you checked

and confirm that neither your hands or your feet
have come off like the tails of lizards.
Your whole body is tied into your skin


Eye (José Watanabe)

The other operation of your insomnia
will not be accessed. eye is inside

sailing into your flesh. It is the eye travels

you and see each of your organs
and saved the secret.

The eye is born you
to snoop your slow disaster, nothing else
know you, know whether you live in this city
or another, do not know the paper where you write
for their wickedness
and might not know wickedness. He only knows
your inside.

soon end tonight with its star compassionate
in the window nor

know today if the eye travels through your ends
is the eye of God to see
amazed every organ
tirelessly and still doing his
or indifferent but the meticulous eye of nowhere.

(for body Stuff , 1999)

And speaking of windows, I think of a body that frames a petiolate and unfolds into my world like a sunrise. To listen click here .

Can I Use A 56 Instead Of 54 Ink Cartridge?

worth a

ago fifteen soles I crossed the bridge of sighs to arrive at the land of the worshipers of the sea. The reason was a trip to the book fair in Lima. The excitement was living an episode of unruly life that I expressed the slightest unconscious. The cause of fate I invested as a representative of Magoeditores for submission of Anthology of poetry and narrative Chile where there are also selected some texts that I wrote. There, before hundreds of people on a Sunday closing and noise, and with more recklessness that gentleman, my attack perpetrated blue. Before and in the most sacred silence greeted my predecessors Rojas, Edwards, Lemebel, Fuguet, Zambra, and even the very Vargas Llosa, who sat there in a similar chair, had set the pulse magic of writing, facing the Lima avid and amazing. Read, read, and metaleí extracts from the anthology, including my writing, I finished my beloved-and-"die with Vallejo addict." The roar began to stress increasing my chest was the love, respect and attention of the people so close but unknown. Current Lima, unintentional lovers of poetry, without threats of pride and historical atavism, generously shared with me the verse levitation love, fun and terrible of national feathers.

Strange, but tasty dish was playing this new role. Podium many times I've shared so much talked about worldly things, sure of myself, as the path to a more proactive and visceral he may have, but this time it was emerging and unknown poet, the bard abroad received laurels and not simple mediate paraphernalia and medal, just for the sake of being ... if can be categorized as a fact. I went because I felt the bard whose voice sang out colors for the first time in Chile and that despite the story clearly testified dolorígeno only joy and pleasure.

So I finished my speech, with this poem given birth to the eaves of the Peruvian Vallejo died in Paris on Thursday and rain.

addict will die with Vallejo

For an addict like me,

Vallejo satisfies my deprivation ...

always silent,

suicide because words

hide and drown

in the liquid I am.

Once, not long ago,

I read in a loud vo z, happy, being introduced,

but as an abject and ironic design,

only served to kill the voice ...

there will lie buried with the poet,

a day later and every week.

All died Friday to resurrect every Monday,

growing less strongly,

all of it on the run, wasted in vain,

absorbed by the cancer heart, eager

unforgiving

outgrowth has me hungry and pulverized.

Caesar die every time I read,

every time I feel it cretins fists

and her childish eyes, obsequious,

scattered on my body, livid,

lying on the suelo, con solo el corazón tumefacto,

y sin que yo haga nada, solo morir y morir…

…cada vez que llueve y no estoy en casa,

cada vez que estoy en casa y no hay nadie,

cada vez que dormido ya no hay tiempo

porque todo se quedó en ese instante,

cuando me dejaste entrar solo un poco

para probarte y hacerme un adicto más.

I want to thank the gentle and mysterious Lariza Casana, press and camera image of the book of Peru, who gave me these and other photos. She left in suspense offerings is the desert that separates us from the possibilities. Was also in this corner of the destination is a subtle and powerful soul, Luisa Fernanda Lindo, aesthetic errant witness the inner world, gave me his fascinating book "false" and a lovely conversation.

also thank and welcome the efforts of the Chilean Jimena Pizarro Lila Christian books and Beltran, cultural attache; to Coronado Germain Peisa editor for his chivalry and generosity, and the whole team of Fair organization with whom we share a glass of wine closure at the stand of Chile, who was just heading round a day. Finally, a salute to the Peruvian poets Roberto Salazar, Federico Mendo Mendo and Kevin for their love and warm reception to my work.

Before posting this reflected what could say Salieri, or Fito here (again) ... heard, listened and metaescuché and I realized that Lima was a gift because no matter if you love me ... to listen Click here

Homer Simpson Tattoo Women Crotch

and still go to the front ... Clemente alchemist

After a month of my birthday I walk like a gentleman, with a blue flower in my lapel and a bouquet of chrysanthemums in hand. I have a pillow elephant holding my head crazy dream and I remember only the good memory. And a perfect dinner that sheltered the heart of June at the time of those who want much. I

warm this winter, this time does not surprise me because that I have a pair of socks and three scarves, the first parcito I can say that safe passage is only possible without the numbing cold feet; of second that I have one who cherishes my past, one that combined with my daily life and spirit of beauty, and the last, which could be the first or ever, that not only has my time well spent in their threads, but is the contrast of my essence pulse tissue as only someone who loves unselfishly can. My scarves care my voice, although naturally goes through my hands, to lift it out of my mouth unrepentant word is becoming more honest, raw and helpless, but so well protected by them.

And I carry new evidence of life in the beauty of the world: music, film and literature. What would my body without the vibration and how would my spirit without a body that erupts each time a chord, a scene or a verse are transformed into a wonderful bolt opens my chest in a different breath, enough to propel me to push the boundaries of the known.

treasury share something I received that day, new life Penalty Hahn.

After the fire

I have to collect my rubbish
give the human form that had
and move

Let there
embers in his eyes and clouds of black smoke into the soul

Some scars
by Here and there are acceptable

rest is lie back pain to clean the ashes

and continue walking

Shooting Star

Without
God's love without the love of God and years go

So flies

vainglory of my world

Meanwhile the great genocidal
time sharpens his scythe

And in the depths of my heart

the gods shine by their absence

Night and Fog

To hide the fog in that impenetrable density

floating in the evening as a coven of spectra

At its heart are played
things that are not of this world

And when the fog
will also go with it unthinkable possibilities

The world is again
sharpness and everything remains suspiciously clear

For clarity can hide the worst secrets

The fog is not intended to shed any light on anything transparent
:

obnubilar is your occupation
diffusing the world Gloss over the reality

And he tells us with words of steam:
"There are more things in heaven and earth
of dreaming in your philosophy"

To look into these things
should not dissipate the fog
fog must be
and look inward.

I go forward with a way forward. I appreciate the love of my real friends with this song Maurito gave me and I leave in Salieri ... click here.

Flavor Of Love Myammee Hairstyles

A son of my friends

coming to us

otherworldly
from beyond the stars
and the vacuum of space.
Transcendent, pure,
of unthinkable beauty,
to bring the essence of love. Rumi

The son of my friends
love is being made flesh,
is chosen, as expected.
is the dream that exceeds the dreams of their parents
and the magician who meets and transforms us.

The son of my friends is being

salt that season only the present.
have permission to scratch the walls of the planet and color
human miseries in an instant.

say that comes from very far
but was baked in the heat of a beautiful belly I saw
four hands safeguarding him and millions ancestral
embodied therein.
An alchemist, its mission is to transmute love.

Clemente with the world becomes full of air with your name,
to return the chance to take a break, a chance.
Our gift to the child born:
leave you in the air flying fish
to mount if the land is not reached.

Where I come from, where to find me? - Asks the infant to his mother. She cries and laughs at the same time, shaking the child to her breast, she responds: Sweetheart, were hidden in my heart, but were not his desire. were in the dolls of my childhood when, every morning, modeling in clay image of my god, it was you who did and was rallying.

were on the altar with the divinity of our home, to adore you I was adored. In all my hopes, all my love, my life, my mother, it's you who has lived. The immortal spirit that protects our home I cradled in her at the dawn of time. In my childhood, when the heart was opening its petals, it was you who surrounded him like a heady perfume. Your my young velvety delicate freshness members as a reflection of the dew that precedes the dawn. You, child of heaven, whose twin sister in the light of dawn, you have been brought by the waves of universal life has placed you in my heart at last. Gazing over your face, mystery devours me, you all belong to me has been given to me! Fearing that escapes me, I close to my heart. What magic has delivered the world's treasure my fragile arms?

Rabindranath Tagore elsewhere

And I dedicate this beautiful song (click here)