Los cuentos que Nueva York no sabe (Biblioteca de Literatura Dominicana) (Spanish Edition)
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Dice que su hermana se enfurece si escucha que a alguien le gusta el campo.
Libros en Español en Nueva York
Dice que entiende el enojo de su hermana pero que ella era muy chica. Could you sit down and play the piano while I watch you and taste a Merlot of ? Time is unavoidable, it slides by those petroleum lined ceilings. All night is a hidden highway a winding tunnel. Here the eyes and the hours drown. Last night a moon burst and its bright pieces filled with sounds these lost spaces between the carpet and the wet concrete.
Play the piano… When you arrived you had a pencil between your fingers and the desire to fill pages and pages, and many more white, grid pages. You wanted a book full of metaphors, you dreamed your head against the Brooklyn Bridge and you loved a vision of Crane through the glass. A heartbeat intoxicating your memory, discerning the intimate relationship between your steps and the phases of the moon, or the faded eyes of some woman hidden behind her veil made curtains.
Kiss the finger that feeds on the hybrid tulips and remember me. A monster beats, beats and twists its serpent body to the Hudson. Un monstruo late, late y enrosca su cuerpo de sierpe hacia el Hudson. Azahara Palomeque El Sur, is a Spanish poet. Palomeque holds a Ph. She lives in exile since Everyone so dead and with blushing faces reaching the shore, off to one side, looking at everything, waiting for the bus at the corner of their eye. Burial mounds so healthy like embroidered sheets, returning to cesareans, to the ripping, leafing part by part through the myth of petals, spring at the bus stop, motionless, for the angel to descend.
So otherworldly that the future had passed. Babies so ashen collecting leaves, dryly contemplating mirrors with an idea of an offshoot — such scion — women and men like sprigs, fields of fossils. Tan otro mundo que ya fue futuro. Her poetry has been translated into six languages. She has been invited to national and international poetry festivals and recitals. She is currently a Spanish senior academic professional in the Department of Romance Languages, at the University of Georgia.
ARTE â VIDA
Esa loca sombra de tu costilla. Christina M.
Her poetry has appeared on gallery walls in The Ekphrastic Poster Show, on car magnets for The Living Poetry Project, and in various literary journals. She also serves as Editor-in-chief for the international literary journal The Nassau Review at Nassau Community College where she teaches writing, and she is the founder of the Long Island poetry circuit Poets In Nassau. The little sigh living inside an eardrum. From every soft surface patchouli oil or PineSol.
Wet leathery soles running uphill in rain. Calves still sore still burning after the incline. Fuzzy sweater no holes: the orange pink yarn strand-by-strand knitted into an itch-heavy-corded for winter snow; a dirt-snow mud-thinned caked into hems of denim.
That frost bite scar waxy when light catches. Light from the lamp from the roadside sale from the long drive from the thumbtack on the map from the free weekend from the beginning when jobs and time and money and time and friends and time did not matter. The quills have worked their way down to fascia muscle bone marrow cell. Ana Vidal Egea , is a published and an award winning author.
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She holds a Ph. She currently works as a communications director for a large public college in New York City. Keisha regularly teaches English courses across The City University of New York, and also leads writing workshops for non-profits and other organizations. Born in He writes in Kurdish and Arabic.
A selection of his poems have been published in more than an international poetic anthology. I rest my head on the rock of the oblivion! I do not care if I never wake up My Two children are whispering in joy and happiness as if they were two lovers and this is the most Important! Sargon Bolus had passed away in Berlin alone as he always alone, Totter in the brink of death as if he was a drunken Angel he was sick! Ageel Ali had passed away in a sidewalk, as if he was formed to be the crown of all the homeless.
Mahmoud Albreekan was killed by a knife of a thief, he was a lighthouse guiding the pirates to his penniless pocket. My two children are eating French fries with mayonnaise.
Judíos españoles y portugueses
And this is the most important. I do not care if I will be put to death in my birthday like my brother Delshad Meruwani the strange angel of Kurdistan! More importantly, my two babies are okay! And I write simple farewell love poems Inspired by the flirtation of the waitresses and the beautiful young girls, passing in front of the cafe. Cities are similar Death is a wanderer dog, prowling along the skylines!
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My children are rolling a ball -like planet, and seem fantastic This is the most important. My two children smiling in theirs sleep, dreaming, perhaps about birds or butterflies this is the most important. Death is the departure of the soul, I lost my soul a long time ago in the forests of the oblivion. Why should I care now!
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- Hispania. Volume 77, Number 2, May | Biblioteca Virtual Miguel de Cervantes!
- 101 Thoughts From The Word - Vol 1 - Job thru Song of Solomon;
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- The Americas Poetry Festival of New York.
Silvia Goldman is from Uruguay and has lived in the United States since Her poems have been included in various journals and anthologies. Seamus Scanlon is a Galway born author based in New York. It was produced in Japan in to full houses. My uncle Jack slept late into the afternoon Lying like a stunned bear in his street clothes Staccato snoring through his broken nose. He played cards all night in Killaser Cigarette smoke anointing the room Bottles of beer staining the card table Broken black angel men hunkered down Waging life against the odds of resurrection.
He drove in the middle of the road The high beams picking out the tall swaying rushes And black sods of turf laid out to be wind dried. Careening against the high wind break bushes on either side.
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Then breaking hard Gravel and pebbles spraying out in elliptical arcs. He liked to make an entrance. I moved into the room The smell of cigarette smoke made me gag I pulled my t-shirt over my nose. The luminescent dials on the bedside clock — 5 am.
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Dawn was close. Death was close for someone too. Under his pillow I searched quietly with my fingertips. Then pulled his burnished Luger pistol out slowly. Theatrical director and professional actress, she has won three national awards for best director , and At my childhood, twice: at on a Sunday morning, when my sister was born and on a Thursday at noon, when my brother was born.