Friday, March 19, 2010

Is Aveeno Ok For Tattoos?

BUTRAGUEÑO. FRIDAY MARCH 26, 19:30. JOYCE PUB. ALCALA, 59




Hi friends
This

months we in Smyrna with the presence of Barbara Butragueño.

A pretty young poet with a personal language, very imaginative and knows where to direct your writing. In fact, his poetry, without echoing the deaths hyped rhetoric, rightly used the metaphor and image, free rhythm and not score, as each verse runs like a bullet shot to the center sense of the poetic emotion . An author who swallows the world and returns trembling, as a pledge of a chill. Someone who has so much talent in a hurry. It will be a joy for us to receive and you can hear. To make matters worse, we again with Cereijo, this time to help us present it.

encounter with Barbara will take place on Friday 26 March, as always in the James Joyce Pub (Alcalá 59, Madrid). Begin at 19:30 to end on 21:00 (approx.).

So that you know a little to the author's note we leave literature and some links:

Butragueño Barbara, born in Madrid twenty-four years, graduated in Law and International Relations at the Universidad Pontificia de Comillas de Madrid. He has conducted numerous poetry readings, most of them through the Network of Young Art of the Community of Madrid, in addition to combine his artistic with painting, illustration and photography. Has written the poems Shipwrecks and tiny know nothing of the wind . With the same name keeps a blog where it hangs poems, photographs and illustrations, with large numbers of followers. Some of his poems have recently appeared in the anthology of poetry young Capital Poetry (Sial).

know nothing of the Wind (poems, pictures, illustrations) :
http://chincheta.wordpress.com/

Chronicle of a recital by Barbara Butragueño (for Batani) :
http: / / neorrabioso.blogspot.com/2009/10/cronica-del-ultimo-recital-de-barbara.html

A hug. Smyrna Team

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Electric Mountain Bike Kit In Singapore

JOSÉ JOSÉ CEREIJO IN SMYRNA


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)