Desde la raiz, la palabra. Un proyecto donde lo efimero es el soporte sabiendo que la muerte odia la eternidad del instante. Sábado, abril 11, 2015. El actor Julio Lázaro posando para la entrevista. 191;Tan buenos son tus papeles en la obra? .

I think I have made up the buffaloes here. I feel their absence so much. You want to make your tranquil morning scenes cloyingly beautiful? You represent.

Night of the Scorpion A poem By Nissim Ezekiel. I remember the night my mother. Was stung by a scorpion. Of steady rain had driven him. To crawl beneath a sack of rice. He risked the rain again. The peasants came like swarms of flies. And buzzed the name of God a hundred times. To paralyse the Evil One.

The seven poems here are collected from the 17 typed manuscript pages brought to the home of the poet Perla Rezait in 1971, a year before her death. What does one make of it? There is death-like passivity in the entire activity of stringing together the seventeen poems as. To the poet Perla Rozait a year before her death.

By the sweat of his brow. Making light of serious stuff. A poem a day by A. Light grew less in his eyes and other poems. Dad would rather not part with. His daughter into her marriage,. Spinster daughter,not a virgin. Her marriage is not important . Daugher is ,for doddering dad. Concerned about his hard shit. Everything goes down to shit.

Poetry about the Indian situations ,Indian memes. In the midst of our presidential confusion. We may mention his passing of yesterday. Lecturing a bunch of north and east kids. To the management kids on wings of fire. A fire shall now bury president of all time. An old paper boy had aimed upper story. With news missile to reach morning cup. Later he made missiles for the high skies.

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Short poems built around a keyword. We are still on the earth anxious for victory. Of avoiding the bumps in our tiny stomachs. And the consequent high tension wires in us. Snapping in their lightning flash, a big bang. We are looking for our paper to fly like them. Who went before and are a dead-weight still. On the earth we are hanging on to the hangar. Counting Siberian bird feet into our swamps. There is not much of a sun about us. Where we and our other come from.

A poem a day written in 2011 and 2012. A poem a day by A. The chrysanthemums are stars of a sun. Taking sun light from wind and worms. A bouquet to no one except an earth pot. Its mother of womb, softly under water. In earthly fragrance of mother and wind. A sky overlooks from a blue parapet wall. Topped with a Krishna-black granite like. Lake mirroring shore trees,in the evening . Like sky-stars they seem to last for ever. A poem a day by A.

His teeth are a Himalayan pass. Letting in a central Asian wind. He smiles down at a cognition. Of senior to second in the run. I have learned from him by now. How to act my creeping years,. How to pretend not to observe. The wind from the nether pass. Tagged wind in the pass. See the moon hung on a branch of tree. It is sad moon-face,a pie-face in cloud. It used to jump each time a wave came. You are reading in years, with big holes.