Today is the second anniversary of this blog.
It´s been a long journey,and although my knowledge in photography is still near zero,it has been a great pleasure being influenced by all the great artists here in this micro world of Tumblr. The biggest thank you to all of you. All my gratitude to those who not only take the time to check my stuff on a daily basis but ,like,reblog,tag and encourage me,your support means the world to me. A big hug and smile to those who I can call friends here,you all know who you are. And last but not least all my love to my hubs who is my number one fan, deals with me and my nonsense, supports me and encourages me to keep shooting…best man EVUH!
All my love,
Herbier surréaliste / Deschampsia caespitosa (1947)
Continuamos la serie relativa a los poetas que visitarán Chicago del 24 al 26 de abril durante el VII Festival de Poesía en Español Poesía en Abril. En esta ocasión, hablo brevemente sobre el peruano Eduardo Chirinos.
Chirinos (Lima, 1960). Pertenece a la llamada Generación del 80, junto a poetas como José Antonio Mazzotti (quien estuvo en Chicago en el Festival de 2013) o Raúl Mendizábal.
"Ruins Under the Stars" by Galway Kinnell
All day under acrobat
Swallows I have sat, beside ruins
Of a plank house sunk to its windows
In burdock and raspberry canes,
The roof dropped, the foundation broken in,
Nothing left perfect but the axe-marks on the beams.
A paper in a cupboard talks about “Mugwumps”,
In a V-letter a farmboy in the Marines has “tasted battle…”
The apples are pure acid on the tangle of boughs
The pasture has gone to popple and bush.
Here on this perch of ruins
I listen for the crunch of the porcupines.
Overhead the skull-hill rises
Crossed on top by the stunted apple.
Infinitely beyond it, older than love or guilt,
Lie the stars ready to jump and sprinkle out of space.
Every night under the millions of stars
An owl dies or a snake sloughs its skin,
But what if a man feels the dark
Homesickness for the inconceivable realm?
Sometimes I see them,
The south-going Canada geese,
At evening, coming down
In pink light, over the pond, in great,
Loose, always dissolving V’s-
I go out into the field,
Amazed and moved, and listen
To the cold, lonely yelping
Of those tranced bodies in the sky,
Until I feel on the point
Of breaking to a sacred, bloodier speech.
This morning I watched
Milton Norway’s sky blue Ford
Dragging its ass down the dirt road
On the other side of the valley.
Later, off in the woods, I heard
A chainsaw agonizing across the top of some stump
A while ago the tracks of a little, snowy,
SAC bomber went crawling across heaven.
What of that little hairstreak
That was flopping and batting about
Deep in the goldenrod,
Did she not know, either, where she was going?
Just now I had a funny sensation
As if some angel, or winged star,
Had been perched nearby watching, maybe speaking,
I whirled, and in the chokecherry bush
There was a twig just ceasing to tremble.
Now the bats come spelling the swallows,
In the smoking heap of old antiques
The porcupine-crackle starts up again,
The bone-saw, the pure music of our sphere,
And up there the old stars rustling and whispering.