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Diez asturianos, becarios del programa de promocion exterior del IDEPA, estudiantes de la Universidad de Zhejiang, China
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Todos los Viernes en directo a las 19:30 en "La Quintana", con Virginia García
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17 Noviembre
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9 de Octubre, 2007
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9 de Octubre, 2007, 12:39
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So, startled, quivering,
Winds blow sharp, what then?
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
Bronze the sky, with no
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
References
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
More beautiful than anything in this world.
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Allowing me to let your picture form and wake
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
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9 de Octubre, 2007, 12:37
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That this mud draws on the stone.
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
In the woods, close by,
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Glimmering of light:
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Dismal, endless plain—
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
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9 de Octubre, 2007, 11:32
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9 de Octubre, 2007, 9:01
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Against this sky no longer of our world.
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Across the heavens' gray.
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
In white, in paint too representative
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
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9 de Octubre, 2007, 7:35
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Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
Not daring to oppose
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
More beautiful than anything in this world.
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
Glimmering of light:
By the design of our own silent eyes
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Glimmering of light:
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
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