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Benjamin Lacombe

View:
Pop-up book "Il etait une fois"

http://www.benjaminlacombe.com/

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Vargas Llosa, a speech by Nobel

(...) From the cave to the skyscraper, the garrote to weapons of mass destruction, the life of the tribe tautological era of globalization, the fictions of literature have multiplied the human experience, preventing us that men and women soccombessimo lethargy, indifference, resignation.

Nothing has sown so much unrest, stirred the imagination and desires as much as this life of invention, we add to what we have thanks to literature, to be protagonists of the great adventures of the great passions that real life there never will. Inventions of literature become truth through us, readers processed, contaminated by wishes and, because of the fiction, in permanent conflict with the mediocre reality.

Sorcery that while we delude ourselves to have what we have, being what we are not, can not access this existence in which, as the pagans, we are eternal land and at the same time, introduces the literature in our minds the nonconformity and rebellion, which are behind all the companies that helped reduce violence in human relations . To reduce violence, not to defeat it.

Because our will always, fortunately, a story unfinished. For this we have to continue dreaming, reading and writing, the most effective way we found to alleviate our mortal condition, to defeat the worm and the time to transform the impossible possible.

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Christine Busta

native language is not

what the mother says,

soothes and comforts the children.

's first understand you do not know.

As she says, the tone, the rhythm,

the monotony of love

in the changing sounds

opens the senses to the meaning of words,

brings us into the mother tongue.

An Equal

happens

in the poem.

Native

not what the mother says

quiet and comfort the children.

At first not even understand it.

As he says,

timbre, rhythm,

the monotony of love

in His monotonous sounds

opens the senses to the meaning of words

introduces the linguamadre.

that of a similar

is also

with poetry.

The librarian poet: Christine Busta (Austrian poet)

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Today I read ...

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aperidinner + reading + Livemusic

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Gabriel Pacheco (Mexico)

el abismo,
(says alguien: a espejo negro) y de él

(the tintero)
a conejo says:

Alicia, Alicia ...

("el mundo existe porque existe el book")


http://gabriel-pacheco.blogspot.com/

Herpies Get Worse With Age

Antonia Pozzi

Poetry I look

"It's December 2, 1938, Milan. A young woman goes out home soon, as he does every morning, to go and teach. But if he goes to the school in advance, two hours earlier than expected.

(...)

http://bibliogarlasco.blogspot. com/2010/12/poesia-che-mi-guardi.html

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Breath 2 Breath

Antonia Pozzi, - Words, edited by A. Work and O. Dino, 2nd ed. Extended (289 poems, including two fragments), Garzanti, Milan www.antoniapozzi.it


Breath

Abandonment night

boulder on the edge of the pine forest
instrument and your childish
slowly
to say that a star


two stars were born from the womb of the snowfield


sinks and another where the rock is black - and a light goes


just on the edge of the glacier
bigger than a star
dimmer -
a lamp of a pastor - the
lamp of a man living on the mountain
-
interview untranslatable

your instrument with the light of the living man -

inexorable rise of the soul from sleep
beyond - beyond the black shapeless

amazement of things -

abandonment
night on the rock at the edge of pine forest
-

Breil (Pasturo), August 13, 1933

now full of poetry published by Antonia Pozzi Sossella dvd

http://www.lucasossellaeditore.it/Catalogo/Mente/Poesia-che-mi-guardi

A Confirmation Encouragement Letter

Ingeborg Bachmann, "The game is over," Invocation Orsa Maggiore, SE edition, trans. L. Reitan

My dear brother, when
build a raft to get down the sky?
My dear brother, will soon be loading huge
and we drown.

My dear brother, we draw on the paper
many countries and tracks.
Be careful, those black lines
with mine you could jump.

My dear brother, then I want to scream
closely tied to the pole.
But you will ride from the valley of the dead
and flee together.

Desti in the gypsy camp and awake in a tent in the desert sand out of our hair flowing
,
yours, my age and the age of the earth
not measured in years

Do not be fooled cunning crows, from
a sticky spider's leg, from the pen in the bush,
in the land of plenty do not eat or drink, foam
apprenza from pans and glasses

Only those at the bridge of gold to the fairy ruby \u200b\u200b
yet know the word, won.
I must tell you that
with the last snow has melted in the garden.

Han wounds our feet for many, many stones.
One is healthy. With him jump,
until the king of the children with the key in his mouth the kingdom
not take us with them and we sing:

It 's a good season, when the date is in bloom! Those who fall
has wings.
Purpurea digital edges of the cloth the poor, and
your treasure on my seal as a leaf falls.

You go to sleep, dear, the game is over. In
tiptoe. Bulge white shirts,
Dad and Mom say there are ghosts
when we exchange the breath.

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GLAD THE GANG (THE NEW TENANT) PART 2

A trio of guys wanted to turn this Roman-style American sitcom, I was hired ... I could not get rid of it ...! : D

In the second part of my character appears.

First episode (first part): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4Qr74LBePU