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"romano" poems
Paunawa sa babasa: Hiniling ng isa kong kaibigan na relihiyoso na gawan ko daw s'ya ng tula tungkol sa ikalimang wika ni Kristo noong nagdaang Mahal na Araw kaya kahit Atheist ako ay ginawa ko ang Free Verse (Malayang Taludturan) na ito. “Nauuhaw ako” Malalim ang baon ng mga pako sa kanyang mga kamay at paa. Mahigpit din ang pagkakatali ng lubid sa kanyang mga braso. Napapalibutan siya ng mga kaaway, nagsusugal at nag-iinuman ang mga sundalong Romano habang nililibak siya ng mga Pariseo. Tiyak na wala s’yang kawala. Naghahalo ang dugo at pawis magkasabay itong umaagos palabas mula sa kanyang katawan; hindi na rin n’ya maalala kung ilan ng sampal, suntok, sipa at palo ang kanyang natanggap. Sa gitna ng kanyang paghihirap binigkas ni Hesus ang kanyang ikalimang wika: “Nauuhaw ako” Kagabi lang bago s’ya dakpin ng mga tampalasan ay nagmakaawa s’ya sa hardin ng Getsemane at taimtim na hiniling sa kanyang Ama na kung maaari sana ay huwag na n’yang danasin ang paghihirap na ito. Subalit hindi s’ya dininig nito. “Nauuhaw ako” Siya ba ang kailangan na magdusa, obligado ba s’ya na bayaran ang kasalanan ng iba? Bakit s’ya ang inutusan ng kanyang Ama para akuin ang sala ng sangkatauhan? Masyadong mabigat ang pasanin na ito para sa isang hamak na karpintero na gaya n’ya. “Nauuhaw ako” Ito ba ang kapalit ng pagiging masunurin at mabuting anak ang masadlak sa laksang dusa at malagim na paghihirap? Nasasabik na s’yang umupo sa tabi ng kanyang ama; hinahanaphanap n’ya na ang papuring awit ng mga Anghel sa langit. “Nauuhaw ako” Nilikha ba ang sanlibutan at ang mga tao upang sa bandang huli ay maging mapaghimagsik sila at walang galang sa kanilang lumalang? Bakit punong-puno ng kalupitan at karahasan ang mundo? “Nauuhaw ako” Hindi sapat ang tubig o ano mang inumin para mawala ang kanyang uhaw na nagmumula sa puso; ang pag-ibig ng sangkatauhan ang kanyang inaasam.
0
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 3:28 AM UTC
"NAUUHAW AKO"
Paunawa sa babasa: Hiniling ng isa kong kaibigan na relihiyoso na gawan ko daw s'ya ng tula tungkol sa ikalimang wika ni Kristo noong nagdaang Mahal na Araw kaya kahit Atheist ako ay ginawa ko ang Free Verse (Malayang Taludturan) na ito. “Nauuhaw ako” Malalim ang baon ng mga pako sa kanyang mga kamay at paa. Mahigpit din ang pagkakatali ng lubid sa kanyang mga braso. Napapalibutan siya ng mga kaaway, nagsusugal at nag-iinuman ang mga sundalong Romano habang nililibak siya ng mga Pariseo. Tiyak na wala s’yang kawala. Naghahalo ang dugo at pawis magkasabay itong umaagos palabas mula sa kanyang katawan; hindi na rin n’ya maalala kung ilan ng sampal, suntok, sipa at palo ang kanyang natanggap. Sa gitna ng kanyang paghihirap binigkas ni Hesus ang kanyang ikalimang wika: “Nauuhaw ako” Kagabi lang bago s’ya dakpin ng mga tampalasan ay nagmakaawa s’ya sa hardin ng Getsemane at taimtim na hiniling sa kanyang Ama na kung maaari sana ay huwag na n’yang danasin ang paghihirap na ito. Subalit hindi s’ya dininig nito. “Nauuhaw ako” Siya ba ang kailangan na magdusa, obligado ba s’ya na bayaran ang kasalanan ng iba? Bakit s’ya ang inutusan ng kanyang Ama para akuin ang sala ng sangkatauhan? Masyadong mabigat ang pasanin na ito para sa isang hamak na karpintero na gaya n’ya. “Nauuhaw ako” Ito ba ang kapalit ng pagiging masunurin at mabuting anak ang masadlak sa laksang dusa at malagim na paghihirap? Nasasabik na s’yang umupo sa tabi ng kanyang ama; hinahanaphanap n’ya na ang papuring awit ng mga Anghel sa langit. “Nauuhaw ako” Nilikha ba ang sanlibutan at ang mga tao upang sa bandang huli ay maging mapaghimagsik sila at walang galang sa kanilang lumalang? Bakit punong-puno ng kalupitan at karahasan ang mundo? “Nauuhaw ako” Hindi sapat ang tubig o ano mang inumin para mawala ang kanyang uhaw na nagmumula sa puso; ang pag-ibig ng sangkatauhan ang kanyang inaasam.
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14
Thirty six years after they last were held in pre-war Berlin The games of the Olympiad were all set to begin This time though, in Munich, set to host the sports worlds greatest show It was the night before the opening, and all were set to go August 26th, the games did start and all was going well But ten days in, the world was shook, and Munich was now a hell Where terrorists changed how the world would see these famous games From that date on, The Olympic world, would never be the same Mark Spitz, that year, set records as he won seven swimming golds Olga Korbut, elfin princess, stole our hearts with moves so bold Frank Shorter won the marathon for America, and he was German born But, Munich's games are famous for the actions, that September morn Close your eyes, remember back, if you are of the age Remember those victorious, who were outstanding on that stage Steve Prefontaine, he came up short, Lasse Viren, he did what he set to do Think back now to that late summer day in nineteen seventy two Eyes closed, still remember....David Berger, Mark Slavin and Kehatt Shorr Seew Friedman, Josef Gutfreund,Elieser Halfin, and you know there is five more Josef Romano, Amizur Shapira, not tweaking any pictures in your mind, Andre Spitzer, Jaakow Springer, Mosche Weinberger...any memories do you find? These men all were Olympians, judges, coaches, athletes, refs September 5th is now famous, it's remembered for their deaths They all should be remembered, for their lives, for why they came They all reached the highest level, they had made it to The Games Did they ever win a medal ? Would they ever get their glory? They're remembered as a victim, unfortunately that's their story It's 40 years on, London hosts, The IOC does not Take a single minute, give these Olympians a thought Now close your eyes again and think, could that happen once again Could terrorists take Olympic lives, could they come and **** like then Now if I repeat all the names I mentioned, you may not see their face But, for one short shining moment, please put them in their earned space Eyes closed, still remember....David Berger, Mark Slavin and Kehatt Shorr Seew Friedman, Josef Gutfreund,Elieser Halfin, and you know there is five more Josef Romano, Amizur Shapira, not tweaking any pictures in your mind, Andre Spitzer, Jaakow Springer, Mosche Weinberger...any memories do you find?
0
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 4:43 PM UTC
Munich 1972
Thirty six years after they last were held in pre-war Berlin The games of the Olympiad were all set to begin This time though, in Munich, set to host the sports worlds greatest show It was the night before the opening, and all were set to go August 26th, the games did start and all was going well But ten days in, the world was shook, and Munich was now a hell Where terrorists changed how the world would see these famous games From that date on, The Olympic world, would never be the same Mark Spitz, that year, set records as he won seven swimming golds Olga Korbut, elfin princess, stole our hearts with moves so bold Frank Shorter won the marathon for America, and he was German born But, Munich's games are famous for the actions, that September morn Close your eyes, remember back, if you are of the age Remember those victorious, who were outstanding on that stage Steve Prefontaine, he came up short, Lasse Viren, he did what he set to do Think back now to that late summer day in nineteen seventy two Eyes closed, still remember....David Berger, Mark Slavin and Kehatt Shorr Seew Friedman, Josef Gutfreund,Elieser Halfin, and you know there is five more Josef Romano, Amizur Shapira, not tweaking any pictures in your mind, Andre Spitzer, Jaakow Springer, Mosche Weinberger...any memories do you find? These men all were Olympians, judges, coaches, athletes, refs September 5th is now famous, it's remembered for their deaths They all should be remembered, for their lives, for why they came They all reached the highest level, they had made it to The Games Did they ever win a medal ? Would they ever get their glory? They're remembered as a victim, unfortunately that's their story It's 40 years on, London hosts, The IOC does not Take a single minute, give these Olympians a thought Now close your eyes again and think, could that happen once again Could terrorists take Olympic lives, could they come and **** like then Now if I repeat all the names I mentioned, you may not see their face But, for one short shining moment, please put them in their earned space Eyes closed, still remember....David Berger, Mark Slavin and Kehatt Shorr Seew Friedman, Josef Gutfreund,Elieser Halfin, and you know there is five more Josef Romano, Amizur Shapira, not tweaking any pictures in your mind, Andre Spitzer, Jaakow Springer, Mosche Weinberger...any memories do you find?
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36
Ako lang naman yaong hamak na kapuluan Sa kontinenteng Asya bandang timog-silangan Na minsan mo nang dinayo at pinagkanlungan. España, me todavia en tu memoria? ‘Di ba’t hindi ako ang marapat na sadyain? Ika’y nagkamali sa dinaungang lupain! Subalit bakit ka pa nagpumilit sa akin? España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ano bang nasilayan at ako’y binihag mo? Ikaw pa ang naghandog sa akin ng ngalan ko Bininyagan na maging Romano Katoliko. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Langis ng Kristiyanismo ako ay binuhusan ‘Di nga lang lubos dumaloy hanggang talampakan Na kay Allah ay tali na noon pa man. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Tatlong daan, tatlumpu’t taong alipin Dugo’t laman ko’y pinagpumilitang bigkisin Sa kultura’t kamalayang dayuhan sa akin. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ano bang taglay mo’t nagtiis din sa’yo? Mga dantao’y inabot bago napagtanto Pag-alpas na marapat mula paniniil mo! España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ginang ng karagatan kung ikaw ay turingan Ako’y isa lang pala sa’yong anak-anakan Na sa kapangyarihan mo’y nakipagkumpulan. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ngayon ay isandaan at sampung taon narin Ang nakalipas nang ako ay iyong lisanin Pero siguradong ikaw ay nandito parin. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Bayani kong si Rizal sa’yo ay nagtungo Upang ipabatid ang aking panlulumo Wika mo’y inaral ngunit balewala sa’yo. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ngayon ako naman kung nais maunawaan Ang tulang ito na sa’yo ang patukuyan Ang wika kong ito naman ang ‘yong pag-aralan. España, me todavia en tu memoria? España, ako ba’y nasa iyo pang gunita? -08/01/2008 (Miagao) *for PI 100 under Sir Sansait
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Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 2:07 AM UTC
España, me todavia en tu memoria?
Ako lang naman yaong hamak na kapuluan Sa kontinenteng Asya bandang timog-silangan Na minsan mo nang dinayo at pinagkanlungan. España, me todavia en tu memoria? ‘Di ba’t hindi ako ang marapat na sadyain? Ika’y nagkamali sa dinaungang lupain! Subalit bakit ka pa nagpumilit sa akin? España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ano bang nasilayan at ako’y binihag mo? Ikaw pa ang naghandog sa akin ng ngalan ko Bininyagan na maging Romano Katoliko. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Langis ng Kristiyanismo ako ay binuhusan ‘Di nga lang lubos dumaloy hanggang talampakan Na kay Allah ay tali na noon pa man. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Tatlong daan, tatlumpu’t taong alipin Dugo’t laman ko’y pinagpumilitang bigkisin Sa kultura’t kamalayang dayuhan sa akin. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ano bang taglay mo’t nagtiis din sa’yo? Mga dantao’y inabot bago napagtanto Pag-alpas na marapat mula paniniil mo! España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ginang ng karagatan kung ikaw ay turingan Ako’y isa lang pala sa’yong anak-anakan Na sa kapangyarihan mo’y nakipagkumpulan. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ngayon ay isandaan at sampung taon narin Ang nakalipas nang ako ay iyong lisanin Pero siguradong ikaw ay nandito parin. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Bayani kong si Rizal sa’yo ay nagtungo Upang ipabatid ang aking panlulumo Wika mo’y inaral ngunit balewala sa’yo. España, me todavia en tu memoria? Ngayon ako naman kung nais maunawaan Ang tulang ito na sa’yo ang patukuyan Ang wika kong ito naman ang ‘yong pag-aralan. España, me todavia en tu memoria? España, ako ba’y nasa iyo pang gunita? -08/01/2008 (Miagao) *for PI 100 under Sir Sansait
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44
matiyaga kang pinapasan ng mamang nangumpisal sa salamin, umami't umako ng karnal na pagkakamali. habang ang karamiha'y mga miron sa silong ng tirik na araw, namamanata sa ritwal ng pag-ulit, pagpako't pagpapasakit sa huling Adan na nabayubay. upang ang kapirasong kahoy ay maging kahulugan, upang ang kahuluga'y maging ehemplo. templo at tiyempo ng mga himno ng mga epokrito't espasyo ng hunghang na pagsamba. ang balikat ay hudyong Kristo, ang kamay ay romano. paano kaya kung ang idolo ng impostor ay sa silya elektrika hinatulan, papasanin din kaya ito ng walang alinlangan?
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May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC
Krus
Jamming jellyfish Top-Me  ((Giddy App Seahorse)) The horseradish on my lap______ The jolly Jelly Gefilte Fish Little help from my friends How we click the laptop One dent to Deceive me The Rock and Rolling Stomach his smoke went Like *** Cheese) he leaves me The spicy tongue map Z-Top Zany Chilli Pepper____ your # tap dance tap Italian top of the cheese designer skirt The outskirts of Naples Her sweet dimples, please The Islands of Sicily So many Cheese forms Terms of Endearment Mama Mia Murano-Positano Her lips of Romano Cheese (To Top Me) Challenge me Cheese doesn't mix with cappuccino, she's the Capri Ala Denti Cheese Wiz chair Mediterranean Wines Bear men doing low sips of time the grisly(Z) pour The car smelled like Flight (Top Me) Swiss air Meet Dominique How it went La Cirque Anti Christ Devil Red-bed cheese mystique SOS to their notes PS the junk car in Midas the makeover Make-up artist counter Clinique I could paint over your hood Creamy mind put at ease He's so displeased New castle disease Mingling social disease She's so infectious ZZ- Top me rock me Eyes bloodshot you got me And nevertheless With twelve and V V- Vamps tramps and 14 karats The French Lieutenant Mistress Brie with heavy bite teeth like garnets Cher turning back time The burlesque striptease Come back little Sheba Z Top Queen of Sheba I know it's coming soon____? All Tight claustrophobic The tight squeeze Him speaking Mandarin Oranges The British Colony Unique Chinese languages Her hills, San Francisco Jack Nicholson Comedy of China town The American Women Smile cheese at the Disco The food Cantonese style Z muscles Hercules Joan Rivers Fashion Police The Cheese of Portuguese Its the meat market With his nifty thrifty Neice All Socrates (Gromet and Cheese) Those Brooklyn workers The Falcon Matese____* More cheese Z-Top Who could ever top The string cheese Silken strings became to rest, I rest my cheese What cheese fascinates you Tell me?
0
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
Z- Top Me! Cheese
Jamming jellyfish Top-Me  ((Giddy App Seahorse)) The horseradish on my lap______ The jolly Jelly Gefilte Fish Little help from my friends How we click the laptop One dent to Deceive me The Rock and Rolling Stomach his smoke went Like *** Cheese) he leaves me The spicy tongue map Z-Top Zany Chilli Pepper____ your # tap dance tap Italian top of the cheese designer skirt The outskirts of Naples Her sweet dimples, please The Islands of Sicily So many Cheese forms Terms of Endearment Mama Mia Murano-Positano Her lips of Romano Cheese (To Top Me) Challenge me Cheese doesn't mix with cappuccino, she's the Capri Ala Denti Cheese Wiz chair Mediterranean Wines Bear men doing low sips of time the grisly(Z) pour The car smelled like Flight (Top Me) Swiss air Meet Dominique How it went La Cirque Anti Christ Devil Red-bed cheese mystique SOS to their notes PS the junk car in Midas the makeover Make-up artist counter Clinique I could paint over your hood Creamy mind put at ease He's so displeased New castle disease Mingling social disease She's so infectious ZZ- Top me rock me Eyes bloodshot you got me And nevertheless With twelve and V V- Vamps tramps and 14 karats The French Lieutenant Mistress Brie with heavy bite teeth like garnets Cher turning back time The burlesque striptease Come back little Sheba Z Top Queen of Sheba I know it's coming soon____? All Tight claustrophobic The tight squeeze Him speaking Mandarin Oranges The British Colony Unique Chinese languages Her hills, San Francisco Jack Nicholson Comedy of China town The American Women Smile cheese at the Disco The food Cantonese style Z muscles Hercules Joan Rivers Fashion Police The Cheese of Portuguese Its the meat market With his nifty thrifty Neice All Socrates (Gromet and Cheese) Those Brooklyn workers The Falcon Matese____* More cheese Z-Top Who could ever top The string cheese Silken strings became to rest, I rest my cheese What cheese fascinates you Tell me?
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98
Se perdió el laberinto. Se perdieron todos los eucaliptos ordenados, los toldos del verano y la vigilia del incesante espejo, repitiendo cada expresión de cada rostro humano, cada fugacidad. El detenido reloj, la entretejida madreselva, la glorieta, las frívolas estatuas, el otro lado de la tarde, el trino, el mirador y el ocio de la fuente son cosas del pasado. ¿Del pasado? Si no hubo un principio ni habrá un término, si nos aguarda una infinita suma de blancos días y de negras noches, ya somos el pasado que seremos. Somos el tiempo, el río indivisible, somos Uxmal, Cartago y la borrada muralla del romano y el perdido parque que conmemoran estos versos.
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1.5k
Elegía de un parque
Dear sandwiches, You're awesome Everything about you Is perfect Your swarm white bread Baked golden-brown in a pan of butter Crunchy on the outside Light as a pillow on the inside Your lettuce Cold and crunchy like an apple Freshly picked A strong base layer The cheese So many types Romano, Mozzarella, Pepper Jack Muenster, Cheddar, & American And the meat Oh how I love you With your savory, salted taste You truly are what makes a sandwich Last, but not least, the sauce A tangy break from the norm Dripping from the sides A perfect mess Thank you sandwiches For everything
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Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
Sandwiches
Mujer de un funcionario romano, recorriste la tierra -sombra suya- de Gades a Palmira. Soles distintos te doraron, maduraron tu piel, fueron dejando seco tu corazón.                     Cómo sería tu cabeza, tu mano, lo que fue carne tibia, vestidura del alma y luego piedra silenciosa... Ahora la mano ya no está en la piedra. Y la cabeza fue limada, desfigurada y corroída por el agua que la albergó durante siglos. ¿Cómo serías? Imagino que el escultor, sumiso a los clientes, las rutinas, los tópicos vigentes en la Roma de los Césares, copió de ti la apariencia banal. ¿Serías verdaderamente -no quedan rasgos que dejen comprobarlo- matrona dura que mandaba sus hijos a la guerra, que prefería muertos valerosos, soledad y desolación, antes que amor, calor y compañía de cobardes? ¿O tu rostro impasible revelaría otra verdad? Ahora no tienes ojos, ni siquiera de piedra, para que en ellos se refleje y cante el mar, el mismo que rompía en tus ojos humanos y te vestía de llamas azules. (A la orilla del mar ocurriría aquel amor). Un legionario, un soñador, un triste, a la orilla del mar... Y le decías: «Ráptame, llévame contigo, da a mi vida sentido y esperanza, olvido y horizonte, dale vida a mi vida». (El fingiría indiferencia cuando subías con ofrendas al templo. Y te abrazaba, enloquecía, te daba vida y muerte cuando estabas con él a solas.) El día que marchaste, dócil al lado de tu esposo, a otro sol y otra tierra del Imperio, lloró desconsolado el que era fuerza tuya. Te hizo un collar de lágrimas el que bebió tus lágrimas. (Esto debió de suceder en la Imperial Tarraco). Ahora no tienes ojos, ni siquiera de piedra. El mar y el tiempo los borraron. (Dentro del mar se pudriría aquel amor). Sólo te queda la impasibilidad con que te imaginaron para edificación y pasmo de los hombres. Jamás podrá la piedra albergar un soplo de vida. Y entonces, dónde ha ido tanta vida, dónde está tanta vida que la piedra no puede contener, no puede imaginar y transmitir. Tanta vida que fue la salvadora del olvido y la nada, ¿habrá muerto contigo? Cómo puede morir lo que fue vida. Quién puede asesinar la vida. Quién puede congelar en estatua una vida. Qué hay en común entre este bulto -pliegues rígidos y elegantes, rostro esfumado, manos mutiladas- y aquella estatua de ola tibia, aquel pequeño sol poniente, aquel viento de carne pálida, aquella arena palpitante, aquel prodigio de rumores: o que tú fuiste un día, lo que eres para siempre en un punto del tiempo y del espacio, en el que escarbo inútilmente con el afán de un perro hambriento.
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1.2k
Estatua mutilada
Mujer de un funcionario romano, recorriste la tierra -sombra suya- de Gades a Palmira. Soles distintos te doraron, maduraron tu piel, fueron dejando seco tu corazón.                     Cómo sería tu cabeza, tu mano, lo que fue carne tibia, vestidura del alma y luego piedra silenciosa... Ahora la mano ya no está en la piedra. Y la cabeza fue limada, desfigurada y corroída por el agua que la albergó durante siglos. ¿Cómo serías? Imagino que el escultor, sumiso a los clientes, las rutinas, los tópicos vigentes en la Roma de los Césares, copió de ti la apariencia banal. ¿Serías verdaderamente -no quedan rasgos que dejen comprobarlo- matrona dura que mandaba sus hijos a la guerra, que prefería muertos valerosos, soledad y desolación, antes que amor, calor y compañía de cobardes? ¿O tu rostro impasible revelaría otra verdad? Ahora no tienes ojos, ni siquiera de piedra, para que en ellos se refleje y cante el mar, el mismo que rompía en tus ojos humanos y te vestía de llamas azules. (A la orilla del mar ocurriría aquel amor). Un legionario, un soñador, un triste, a la orilla del mar... Y le decías: «Ráptame, llévame contigo, da a mi vida sentido y esperanza, olvido y horizonte, dale vida a mi vida». (El fingiría indiferencia cuando subías con ofrendas al templo. Y te abrazaba, enloquecía, te daba vida y muerte cuando estabas con él a solas.) El día que marchaste, dócil al lado de tu esposo, a otro sol y otra tierra del Imperio, lloró desconsolado el que era fuerza tuya. Te hizo un collar de lágrimas el que bebió tus lágrimas. (Esto debió de suceder en la Imperial Tarraco). Ahora no tienes ojos, ni siquiera de piedra. El mar y el tiempo los borraron. (Dentro del mar se pudriría aquel amor). Sólo te queda la impasibilidad con que te imaginaron para edificación y pasmo de los hombres. Jamás podrá la piedra albergar un soplo de vida. Y entonces, dónde ha ido tanta vida, dónde está tanta vida que la piedra no puede contener, no puede imaginar y transmitir. Tanta vida que fue la salvadora del olvido y la nada, ¿habrá muerto contigo? Cómo puede morir lo que fue vida. Quién puede asesinar la vida. Quién puede congelar en estatua una vida. Qué hay en común entre este bulto -pliegues rígidos y elegantes, rostro esfumado, manos mutiladas- y aquella estatua de ola tibia, aquel pequeño sol poniente, aquel viento de carne pálida, aquella arena palpitante, aquel prodigio de rumores: o que tú fuiste un día, lo que eres para siempre en un punto del tiempo y del espacio, en el que escarbo inútilmente con el afán de un perro hambriento.
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71
Tienes, como Luzbel, formas tan bellas, Que eí hombre olvida al verte, enamorado, Que son tus ojos negros dos estrellas Veladas por la sombra del pecado. Y no turbas, hipócrita, el reposo Del pobre hogar con que tu falta escudas, Porque a besar te atreves al esposo, Como besara a Jesucristo Judas. ¡Aun sus flores te dan las primaveras, Y ya tienes el alma envilecida! Ya llegarás a ver, aunque no quieras, El horizonte oscuro de tu vida. Desdeñas los sagrados embelesos Del casto hogar de la mujer honrada, Y audaz ostentas, al vender tus besos, Las llamas del infierno en tu mirada. Manchas el suelo que tu planta pisa, Y manchas lo que tocas con tu mano. Te dio Lucrecia Borgia su sonrisa, Y Mesalina su perfil romano. Brota el deleite de tus labios rojos; Se aparta la virtud a tu presencia, Porque negras, más negras que tus ojos, Tienes, mujer, el alma y la conciencia. Rosas de abril parecen tus mejillas, Mármol de Paros tu ondulante seno; Mas ¡ay! que tan excelsas maravillas Son de barro no más, no más de cieno. Reina del mal, tú tienes por diadema La infamia, que con nada se redime. ¿El pudor? ¡Es un ascua que te quema! ¿El deber? ¡Es un yugo que te oprime! Tienen las gracias con que al mundo halagas, Precio vil en mercados repugnantes; ¡Y te envaneces de cubrir tus llagas Con seda recamada de brillantes! En este siglo en que el honor campea, No te ha de perdonar ni el vulgo necio. Hieren más que las piedras de Judea Los dardos de la burla y del desprecio. Mañana, enferma, pobre, abandonada, De la mundana compasión proscrita; El Honor, cuando mueras humillada, Sobre tu losa escribirá: ¡Maldita!
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1.1k
Adúltera
Tienes, como Luzbel, formas tan bellas, Que eí hombre olvida al verte, enamorado, Que son tus ojos negros dos estrellas Veladas por la sombra del pecado. Y no turbas, hipócrita, el reposo Del pobre hogar con que tu falta escudas, Porque a besar te atreves al esposo, Como besara a Jesucristo Judas. ¡Aun sus flores te dan las primaveras, Y ya tienes el alma envilecida! Ya llegarás a ver, aunque no quieras, El horizonte oscuro de tu vida. Desdeñas los sagrados embelesos Del casto hogar de la mujer honrada, Y audaz ostentas, al vender tus besos, Las llamas del infierno en tu mirada. Manchas el suelo que tu planta pisa, Y manchas lo que tocas con tu mano. Te dio Lucrecia Borgia su sonrisa, Y Mesalina su perfil romano. Brota el deleite de tus labios rojos; Se aparta la virtud a tu presencia, Porque negras, más negras que tus ojos, Tienes, mujer, el alma y la conciencia. Rosas de abril parecen tus mejillas, Mármol de Paros tu ondulante seno; Mas ¡ay! que tan excelsas maravillas Son de barro no más, no más de cieno. Reina del mal, tú tienes por diadema La infamia, que con nada se redime. ¿El pudor? ¡Es un ascua que te quema! ¿El deber? ¡Es un yugo que te oprime! Tienen las gracias con que al mundo halagas, Precio vil en mercados repugnantes; ¡Y te envaneces de cubrir tus llagas Con seda recamada de brillantes! En este siglo en que el honor campea, No te ha de perdonar ni el vulgo necio. Hieren más que las piedras de Judea Los dardos de la burla y del desprecio. Mañana, enferma, pobre, abandonada, De la mundana compasión proscrita; El Honor, cuando mueras humillada, Sobre tu losa escribirá: ¡Maldita!
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44
Durante muchos siglos la costumbre fue ésta: aleccionar al hombre con historias a cargo de animales de voz docta, de solemne ademán o astutas tretas, tercos en la maldad y en la codicia o necios como el ser al que glosaban. La humanidad les debe parte de su virtud y su sapiencia a asnos y leones, ratas, cuervos, zorros, osos, cigarras y otros bichos que sirvieron de ejemplo y moraleja, de estímulo también y de escarmiento en las ajenas testas animales, al imaginativo y sutil griego, al severo romano, al refinado europeo, al hombre occidental, sin ir más lejos. Hoy quiero -y perdonad la petulancia- compensar tantos bienes recibidos del gremio irracional describiendo algún hecho sintomático, algún matiz de la conducta humana que acaso pueda ser educativo para las aves y para los peces, para los celentéreos y mamíferos, dirigido lo mismo a las amebas más simples como a cualquier especie vertebrada. Ya nuestra sociedad está madura, ya el hombre dejá atrás la adolescencia y en su vejez occidental bien puede servir de ejemplo al perro para que el perro sea más perro, y el zorro más traidor, y el *** más feroz y sanguinario, y el asno como dicen que es el asno, y el buey más inhibido y menos toro. A toda bestia que pretenda perfeccionarse como tal                                                   -ya sea con fines belicistas o pacíficos, con miras financieras o teológicas, o por amor al arte simplemente- no cesaré de darle este consejo: que observe al **** sapiens, y que aprenda.
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977
Introducción a las fábulas para animales
Durante muchos siglos la costumbre fue ésta: aleccionar al hombre con historias a cargo de animales de voz docta, de solemne ademán o astutas tretas, tercos en la maldad y en la codicia o necios como el ser al que glosaban. La humanidad les debe parte de su virtud y su sapiencia a asnos y leones, ratas, cuervos, zorros, osos, cigarras y otros bichos que sirvieron de ejemplo y moraleja, de estímulo también y de escarmiento en las ajenas testas animales, al imaginativo y sutil griego, al severo romano, al refinado europeo, al hombre occidental, sin ir más lejos. Hoy quiero -y perdonad la petulancia- compensar tantos bienes recibidos del gremio irracional describiendo algún hecho sintomático, algún matiz de la conducta humana que acaso pueda ser educativo para las aves y para los peces, para los celentéreos y mamíferos, dirigido lo mismo a las amebas más simples como a cualquier especie vertebrada. Ya nuestra sociedad está madura, ya el hombre dejá atrás la adolescencia y en su vejez occidental bien puede servir de ejemplo al perro para que el perro sea más perro, y el zorro más traidor, y el *** más feroz y sanguinario, y el asno como dicen que es el asno, y el buey más inhibido y menos toro. A toda bestia que pretenda perfeccionarse como tal                                                   -ya sea con fines belicistas o pacíficos, con miras financieras o teológicas, o por amor al arte simplemente- no cesaré de darle este consejo: que observe al **** sapiens, y que aprenda.
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47
[isang pagsasalin sa Tagalog, batay sa orihinal na "When tomorrow starts without me" ni David Romano] Kapag nagsimula ang bukas na di ako kasama, at ako’y wala roon upang makita; Kung sisilayan ng araw ang iyong mga mata, na puno ng luhang para sa akin, Sinta; Labis kong nais na hindi ka lumuha, katulad ng sa araw na ito’y iyong ginawa, habang inaalala ang maraming bagay at salita, na hindi nasabi o hindi nawika. Batid ko kung gaanong kamahal mo ako, kasingsidhi ng pag-ibig kong tanging sa iyo, at sa tuwinang ako’y iisipin mo, Alam kong hahanap-hanapin mo ako; Subalit kung ang bukas ay magsimulang wala ako, nawa'y pakaunawain mo, na isang sugo ang dumating at tinawag ang aking ngalan, at ang kamay ko’y kanyang hinawakan, at wika’y handa na ang aking paglulugaran, sa malayo’t mataas na kalangitan, at kailangang lumisa’t talikdan, tanang sa aki’y mahal, lahat ay iiwan. Subalit pagtalikod kong palayo, Isang patak ng luha ko’y tumulo, pagkat buong buhay, lagi kong kinukuro, Ayokong mamatay. Maraming dahilan para ako’y mabuhay, maraming gagawin pang mga bagay, Tila imposible, hindi kailanman, na ikaw mahal ko’y iiwan. Bumalik sa ala-ala ko ang mga araw na nagdaan, ang masasaya’t ang mga kalungkutan, Pumuno sa isip ang pag-ibig nating pinagsaluhan, at lahat ng ating galak at kaligayahan. Kung sa kahapo’y mabubuhay akong muli, kahit man lamang kaunting sandali, Magpapaalam ako’t hahagkan ka at marahil, makikita kong ngingiti ka. Ngunit lubos kong napagtanto, na hindi na kailanman mangyayari ito, sapagkat pagkawala’t mga ala-ala na lamang, ang sa aki’y papalit at maiiwan. At nang maalala ko ang sa mundo’y mga kasayahan, na bukas ay di ko na matitikman, ikaw ang naging laman ng isipan, at puso ko’y napuno ng kalungkutan. Ngunit pagpasok ko sa pinto ng kalangitan, Ramdam ko’y ako’y nakauwi sa tahanan. Pagdungaw ng Bathala’t ako’y nginitian, mula sa kanyang gintong luklukan, Wika’y “Ito ang Walang Hanggan, at lahat ng pangakong sa ‘yo’y inilaan". Sa araw na ito, natapos ang buhay sa lupa, ngunit dito ngayon ang simula. Di ko ipapangako ang kinabukasan, ngunit ang ngayon ay magpakaylanman, at dahil bawat araw ay pareho lamang, ang nakaraa’y hindi na kasasabikan. Ngunit ikaw ay naging matapat at naniwala, tunay at totoo, lubos na nagtiwala. Kahit may panahong may mga hindi tama, na alam **** hindi dapat ginawa. Ngunit ikaw ay pinatawad na at ngayon sa wakas ay malaya na. Kaya’t kamay ko ba’y hindi mo hahawakan at sa buhay ko, ako’y sasamahan? Kaya pag sumulong na ang bukas at wala na ako, huwag **** iisiping nagkalayo tayo, dahil sa tuwinang iisipin mo ako, Nandito lang ako, diyan sa puso mo.
0
Jul 19, 2019
Jul 19, 2019 at 5:11 AM UTC
Kapag nagsimula ang bukas na di ako kasama
[isang pagsasalin sa Tagalog, batay sa orihinal na "When tomorrow starts without me" ni David Romano] Kapag nagsimula ang bukas na di ako kasama, at ako’y wala roon upang makita; Kung sisilayan ng araw ang iyong mga mata, na puno ng luhang para sa akin, Sinta; Labis kong nais na hindi ka lumuha, katulad ng sa araw na ito’y iyong ginawa, habang inaalala ang maraming bagay at salita, na hindi nasabi o hindi nawika. Batid ko kung gaanong kamahal mo ako, kasingsidhi ng pag-ibig kong tanging sa iyo, at sa tuwinang ako’y iisipin mo, Alam kong hahanap-hanapin mo ako; Subalit kung ang bukas ay magsimulang wala ako, nawa'y pakaunawain mo, na isang sugo ang dumating at tinawag ang aking ngalan, at ang kamay ko’y kanyang hinawakan, at wika’y handa na ang aking paglulugaran, sa malayo’t mataas na kalangitan, at kailangang lumisa’t talikdan, tanang sa aki’y mahal, lahat ay iiwan. Subalit pagtalikod kong palayo, Isang patak ng luha ko’y tumulo, pagkat buong buhay, lagi kong kinukuro, Ayokong mamatay. Maraming dahilan para ako’y mabuhay, maraming gagawin pang mga bagay, Tila imposible, hindi kailanman, na ikaw mahal ko’y iiwan. Bumalik sa ala-ala ko ang mga araw na nagdaan, ang masasaya’t ang mga kalungkutan, Pumuno sa isip ang pag-ibig nating pinagsaluhan, at lahat ng ating galak at kaligayahan. Kung sa kahapo’y mabubuhay akong muli, kahit man lamang kaunting sandali, Magpapaalam ako’t hahagkan ka at marahil, makikita kong ngingiti ka. Ngunit lubos kong napagtanto, na hindi na kailanman mangyayari ito, sapagkat pagkawala’t mga ala-ala na lamang, ang sa aki’y papalit at maiiwan. At nang maalala ko ang sa mundo’y mga kasayahan, na bukas ay di ko na matitikman, ikaw ang naging laman ng isipan, at puso ko’y napuno ng kalungkutan. Ngunit pagpasok ko sa pinto ng kalangitan, Ramdam ko’y ako’y nakauwi sa tahanan. Pagdungaw ng Bathala’t ako’y nginitian, mula sa kanyang gintong luklukan, Wika’y “Ito ang Walang Hanggan, at lahat ng pangakong sa ‘yo’y inilaan". Sa araw na ito, natapos ang buhay sa lupa, ngunit dito ngayon ang simula. Di ko ipapangako ang kinabukasan, ngunit ang ngayon ay magpakaylanman, at dahil bawat araw ay pareho lamang, ang nakaraa’y hindi na kasasabikan. Ngunit ikaw ay naging matapat at naniwala, tunay at totoo, lubos na nagtiwala. Kahit may panahong may mga hindi tama, na alam **** hindi dapat ginawa. Ngunit ikaw ay pinatawad na at ngayon sa wakas ay malaya na. Kaya’t kamay ko ba’y hindi mo hahawakan at sa buhay ko, ako’y sasamahan? Kaya pag sumulong na ang bukas at wala na ako, huwag **** iisiping nagkalayo tayo, dahil sa tuwinang iisipin mo ako, Nandito lang ako, diyan sa puso mo.
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70
I remember my primary school which was all large hallways and shiny shoes library which was all popsicle stick projects and a round reading room after hours and finding a book about art. I showed it to Mrs Romano who was fat in a pleasant way and wore round glasses and she said “Picasso?” and i said "yes."
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Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
second grade
Is it weird how I remember one of your favorite artists was Frank Sinatra? That Red you adored. On your lips, on your nails, clip clopping heels on the floor. That you were born on the 18th In one of the J's of summer. That you eyes were "fat" you called them and Sad.. and beautiful.. I cannot look at them anymore they are filled with everything everything. Is it weird that I remember how full the face of you how alluring, proactive, your smile I remember even, how you hated your nose It was too wide you said. How your cheeks were too thick for your taste. Its weird. How in class, as we learn about Shakespeare, I still look forward for that little second to telling you, showing you what I've learned of what you like. I miss how I got used to out short random chit chats. You'd inspire me to come to love an idol of yours and not only for you she now lives inside Marilyn Monroe. Her beauty you desired, her beauty you longed for and admired and I to she only reminds me of you just of you I wonder how would that be to know? How you were the Spain to my Romano and my Romano to your Spain. How you made me love Spain, Antonio- Carriedo. That Tomato ******* head. How you portrayed him, with your joy all of you joy and with the underlying of your sadness was his sadness made him beautiful. My heart cherishes your Spain, and cherishes you. Its odd, how I remember your voice. The exact tone, and that sometimes I hear it, or want to and find myself remembering a time when you spoke the words I love you doubtful always, careful, but openly. I miss you. I do. I think of you every passing day. Its as if you were dead, good forbid it, far ahead it will come but for now its all the same. You are gone from my life. I'm sorry, so sorry.... but no more regrets. I miss you my friend. You were one of the best.
0
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
Weird
Is it weird how I remember one of your favorite artists was Frank Sinatra? That Red you adored. On your lips, on your nails, clip clopping heels on the floor. That you were born on the 18th In one of the J's of summer. That you eyes were "fat" you called them and Sad.. and beautiful.. I cannot look at them anymore they are filled with everything everything. Is it weird that I remember how full the face of you how alluring, proactive, your smile I remember even, how you hated your nose It was too wide you said. How your cheeks were too thick for your taste. Its weird. How in class, as we learn about Shakespeare, I still look forward for that little second to telling you, showing you what I've learned of what you like. I miss how I got used to out short random chit chats. You'd inspire me to come to love an idol of yours and not only for you she now lives inside Marilyn Monroe. Her beauty you desired, her beauty you longed for and admired and I to she only reminds me of you just of you I wonder how would that be to know? How you were the Spain to my Romano and my Romano to your Spain. How you made me love Spain, Antonio- Carriedo. That Tomato ******* head. How you portrayed him, with your joy all of you joy and with the underlying of your sadness was his sadness made him beautiful. My heart cherishes your Spain, and cherishes you. Its odd, how I remember your voice. The exact tone, and that sometimes I hear it, or want to and find myself remembering a time when you spoke the words I love you doubtful always, careful, but openly. I miss you. I do. I think of you every passing day. Its as if you were dead, good forbid it, far ahead it will come but for now its all the same. You are gone from my life. I'm sorry, so sorry.... but no more regrets. I miss you my friend. You were one of the best.
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53
Vanno verso le Terme di Caracalla giovani amici, a cavalcioni di Rumi o Ducati, con maschile pudore e maschile impudicizia, nelle pieghe calde dei calzoni nascondendo indifferenti, o scoprendo, il segreto delle loro erezioni... Con la testa ondulata, il giovanile colore dei maglioni, essi fendono la notte, in un carosello sconclusionato, invadono la notte, splendidi padroni della notte... Va verso le Terme di Caracalla, eretto il busto, come sulle natie chine appenniniche, fra tratturi che sanno di bestia secolare e pie ceneri di berberi paesi - già impuro sotto il gaglioffo basco impolverato, e le mani in saccoccia - il pastore migrato undicenne, e ora qui, malandrino e giulivo nel romano riso, caldo ancora di salvia rossa, di fico e d'ulivo... Va verso le Terme di Caracalla, il vecchio padre di famiglia, disoccupato, che il feroce Frascati ha ridotto a una bestia cretina, a un beato, con nello chassì i ferrivecchi del suo corpo scassato, a pezzi, rantolanti: i panni, un sacco, che contiene una schiena un po' gobba, due cosce certo piene di croste, i calzonacci che gli svolazzano sotto le saccocce della giacca pese di lordi cartocci. La faccia ride: sotto le ganasce, gli ossi masticano parole, scrocchiando: parla da solo, poi si ferma, e arrotola il vecchio mozzicone, carcassa dove tutta la giovinezza, resta, in fiore, come un focaraccio dentro una còfana o un catino: non muore chi non è mai nato.
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811
Verso le Terme di Caracalla
Abarbanel, Farías o Pinedo, arrojados de España por impía persecución, conservan todavía la llave de una casa de Toledo. Libres ahora de esperanza y miedo, miran la llave al declinar el día; en el bronce hay ayeres, lejanía, cansado brillo y sufrimiento quedo. Hoy que su puerta es polvo, el instrumento es cifra de la diáspora y del viento, afín a esa otra llave del santuario que alguien lanzó al azul cuando el romano acometió con fuego temerario, y que en el cielo recibió una mano.
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736
Una llave en salónica
Li osservo, questi uomini, educati ad altra vita che la mia: frutti d'una storia tanto diversa, e ritrovati, quasi fratelli, qui, nell'ultima forma storica di Roma. Li osservo: in tutti c'è come l'aria d'un buttero che dorma armato di coltello: nei loro succhi vitali, è disteso un tenebrore intenso, la papale itterizia del Belli, non porpora, ma spento peperino, bilioso cotto. La biancheria, sotto, fine e sporca; nell'occhio, l'ironia che trapela il suo umido, rosso, indecente bruciore. La sera li espone quasi in romitori, in riserve fatte di vicoli, muretti, androni e finestrelle perse nel silenzio. È certo la prima delle loro passioni il desiderio di ricchezza: sordido come le loro membra non lavate, nascosto, e insieme scoperto, privo di ogni pudore: come senza pudore è il rapace che svolazza pregustando chiotto il boccone, o il lupo, o il ragno; essi bramano i soldi come zingari, mercenari, puttane: si lagnano se non ce n'hanno, usano lusinghe abbiette per ottenerli, si gloriano plautinamente se ne hanno le saccocce piene. Se lavorano - lavoro di mafiosi macellari, ferini lucidatori, invertiti commessi, tranvieri incarogniti, tisici ambulanti, manovali buoni come cani - avviene che abbiano ugualmente un'aria di ladri: troppa avita furberia in quelle vene... Sono usciti dal ventre delle loro madri a ritrovarsi in marciapiedi o in prati preistorici, e iscritti in un'anagrafe che da ogni storia li vuole ignorati... Il loro desiderio di ricchezza è, così, banditesco, aristocratico. Simile al mio. Ognuno pensa a sé, a vincere l'angosciosa scommessa, a dirsi: "È fatta, " con un ghigno di re... La nostra speranza è ugualmente ossessa: estetizzante, in me, in essi anarchica. Al raffinato e al sottoproletariato spetta la stessa ordinazione gerarchica dei sentimenti: entrambi fuori dalla storia, in un mondo che non ha altri varchi che verso il sesso e il cuore, altra profondità che nei sensi. In cui la gioia è gioia, il dolore dolore.
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789
Il desiderio di ricchezza del sottoproletariato romano
Li osservo, questi uomini, educati ad altra vita che la mia: frutti d'una storia tanto diversa, e ritrovati, quasi fratelli, qui, nell'ultima forma storica di Roma. Li osservo: in tutti c'è come l'aria d'un buttero che dorma armato di coltello: nei loro succhi vitali, è disteso un tenebrore intenso, la papale itterizia del Belli, non porpora, ma spento peperino, bilioso cotto. La biancheria, sotto, fine e sporca; nell'occhio, l'ironia che trapela il suo umido, rosso, indecente bruciore. La sera li espone quasi in romitori, in riserve fatte di vicoli, muretti, androni e finestrelle perse nel silenzio. È certo la prima delle loro passioni il desiderio di ricchezza: sordido come le loro membra non lavate, nascosto, e insieme scoperto, privo di ogni pudore: come senza pudore è il rapace che svolazza pregustando chiotto il boccone, o il lupo, o il ragno; essi bramano i soldi come zingari, mercenari, puttane: si lagnano se non ce n'hanno, usano lusinghe abbiette per ottenerli, si gloriano plautinamente se ne hanno le saccocce piene. Se lavorano - lavoro di mafiosi macellari, ferini lucidatori, invertiti commessi, tranvieri incarogniti, tisici ambulanti, manovali buoni come cani - avviene che abbiano ugualmente un'aria di ladri: troppa avita furberia in quelle vene... Sono usciti dal ventre delle loro madri a ritrovarsi in marciapiedi o in prati preistorici, e iscritti in un'anagrafe che da ogni storia li vuole ignorati... Il loro desiderio di ricchezza è, così, banditesco, aristocratico. Simile al mio. Ognuno pensa a sé, a vincere l'angosciosa scommessa, a dirsi: "È fatta, " con un ghigno di re... La nostra speranza è ugualmente ossessa: estetizzante, in me, in essi anarchica. Al raffinato e al sottoproletariato spetta la stessa ordinazione gerarchica dei sentimenti: entrambi fuori dalla storia, in un mondo che non ha altri varchi che verso il sesso e il cuore, altra profondità che nei sensi. In cui la gioia è gioia, il dolore dolore.
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54
International designer Vivienne Tam is known for her culture-bridging, East-meets-West concepts in her collections. Her looks are global, often pioneering collaborations that marry fashion with technology. Her knack for blending her cultural roots with a modern design vocabulary in her looks is recognized. Often, her designs are sheer artistry. Tam is also the author of the award winning book, “China Chic.” Pieces of her collection are a part of the permanent archives of the world’s most prestigious museums, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Tam also loves the space program and cowboy themes. Inspired by her recent trip to Houston, Texas, she utilizes the NASA logo in her collection. There are also soft suede jackets with fringe and chrome metallic flares, and a ruffled blouse in a blue and white motif. Pretty dresses in beautiful prints and patterns are enhanced with embroidery, sequins and appliques. Some of her looks reflect styles seen on folks at the rodeo. Tam’s signature 3-D butterflies were apparent on her garments. A black Western belt cinched the waist. Good show! Rhode Island School of Design’s Apparel Design Department showed a rugged, yet fashionable collection of menswear on the New York Fashion Week runway. RISD prepares students to meet the demanding requirements of the fashion industry. The program is built on the philosophy that design and technical skills are mutually enhancing. From functional to experimental clothing, the course is structured to take students through all aspects of apparel design and construction. RISD’s technical classes proceed from basic to advanced drafting, draping and construction and incorporate the use of computers as a tool for design and product visualization. RISD has offered programs in costume, clothing and fashion since 1918, and established the Apparel Design Department in 1952. Their graduates include such top designers as Nicole Miller, Sari Gueron, Sally Lapointe, Robert Geller and Nicole Romano. Many students have found success with designers such as Michael Kors and Ralph Lauren.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
0
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:34 AM UTC
Fashion bridges cultural gaps for spring ’17
International designer Vivienne Tam is known for her culture-bridging, East-meets-West concepts in her collections. Her looks are global, often pioneering collaborations that marry fashion with technology. Her knack for blending her cultural roots with a modern design vocabulary in her looks is recognized. Often, her designs are sheer artistry. Tam is also the author of the award winning book, “China Chic.” Pieces of her collection are a part of the permanent archives of the world’s most prestigious museums, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Tam also loves the space program and cowboy themes. Inspired by her recent trip to Houston, Texas, she utilizes the NASA logo in her collection. There are also soft suede jackets with fringe and chrome metallic flares, and a ruffled blouse in a blue and white motif. Pretty dresses in beautiful prints and patterns are enhanced with embroidery, sequins and appliques. Some of her looks reflect styles seen on folks at the rodeo. Tam’s signature 3-D butterflies were apparent on her garments. A black Western belt cinched the waist. Good show! Rhode Island School of Design’s Apparel Design Department showed a rugged, yet fashionable collection of menswear on the New York Fashion Week runway. RISD prepares students to meet the demanding requirements of the fashion industry. The program is built on the philosophy that design and technical skills are mutually enhancing. From functional to experimental clothing, the course is structured to take students through all aspects of apparel design and construction. RISD’s technical classes proceed from basic to advanced drafting, draping and construction and incorporate the use of computers as a tool for design and product visualization. RISD has offered programs in costume, clothing and fashion since 1918, and established the Apparel Design Department in 1952. Their graduates include such top designers as Nicole Miller, Sari Gueron, Sally Lapointe, Robert Geller and Nicole Romano. Many students have found success with designers such as Michael Kors and Ralph Lauren.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
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They arrive by the sackload from the main office on the Via del Pontiere, Pouring from the bags as if a torrential weeping, Envelopes a collage of shapes, a multiplicity of pastel hues, Some addressed with all the formality of a judicial summons, Others bearing no more than the name of the distaff half Of the city’s most famous equation. They tread upon paths long since worn flat By any number of their predecessors: Tales of love unrequited, passion misspent, Promises untruthful and unmet. These epistles and their authors Seek solace of varying degree and efficacy: Some seek kernels of actual guidance or blessing, As if some ancient and inscrutable advice columnist Had taken up residence in the Basilica di San Zeno, Others looking to self-heal through the catharsis of the act of writing, Most content to quietly assert to the universe itself I am here, I am here, I am here. Where, then, is the corresponding mountain of missives For the son of the House of Montague? Surely, his shade would be as kindred a soul To those which affairs of the heart have left so disheartened, (Indeed, more so, he most assuredly The schemer and dreamer of the dramatis personae in question.) For him, though, no rambling, rumbling truck Emblazoned with the lemon-cheerful Posteitaliane markings Arrives at an office chock-a-block with secretaries Whose mission is to answer and archive its all-but-holy contents; More likely, there is some humble cart, (The wheel bearings frozen up, the canvas mildewed and frayed) Containing a handful of birthday cards Intended for some Renzo or Romano Miswritten by some absentminded grandmother or great-aunt, The odd solicitation or final-notice Which shall go no further for all of eternity. Despite the hectoring tone of the envelope Stating that the material is critically time-sensitive And intended for the eyes of the addressee only.
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Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:49 AM UTC
The Romeo Letters
They arrive by the sackload from the main office on the Via del Pontiere, Pouring from the bags as if a torrential weeping, Envelopes a collage of shapes, a multiplicity of pastel hues, Some addressed with all the formality of a judicial summons, Others bearing no more than the name of the distaff half Of the city’s most famous equation. They tread upon paths long since worn flat By any number of their predecessors: Tales of love unrequited, passion misspent, Promises untruthful and unmet. These epistles and their authors Seek solace of varying degree and efficacy: Some seek kernels of actual guidance or blessing, As if some ancient and inscrutable advice columnist Had taken up residence in the Basilica di San Zeno, Others looking to self-heal through the catharsis of the act of writing, Most content to quietly assert to the universe itself I am here, I am here, I am here. Where, then, is the corresponding mountain of missives For the son of the House of Montague? Surely, his shade would be as kindred a soul To those which affairs of the heart have left so disheartened, (Indeed, more so, he most assuredly The schemer and dreamer of the dramatis personae in question.) For him, though, no rambling, rumbling truck Emblazoned with the lemon-cheerful Posteitaliane markings Arrives at an office chock-a-block with secretaries Whose mission is to answer and archive its all-but-holy contents; More likely, there is some humble cart, (The wheel bearings frozen up, the canvas mildewed and frayed) Containing a handful of birthday cards Intended for some Renzo or Romano Miswritten by some absentminded grandmother or great-aunt, The odd solicitation or final-notice Which shall go no further for all of eternity. Despite the hectoring tone of the envelope Stating that the material is critically time-sensitive And intended for the eyes of the addressee only.
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It’s the wee things that get to you, the things that they – the invisible “they” – don’t think of or deem – what an egghead word – import. Like the many languages Pope Francis speaks to the poorest of the poor – just books away from Revelation and the end – apocalypse, they call it? Like the simple task, simpletons do it in political campaigns for the simplest of the simple – cost deferred until a position be taken if it isn’t ****** Like the contours of the manhood of the waiter leaning tightly against your table – as he asks again if you want your salad with French or Italian. Like the death of Romano III, a cat of nineteen, lying alone on a warm rug – or it was a cold shoulder, the mother lode of forgiveness. Like the birth of an heir or heiress of a circus regnant – a cut above the silliest of the silly, dancing in the streets to a playwright’s tunes. Like the circumcision of a newborn boy – a social decision on an ***** that doesn’t know itself until puberty, an unfair decision by a man. Like the baptism of a child – protection against purgatory or is it the shoreline of the Jordan where wading isn’t kosher when the teenaged lifeguard is absent? Like the final couplet of the last sonnet of a poet – her celebration and self-worth still unrhymed, its meter and iambs unborn until next week. Similes slant to the similar, metastasizing and growing outside the box – oh, **** the poet says, her wings clipped by a little thing like a pep rally. © Lewis Bosworth, 2013
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Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
Little Things
It’s the wee things that get to you, the things that they – the invisible “they” – don’t think of or deem – what an egghead word – import. Like the many languages Pope Francis speaks to the poorest of the poor – just books away from Revelation and the end – apocalypse, they call it? Like the simple task, simpletons do it in political campaigns for the simplest of the simple – cost deferred until a position be taken if it isn’t ****** Like the contours of the manhood of the waiter leaning tightly against your table – as he asks again if you want your salad with French or Italian. Like the death of Romano III, a cat of nineteen, lying alone on a warm rug – or it was a cold shoulder, the mother lode of forgiveness. Like the birth of an heir or heiress of a circus regnant – a cut above the silliest of the silly, dancing in the streets to a playwright’s tunes. Like the circumcision of a newborn boy – a social decision on an ***** that doesn’t know itself until puberty, an unfair decision by a man. Like the baptism of a child – protection against purgatory or is it the shoreline of the Jordan where wading isn’t kosher when the teenaged lifeguard is absent? Like the final couplet of the last sonnet of a poet – her celebration and self-worth still unrhymed, its meter and iambs unborn until next week. Similes slant to the similar, metastasizing and growing outside the box – oh, **** the poet says, her wings clipped by a little thing like a pep rally. © Lewis Bosworth, 2013
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A pesar de mí misma te amo; eres tan vano como hermoso, y me dice, vigilante, el orgullo: «¿Para esto elegías? Gusto bajo es el tuyo; no te vendas a nada, ni a un perfil de romano» Y me dicta el deseo, tenebroso y pagano, de abrirte un ancho tajo por donde tu murmullo vital fuera colado... Sólo muerto mi arrullo más dulce te envolviera, buscando boca y mano. -¿Salomé rediviva? -Son más pobres mis gestos. Ya para cosas trágicas malos tiempos son éstos. Yo soy la que incompleta vive siempre su vida. Pues no pierde su línea por una fiesta griega y al acaso indeciso, ondulante, se pliega con los ojos lejanos y el alma distraída.
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Indolencia
Coches cerrados llegaban a las orillas de juncos donde las ondas alisan romano torso desnudo. Coches que el Guadalquivir tiende en su cristal maduro, entre láminas de flores y resonancias de nublos. Los niños tejen y cantan el desengaño del mundo, cerca de los viejos coches perdidos en el nocturno. Pero Córdoba no tiembla bajo el misterio confuso, pues si la sombra levanta la arquitectura del humo, un pie de mármol afirma su casto fulgor enjuto. Pétalos de lata débil recaman los grises puros de la brisa, desplegada sobre los arcos de triunfo. Y mientras el puente sopla diez rumores de Neptuno, vendedores de tabaco huyen por el roto muro. Un solo pez en el agua que a las dos Córdobas junta: Blanda Córdoba de juncos. Córdoba de arquitectura. Niños de cara impasible en la orilla se desnudan, aprendices de Tobías y Merlines de cintura, para fastidiar al pez en irónica pregunta si quiere flores de vino o saltos de media luna. Pero el pez, que dora el agua y los mármoles enluta, les da lección y equilibrio de solitaria columna. El Arcángel aljamiado de lentejuelas oscuras, en el mitin de las ondas buscaba rumor y cuna. Un solo pez en el agua. Dos Córdobas de hermosura. Córdoba quebrada en chorros. Celeste Córdoba enjuta.
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San rafael
Juan, aquel militar de tres abriles, Que con gorra y fusil sueña en ser hombre, Y que ha sido en sus guerras infantiles Un glorioso heredero de mi nombre; Ayer, por tregua al belicoso juego, Dejando en un rincón la espada quieta, Tomó por voluntad, no a sangre y fuego, Mi mesa de escribir y mi gaveta. Allí guardo un laurel, y viene al caso Repetir lo que saben mis testigos: Esa corona de oropel y raso La debo, no a la gloria, a mis amigos. Con sus manos pequeñas y traviesas, Desató el niño, de la verde guía, El lazo tricolor en que hay impresas Frases que él no descifra todavía. Con la atención de un ser que se emociona Miró las hojas con extraño gesto, Y poniendo en mis manos la corona, Me preguntó con intención: -«¿Qué es esto?» -«Esto es -repuse- el lauro que promete La gloria al genio que en su luz inunda...» -«¿Y por qué lo tienes?»                                       -Por juguete, Le respondió mi convicción profunda. Viendo la forma oval, pronto el objeto Descubre el niño, de la noble gala; Se la ciñe, faltándome al respeto Y hecho un héroe se aleja por la sala. ¡Qué hermosa dualidad! Gloria y cariño Con su inocente acción enlazó ufano, Pues con el lauro semejaba el niño Un diminuto emperador romano. Hasta creí que de su faz severa Irradiaban celestes resplandores, Y que anhelaba en su imperial litera Ir al Circo a buscar los gladiadores. Con su nuevo disfraz quedé asombrado (No extrañéis en un padre estos asombros), Y corrí por un trapo colorado Que puse y extendí sobre sus hombros. Mirélo así con cándido embeleso, Me transformé en su esclavo humilde y rudo, Y -«¡Ave César!- le dije, dame un beso, ¡Yo que muero de penas, te saludo!» -«¿César?»- me preguntó lleno de susto Y yo sintiendo que su amor me abrasa, -«¡César!» -le respondí- «César Augusto De mi honor, de mi honra y de mi casa» Quitéle el manto, le volví la espada, Recogí mi corona de poeta, Y la guardé, deshecha y empolvada, En el fondo sin luz de mi gaveta.
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César en casa
Juan, aquel militar de tres abriles, Que con gorra y fusil sueña en ser hombre, Y que ha sido en sus guerras infantiles Un glorioso heredero de mi nombre; Ayer, por tregua al belicoso juego, Dejando en un rincón la espada quieta, Tomó por voluntad, no a sangre y fuego, Mi mesa de escribir y mi gaveta. Allí guardo un laurel, y viene al caso Repetir lo que saben mis testigos: Esa corona de oropel y raso La debo, no a la gloria, a mis amigos. Con sus manos pequeñas y traviesas, Desató el niño, de la verde guía, El lazo tricolor en que hay impresas Frases que él no descifra todavía. Con la atención de un ser que se emociona Miró las hojas con extraño gesto, Y poniendo en mis manos la corona, Me preguntó con intención: -«¿Qué es esto?» -«Esto es -repuse- el lauro que promete La gloria al genio que en su luz inunda...» -«¿Y por qué lo tienes?»                                       -Por juguete, Le respondió mi convicción profunda. Viendo la forma oval, pronto el objeto Descubre el niño, de la noble gala; Se la ciñe, faltándome al respeto Y hecho un héroe se aleja por la sala. ¡Qué hermosa dualidad! Gloria y cariño Con su inocente acción enlazó ufano, Pues con el lauro semejaba el niño Un diminuto emperador romano. Hasta creí que de su faz severa Irradiaban celestes resplandores, Y que anhelaba en su imperial litera Ir al Circo a buscar los gladiadores. Con su nuevo disfraz quedé asombrado (No extrañéis en un padre estos asombros), Y corrí por un trapo colorado Que puse y extendí sobre sus hombros. Mirélo así con cándido embeleso, Me transformé en su esclavo humilde y rudo, Y -«¡Ave César!- le dije, dame un beso, ¡Yo que muero de penas, te saludo!» -«¿César?»- me preguntó lleno de susto Y yo sintiendo que su amor me abrasa, -«¡César!» -le respondí- «César Augusto De mi honor, de mi honra y de mi casa» Quitéle el manto, le volví la espada, Recogí mi corona de poeta, Y la guardé, deshecha y empolvada, En el fondo sin luz de mi gaveta.
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Cristo en la cruz. Los pies tocan la tierra. Los tres maderos son de igual altura. Cristo no está en el medio. Es el tercero. La negra barba pende sobre el pecho. El rostro no es el rostro de las láminas. Es áspero y judío. No lo veo y seguiré buscándolo hasta el día último de mis pasos por la tierra. El hombre quebrantado sufre y calla. La corona de espinas lo lastima. No lo alcanza la befa de la plebe que ha visto su agonía tantas veces. La suya o la de otro. Da lo mismo. Cristo en la cruz. Desordenadamente piensa en el reino que tal vez lo espera, piensa en una mujer que no fue suya. No le está dado ver la teología, la indescifrable Trinidad, los gnósticos, las catedrales, la navaja de Occam, la púrpura, la mitra, la liturgia, la conversión de Guthrum por la espada, la Inquisición, la sangre de los mártires, las atroces Cruzadas, Juana de Arco, el Vaticano que bendice ejércitos. Sabe que no es un dios y que es un hombre que muere con el día. No le importa. Le importa el duro hierro de los clavos. No es un romano. No es un griego. Gime. Nos ha dejado espléndidas metáforas y una doctrina del perdón que puede anular el pasado. (Esa sentencia la escribió un irlandés en una cárcel.) El alma busca el fin, apresurada. Ha oscurecido un poco. Ya se ha muerto. Anda una mosca por la carne quieta. ¿De qué puede servirme que aquel hombre haya sufrido, si yo sufro ahora?
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Cristo en la cruz
Ambos, en la terraza, miraban bajo urente Y sofocante cielo, el Egipto dormido, Y atravesando el Delta, el Nilo en dos partido Que a Sais y a Bubaste desliza su corriente. Y el Romano sentía, bajo el peto luciente, Ya cautivo soldado, en un sueño abstraído, Sobre él plegarse, y luego caer desfallecido El cuerpo que a su seno juntaba abrazo ardiente. Entre el  bruno cabello, su  rostro  fatigado Volvió  a él, de invencibles perfumes embriagado, Y le tendió los labios y los ojos serenos; Y reclinado en ella, Antonio, a quien subyuga El amor, en sus ojos de puntos de oro llenos, Vio todo un mar inmenso con galeras en fuga.
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Antonio y cleopatra