JOSÉ JOSÉ CEREIJO IN SMYRNA
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
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Hello everyone
On Friday 19 February we visited Joseph Cereijo. A poet of fine brush and warm heart, figurative, concrete, always authentic.
One of those voices are necessary and no go discrete nothing and take almost everything.
One of those critical minds that we need to add a bit of sanity in the current poetry scene.
As before, the warm light of Joyce Pub worked the miracle of the conversation, guided by passionately for poetry and the poetry itself Redondela than we hoped.
to the next.
A hug. Team
Smyrna.
Poems of José Cereijo:
TESTAMENT
This deep blue sky in spring,
the birdsong, the sound of dreams,
love books, always reciprocated,
the silence of dawn,
of my heart, sometimes the hours are
sweet secret memory:
is everything to her.
Everything to death, I have been loved so much.
A TEENAGER
Javier Lostaló
Ardes in a flame so beautiful and secret, perhaps unwittingly
afraid that, when you give, you
the life-changing, and not recognize.
But it must, it is my advice. Wait.
While you can still, enjoy it in silence. You may have
later,
bodies, souls, knowledge to complete a perfect life-
reward, not unworthy of the gods.
That purity and that fire, ever.
TO KNOW
Miguel d'Ors
You were right.
time will erase everything. The secret sweet
of your skin, your lips.
can deny even the deepest truths:
confused with dream vanity
useless.
not this cold in the bones, and this gap
arms. Not the dark
evidence of pain. He knows.
LIGHT MARCH March In this light, this light
shaken and pure
a benevolent god now brought to your window, and makes
embarrass your silence, as well
vast, silent company
is a deep lesson you must learn:
your words can not hold it;
can not improve it.
abide by this beauty, so superior to you, and let it be lost.
And that silence is their way of tribute. MELANCHOLY
Esther
Muntañola
One afternoon quiet, mysterious, and pure,
you are watching a child, and not to forget
.
The youth, who walked away leaving behind it a
moving and beautiful music, you know.
Those eyes which once, like a lake the moon, the world contained
,
"still more than pale ash,
a thorn pricking the memory?
not curse then melancholy, pity
that time. HARMONIC
MURMUR ...
Gabriel Insausti
A Harmonic
rustling leaves in the still air of the evening, and mild acute
birdsong,
small, pulsating living arrows;
silent aroma of flowers, transparent depth
twilight.
Listen, feel, look, enjoy, learn:
all this has to die, and sings.
De Music for dreams (2005)
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