Mechanical Pencil Stuck

some covers mantle heart language of anger. For a poetry

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English:
hi all, I did my first blog, hope you like it, I can write in English and English and here I'll show all my mods for gta san andreas.

Inglés: hello all, I did my first blog, I hope you like it, I can write in English and Inglés and here I'll show all my mods for gta san andreas. note: Some if i have free time, i will put here.tomorrow Some mods or after it.

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Rain ...?


I get out and walk,
rain down on me all possible, I
wet,
freeze,
feel alive,
and want you to be there to warm.

I feel I need to soak the soul
for myself this time.

I believe that better times will come, and you'll
,
in these beautiful cold days I'll have to forget that there is a world outside,
and feel every second.

The reality that detestable,
is knowing that the rain and you do not exist at this time,
again I find the only company of a cigarette,
and sometimes it also fails.

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restoration and withdrawal at the time of immediacy of language content. Ineffectiveness

heck can make poetry as understood in this age of immediacy of language content. How to survive the poetry, with its natural ability to conjure the sacred and the everyday, at a time when apparently all the language that is exchanged on the World Wide Web has that capability. How to tell the story simple poetry, literature of the record. What can not the style, the effectiveness of the statement, as Shaw would say, apparently if you can immediacy.
The only way to survive, sustain some, it is disjointed all our definitions. Stoke the fire the last edge that lie down, to leave the empty wilderness free of annoying and useless sense, available to all kinds of blind forces, from whatever quarter.
The other way I fear is much less tempting and more demanding, the restoration and retreat. The dangerous task of building under the bombardment, digging for those who prefer the shelter of the bombs bursting hypnotic, sedazo in hand, separating the chaff from the wheat, believing in the goodness of the flour.
Because the properties of good poetry are still intact. Like that black wood that after many years to achieve self protect from moisture to dry and become the best and most valuable of all. As a secret mechanism precisely where the language and its fragments are opened from time to time and offer full capacity of enunciation and statement, his greatest virtue: the storage effect.
Well, in times of siege rather hostile use of language and propose the withdrawal. The return to the catacombs eventually giving massive utopian world that readers of poetry, the pressing educational role educating the masses, and tempting illusion that I fear it is impracticable.
is fencing, walling, fall back, dig, build, establish land, hunting grounds, dams or gut of pleasure, of esparcimieto if you will, or no towers, no ivory, but austere stone, where language can still be replaced for a few seconds of silence, away from the immediacy and leaf litter, storing every sense possible, effectively stating the phenomenon back to fashion and precast applications, using all its capabilities for representation and evidence, your musical and aesthetic power capable of testifying to the spirit of a man beaten. And if this path means to be alone, as well, so be it.


Marcelo Guajardo.

Getting Glue Off Steel

around some unfortunate trends in

Chilean poetry written today.

The same fools who strive to find new formulas for his explosives, new maps of a territory that, in his opinion, deserves to be blown up, they surprise us once in a while content compilers devices with long, tenacious efforts by a tabula rasa, paving machinery. No unfortunately we got rid of the negative influence of certain long-standing nickname of Chilean poetry, the task as unusual as practicable "Understanding Chile." The campea megarelato codes encouraged by the success of the past repeated by boredom, hopelessness, or simple political somnambulism. The result: books of poetry which can not be read, arrogant, complacent, cloistered and voiceless. Not content that is there but content compilers bloated, overloaded with anvils emotional, psychological warheads intolerable postsurrealismo recycling, energy-hungry black holes, stubborn predilection to chaos, hypnotic avant-garde promise. A sad dislocations that are forced to bear, because it is the sign of the times. There is too much reliance on poetry and even worse no suspicion. Some twisted ethics class poet too obsessed with their limited capacities, taking into their hands the future, pain and language with an irritated nerve that without the slightest intention of sharing anything with anyone. These are bad times for poetry. And I fear we will not see for a while some of its beautiful and quiet force for change. At least not this bullanga.

Marcelo Guajardo.