Follow by Email

viernes, 30 de diciembre de 2011


   She heated the water. She put the hot water in the kettle and added a few tea leaves, flavored with vanilla. She liked that the house smelled of vanilla. It made her fly to the icy days of childhood. At a time when she still knew how to write letters to the Three Wise Men.
 She filled her heart with the smell of tea and nostalgy. A second nice cup of tea and all would be in its place. All would be in peace.

jueves, 29 de diciembre de 2011

THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL, by Hans Christian Andersen

   A wonderful short film by Roger Allers, based on the tale "The Little Match Girl":
and a sweet and sad tale for children, by Hans Christian Andersen:

Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.

One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.

She crept along trembling with cold and hunger--a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!

The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of that she thought.

In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.

Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. She drew one out. "Rischt!" how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but--the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.

She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when--the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lighted another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's house.

Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when--the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.

"Someone is just dead!" said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.

She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love.

"Grandmother!" cried the little one. "Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!" And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety--they were with God.

But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall--frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.

miércoles, 28 de diciembre de 2011

LOVE CONSTANT BEYOND DEATH, a poem by Francisco de Quevedo

(FOTOGRAFÍA: Miguel Ángel Escós Andrés)

   Perhaps whatever final shadow that
the shining day may bring could close my eyes,
and this my soul may well be set aflight
by time responding to its longing sighs;

but it will not, there on the farther shore
its memory leave behind, where once it burned:
my flame the icy current yet can swim,
and so severe a law can surely spurn.
Soul by no less than a god confined,
veins that such a blazing fire have fueled,
marrow to its glorious flames consigned:
the body will abandon, not its woes;
will soon be ash, but ash that is aware;
dust will be, but dust whose love still grows.
(©Alix Ingber, 1995)
Correction contributed by Javier Santamaría in Barcelona.

Francisco Gómez de Quevedo Villegas y Santibáñez Cevallos,  (Madrid, 14th September 1580 – Villanueva de los Infantes, 8th  September 1645). He was one of the most brilliant Spanish writers. His poems are well known all over the world.

jueves, 22 de diciembre de 2011

WHITE CHRISTMAS, by Robbie Williams


This video by Robbie Williams is my favourite version of "White Christmas":
Another good video with more traditional carols (Ant & Dec´s Christmas Show 2009):
 "May your days be merry and bright/ and may all your Christmases be white".
Merry Christmas for you all!!!

I have found the videos of a funny TV programme: "Ants & Dec´s Christmas Show 2009"

martes, 20 de diciembre de 2011


Les Luthiers
FOTO: Les Luthiers

   Everybody tells you about the convenience of learning foreign languages.
Les Luthiers, a hilarious group of artists show us how important is learning English. You will enjoy their performance:

domingo, 18 de diciembre de 2011

"COMO LA MIEL" (LIKE HONEY), a CD by Âlime Hüma and Luigi Maráez

   Yesterday afternoon, the composers and musicians Âlime Hüma (pianist) and Luigi Maráez (guitarist) played their new album in Saragosse (Spain). It was in Sástago Palace and the room was filled to overflowing.

   Several poets from The AAE (Aragonese Asociation of Writers) accompaigned them. We read some poems about honey because this album is a tribute to poets who wrote about it.
  A sweet, tender and emotional album you will listen to with pleasure. You can enjoy their voices and music. It is like sitting at the edge of a lake: serenity and calm, quiet and restrained emotion. You only need to go with the music and let the poetry exercises its magic.
  Follow my advice: if you have to give a special gift for someone special, give him/her this album. Give yourselves two unique voices, too. Enjoy two unforgettable musicians.

CONTACT TO BUY THE ALBUM: , or mobile phone: 626 622 090

viernes, 2 de diciembre de 2011

THE LAZY SPINNER, a tale by Grimm Brothers

IN a certain village there once lived a man and his wife, and the wife was so idle that she would never work at anything; whatever her husband gave her to spin, she did not get done, and what she did spin she did not wind, but let it all remain entangled in a heap. If the man scolded her, she was always ready with her tongue, and said, "Well, how should I wind it, when I have no reel? Just you go into the forest and get me one." "If that is all," said the man, "then I will go into the forest, and get some wood for making reels." Then the woman was afraid that if he had the wood he would make her a reel of it, and she would have to wind her yarn off, and then begin to spin again. She bethought herself a little, and then a lucky idea occurred to her, and she secretly followed the man into the forest, and when he had climbed into a tree to choose and cut the wood, she crept into the thicket below where he could not see her, and cried,
“He who cuts wood for reels shall die,
And he who winds, shall perish."
The man listened, laid down his axe for a moment, and began to consider what that could mean. "Hollo," he said at last, "what can that have been; my ears must have been singing, I won't alarm myself for nothing." So he again seized the axe, and began to hew, then again there came a cry from below:
“He who cuts wood for reels shall die,
And he who winds shall perish."
He stopped, and felt afraid and alarmed, and pondered over the circumstance. But when a few moments had passed, he took heart again, and a third time he stretched out his hand for the axe, and began to cut. But some one called out a third time, and said loudly,
"He who cuts wood for reels shall die,
And he who winds, shall perish."
That was enough for him, and all inclination had departed from him, so he hastily descended the tree, and set out on his way home. The woman ran as fast as she could by by-ways so as to get home first. So when he entered the parlour, she put on an innocent look as if nothing had happened, and said, "Well, have you brought a nice piece of wood for reels?" "No," said he, "I see very well that winding won't do," and told her what had happened to him in the forest, and from that time forth left her in peace about it. Nevertheless after some time, the man again began to complain of the disorder in the house. "Wife," said he, "it is really a shame that the spun yarn should lie there all entangled!" "I'll tell you what," said she, "as we still don't come by any reel, go you up into the loft, and I will stand down below, and will throw the yarn up to you, and you will throw it down to me, and so we shall get a skein after all." "Yes, that will do," said the man. So they did that, and when it was done, he said, "The yarn is in skeins, now it must be boiled." The woman was again distressed; She certainly said, "Yes, we will boil it next morning early," but she was secretly contriving another trick. Early in the morning she got up, lighted a fire, and put the kettle on, only instead of the yarn, she put in a lump of tow, and let it boil. After that she went to the man who was still lying in bed, and said to him, "I must just go out, you must get up and look after the yarn which is in the kettle on the fire, but you must be at hand at once; mind that, for if the cock should happen to crow, and you are not attending to the yarn, it will become tow." The man was willing and took good care not to loiter. He got up as quickly as he could, and went into the kitchen. But when he reached the kettle and peeped in, he saw, to his horror nothing but a lump of tow. Then the poor man was as still as a mouse, thinking he had neglected it, and was to blame, and in future said no more about yarn and spinning. But you yourself must own she was an odious woman!

From Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Household Tales, trans. Margaret Hunt (London: George Bell, 1884), 2:163-165.
You can read it here:

The Brothers Grimm: Jacob Grimm (January 4, 1785 – September 20, 1863) and Wilhelm Grimm (February 24, 1786 – December 16, 1859), were German academics, linguists, cultural researchers, and authors who collected folklore and published several collections of it as Grimm's Fairy Tales, which became very popular.

martes, 29 de noviembre de 2011

"Thumbelina" is a literary fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen first published by C. A. Reitzel on 16 December 1835. "Thumbelina" is about a tiny girl and her adventures with appearance- and marriage. She falls in love with a flower-fairy prince just her size.
  The earliest English translation of "Thumbelina" is dated 1846. The tale has been adapted to various media including song and animated film. You can follow the next links to watch the video (8 parts):


Hans Christian Andersen  (April 2, 1805 – August 4, 1875) was a Danish author, fairy tale writer, and poet noted for his children´s stories. These include "The Steadfast Tin Soldier", "The Snow Queen", "The Little Mermaid", "Thumbelina", "The Little Match Girl" and "The Ugly Duckling".
During his lifetime he was acclaimed for having delighted children worldwide, and was feted by royalty. His poetry and stories have been translated into more than 150 languages. They have inspired motion pictures, plays, ballets, and animated films.

  For more information:

lunes, 14 de noviembre de 2011

THE SECRET, a poem by Catherine Mansfield

In the profoundest ocean
There is a rainbow shell,
It is always there, shining most stilly
Under the greatest storm waves
That the old Greek called "ripples of laughter."
As you listen, the rainbow shell
Sings--in the profoundest ocean.

It is always there, singing most silently!

Her real name was Kathleen Beauchamp (October 14, 1888–January 9, 1923). She was born in New Zealand and moved to Europe when she was a young woman. She was buried in the town of Avon (Fontenebleau district, Paris).

sábado, 12 de noviembre de 2011

THE BEAR THAT WASN´T, by Frank Tashlin

 I have read again a book by Frank Tashlin. I love "The bear that wasn´t". I have read it for children, teenagers and adult people. All of them loved it.
  When people around you try to convince you that you aren´t who you are, it is difficult not to believe them. But at the end a bear knows he is a bear. Even if everybody says:   
"You are not a bear--you're just a silly man, who needs a shave, and wears a fur coat."
A book forever.
You can watch the video on YOUTUBE:

domingo, 30 de octubre de 2011


   I walk in Madrid, along the Paseo del Prado, the way of the Atocha station. My feet get tangled in the dry leaves of autumn. A long line of calmed people stretches patiently and endless. They expect to see the exhibition of works brought from the Hermitage Museum.
   I breathe fresh air under the colourful trees. Ocher, brown, dark green ... and a sweet melancholy in my soul.

jueves, 27 de octubre de 2011

Don Juan Tenorio

   On 31st October, at 23.30 hrs we are going to read the play by José Zorrilla. We want to rescue the most famous play of all the Spanish theatre. In some American countries it is a well known play. It is played on this date as it has usually been along the time.
   To tell the truth, I love this play. So I am very happy to read it in one of the most beautiful churches of Calatayud (Saragosse): San Pedro de los Francos. In this church a young Ferdinand was named crown prince. He would marry Elizabeth and reign in Aragón.
   It is the first time that "Don Juan Tenorio" will be played by broadcasters, writers and ordinary people who have never played theatre, here in Calatayud. You are all invited to come. And if you are courageous enough, you can read with us.

sábado, 22 de octubre de 2011


She could not avoid look out of the corner of the eye at the door of the apartment. Somebody wheezed behind the peephole. She trembled. The child of 3B is very strange, strange as a Martian. One day a bad accident will happen, she said to herself. A green sticky spot started going out below the door. I do not have intention of paying attention this stupid boy. He is only trying to scare me. She put the key in the lock. She was going to turn it when the sticky spot lengthened a green hand and pulled her. The voice behind the peephole whispered. Don´t  you want to play with me today, Louise?

domingo, 16 de octubre de 2011


   Birds in the air,
air in my hands,
hands in my head,
head on my brest.
Arms around me.

martes, 11 de octubre de 2011


   Nothing exists unless you name it. Explain it, give it a name and it will be. Something exists in the moment you name it. You exist when you can hear another person calling you. A name. My kingdom, my universe, all my world for a word. And I will be.

viernes, 30 de septiembre de 2011


   Today, some of my pupils have read a poem of mine. The poem was "Tin Soldier". Two girls have said they liked it and wanted to copy it. I wondered why a hard poem like this one can move them to repeat it. Or to copy it. It is a sad poem. I don´t like to read it in loud voice, because I get touched every time that I read it. But they liked this poem.  Hope no more wars move me or other writers to write a poem like this "Tin Soldier". Hope no more children in the world live another war. Will it be possible?

domingo, 25 de septiembre de 2011


a blond sea of wheat somewhere,
maybe it was her hair, I don´t remember

maybe she had a look of gull,
waves of open sea in her smile,
and a rhythmic walking even in the rush
even the elm asleep repeated her name
and an infinite voice of creeper
and an incredible laughs of crystals
stigma of the bullet behind his nape

 (And the nuts of the cranium exploded,
  peace could not be more timely)

   (From "Cemetery of sparrows")

viernes, 23 de septiembre de 2011


   At this morning autumn has come. It brought rain and storm. I have remembered how Septembers used to be in my childhood. I have remembered the sweet blackberries that we were eating in the autumn afternoons. Summer holidays ended and we returned to the empty desks. We got new notebooks and shoes. In the evenings, our mothers started knitting pullovers for next winter. We enjoyed the last moments of freedom and ate sweet blackberries in the afternoons.  September was always the best month of the year for me.

   Autumn has come this morning. It came with its golden and new light, and has made me yearn those sweet blackberries of my childhood.

miércoles, 21 de septiembre de 2011


   We know there is a land beyond the land that sustains our steps. There are other people beyond here. We know that, after the blue mountains that surround this valley of fog and silence, there are valleys of fresh grass. People there are happy. Because they have everything: they have discovered that need nothing. If we could climbed the blue mountains, we could reach the other side. It would be enough. But we are caught in the fog and have forgotten the way towards the gorge.

lunes, 19 de septiembre de 2011


   If I could fly, I would fly over the houses, the people and the mountains. For sure. Nobody could take my hand. Nobody could see my eyes. Nobody could hurt my heart. It could be fine.
 But I am sure if I could fly, I would fly over my desk and put my feet on the floor. Just for the pleasure of realizing that I am still on this world.

domingo, 18 de septiembre de 2011


  While I am writing "good evening", another person is getting up far, far away from me. He (or she) is preparing breakfast. He (or she) is having a shower, reading a mail, kissing a baby. While I am writing "good evening" lots of children are working hardly for a small dish of food. Some of them are at war. What about you who are reading my words right now? Where are you? What time is it where you live? What do you feel? Are you happy today? Is it a good day for you? Tell it to me, please.
   Good night.

viernes, 16 de septiembre de 2011

martes, 13 de septiembre de 2011

"The Grandpa´s papers" (a novel by Febe Jordà)

   A story about some old papers. Marta and her daughter Sara found them at home one day. They were written by Grandpa, during the Civil War.  Marta and Sara can´t translate them. Everybody says it is Arabic, but the matter is not as easy as they think.

   The story has very good ingredients not only for teenagers readers but for mature readers as well. An interesting plot, a good story and good characters. You will enjoy it, if you like detective novels.

You can buy the book here:

lunes, 12 de septiembre de 2011


   September is my favourite month. I love the air in the afternoon.  Wilted roses are dying. It´s sweet and tender to watch them. They are a symbol of beauty that refuses to die. I feel sadness. A sadness of honey in my heart tired of living in this bright sunny afternoon.

sábado, 10 de septiembre de 2011


   I love Sundays. Every Sunday I have breakfast with my best friend. A cup of milk and coffee, toasts, and laughs. It is the most peaceful moment of the week for me. And I enjoy it very much.
  Carmen is always there for me and I thank God for a very long friendship between us.

lunes, 5 de septiembre de 2011


    Nothing to do if sadness comes this morning and takes my hand. Nothing if I feel my soul tired of living. But my Guardian Angel is there, weavering a new pair of wing for me. I will fly again today.

sábado, 3 de septiembre de 2011


   I have been teaching English to a good friend today. A dreamer who wants to live in UK. He always follows his heart. He has bought a single ticket. "No return", he said.
  Perhaps all of us should do the same. Let´s follow our hearts and let´s see what happens.

viernes, 2 de septiembre de 2011


Who knows the ocean song?
Who can translate the words,
the music of the air?
Who will talk to the birds,
who will believe in magic?
Who knows how to sing tonight?


domingo, 28 de agosto de 2011


  I am going to fly to Viena tomorrow. Viena is one of my favourite cities. When I was a child I used to dream of Austria. "I will travel to Viena one day" I said to myself. And I wrote to the Embassy to get some brochures from their beautiful country. I really wanted to go there. Tomorrow I will be there. Never stop dreaming, because all can be possible if you think so.

sábado, 27 de agosto de 2011


  When I see the statistics of my blog, I see my blog readers from Germany, France, USA, Uruguay, Mexico, Colombia... I wonder why someone somewhere in the world would want to read what I write every day. No idea but it´s nice to know you are there.Thank you all for opening the door of my house-blog and read my words. There are days when one feels less alone because of people like you.

miércoles, 24 de agosto de 2011


  I read that some parents have killed their babies these days. I never will know why those things can happen. There are no reasons to kill a baby. I feel sad and have only a question in my heart: why?

sábado, 20 de agosto de 2011

THE FLAME AND THE SHADOW (a poem by José Verón Gormaz)

   I hear the wind passing
 in the cold steppes of the night.

   Nobody knocks on my door.

 Without words,
 the hours have come to say goodbye.

   (From "The wind and the word")

jueves, 18 de agosto de 2011


   There will be fingers of smoke,
 light feet of moon,
 perfect hands of water,
 beefy hearts,
 looks of gull,
 honey and dreams,
 bodies of foam,
 smiles of quince …

    Let the man be done,
 let the cell grow.

    Let the world begin,
 let everything evolve.

  (From "The trip of souls", a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)

martes, 16 de agosto de 2011


Silent weightlessness.
Sleeping suns
and a dark restlessness
in the looks.

(From "The trip of souls", a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)

lunes, 15 de agosto de 2011


   I want to sink with you,
May your pain hurts me
and perforate my pain,
Captain Nemo.

   May the same sadness
that kills your hope
accompanies me to die.

   May the same sea
that stings in your wounds
be mine also,
my Captain.

  (From "The trip of souls", a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)

domingo, 14 de agosto de 2011


 One day there was a sea here.
And the sea was never more.
Eternally fixed,
the seconds
chiselled its fingerprints.
Fossilized pain
in every stone.
Instants without a time,
sea with nobody.
Thread of moon
cut in the tide.

Here there was a sea.

A stopped time
fossilizes souls,
freezes feelings,
remains, lasts.

Here there was a sea.

Rocks remember.

 (From "The trip of souls", a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)

sábado, 13 de agosto de 2011


   It was raining last night. A long storm in the evening. The sky wanted to cry. My heart wanted to cry as well. But today all is calm here. We, survivors, are sleeping in peace. Life is perfect again. Good day for all of you.

jueves, 11 de agosto de 2011


   Oceans of kisses, hands of algae
 that one day I stroked
 before I was,
 without memory of you,
 far from Ítaca.
And today I have returned to look at myself
 in your silence,
 in the sweet quietude of your look.
   And you do not recognize me, do not hold me.
 You weave, unravel, days of silence
 Shrouds of courage and empty grey
 While the vultures overfly your soul.

 (From "The trip of souls", a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)

miércoles, 10 de agosto de 2011


On my heart,
parables written by the sea.
The air carries them away.
Among the green pines
the air from the sea blows,
opens paths
to the ground by its salty lips.
Separate. The sea brings words.
The sea knows the stela of the rivers
amd the smoke mouth of the factories.
The sea knows the dream of the lizard
and the way of lights of the stars.
The sea knows everything.
Be quiet.
This afternoon it writes it in your memory.

   (From "Perhaps the light")

martes, 9 de agosto de 2011


   Tell me who I am.
Invent a life for me.
Weave my time,
spin my fantasy.
Let me be your dream...
Give me dark seconds
of harmony.
Weave moments.
Draw me in your life.

 (From "The trip of souls", a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)

lunes, 8 de agosto de 2011


   I decipher this silence.
I codify words,
and the encrypted dragon
chases a heart
to read it.

    Linked eyes,
 cadence of the souls,
 sequence of the pain.
 A key is absent!
 Your labyrinth
             is closed
                       behind me.
    (From "The trip of souls", a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)

sábado, 6 de agosto de 2011


Distant it is this peace that  lights the evening
among the still waters of the sleepy lake.

The light of the auguries
              floods the plains.

Birth of a vague desire
             to be like the grass in the meadows,
humble and deep-rooted
                to the dream of the land.

What a slow flow of time away!

On the banks of the pond the road stops
 To hear how they sing the wind and a goldfinch.

(From "The wind and the word")

José Verón Gormaz is an Aragonese poet and photographer, born in Calatayud, Zaragoza. "The wind and the word" is one of his best books of poetry.

jueves, 4 de agosto de 2011

Falling in love... again

   Today one of my friends is going to meet his love... again. He loves her. He hopes she loves him... again.
The life isn´t a fairy tale, but who knows? If it was possible to put some glue of happines and put together two hearts who have loved so much each other... If it was possible... Hope it is.
  Good luck, big boy.

martes, 2 de agosto de 2011

For my tired heart

   Dream, my heart.
Dream of grey clouds of storm,
of happy hours of childhood.
Dream of sweet hope of kisses.
Dream of love today.


domingo, 31 de julio de 2011

International Festival

   We have been celebrating the Festival of Poetry in Tarazona, Novallas, Litago and Vera de Moncayo. It is an international festival where poets from all over the world come to Veruela Monastery and read their poems. It has had many good and touching moments. We have honored the Spanish poet Gabriel Celaya, born in 1911. He would surely have smiled these days if he had been here.

miércoles, 27 de julio de 2011


A note of forgetfulness.
Blue sea on the sky.
Blue hopes.
Music beyond the time
and in the air
a blue symphony of silence.
  (Unpublished, from "The trip of souls",  a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)

lunes, 25 de julio de 2011


   There are difficult things. Hard things to do. But if you don´t learn to do them, your life can get worse. For instance: say "no" and many friends will go out of your life. Say "no" and somebody who loves you can get hurt easily. And they will leave you just for a simple word. But if you say "yes" and do what they want you to, you will get unhappy. Be yourself anyway!! If you don´t want to do something you don´t like, say "no". It´s easy: NO!!

domingo, 24 de julio de 2011


... you lost your smile, come here. I will have thousands and thousands of smiles for you. If you feel that your happiness has flown, I will give you all my stars. They will light your soul. Come back here. Just come back home. And I will always waiting for you.

viernes, 22 de julio de 2011

Silence in Oslo

I look at the picture displayed on a digital newspaper, referring to the bombing of Oslo. I see a man pulling the arm of a woman, apparently hurt, the fear in her eyes. I imagine the scene in slow motion, the rush to leave, stupor...And after the chaos the infinite silence all over the world.

jueves, 21 de julio de 2011

I WOULD LIKE TO TELL YOU (a poem by Luis Andrés)

   I would like to tell you sweetly now
that my hand is a friend and the desire is aslept,
that the thread of my voice just touches you.

I would like to tell you that I love you slwoly
with a small love, made of light of rain,
blue smiles, kisses on the forehead,
of strokes without touching, of sincere fondness.

I would like to tell you that my hearts hurts
as a poem written in the water,
taken as a fallen leaf in the stream.

And you know it is true, sincere, what I say.
-Oh, heart of rose, my heart of rose-
and I love you always, even death.

   (From "Poems for Clara" by Luis Andrés)

miércoles, 20 de julio de 2011

Light for your life

You say: “you have to seek the Sun, the outright light, the great, the absolute light, which illuminates the way of your life”. And I answer: “what is wrong with the stars?” I like to count them at night. I like watching the starring sky. You talk to me about the Sun. And I recount the stars in the bottom of the coffer of my soul.

martes, 19 de julio de 2011

Cooking for a friend

   I love cooking. There is something magical in kitchens. As if all the people who have cooked for their families and for themselves were accompaigned us. My kitchen has always been my mother´s kingdom. But it wasn´t anymore in her last years. It was me who did it.
  Today I have cooked some croquettes. My mother would have been proud of me. It has been a surprise for my best friend. When she has gone out of work, I was waiting for her with an enormous lunchbox full of croquettes. She got happy. I am still smiling.

lunes, 18 de julio de 2011

The angel of childhood takes my hand

The starving dogs bark at the Moon,
a faraway cricket sings
the song of the summer.
The Moon rolls, foreign,
in silent slowness.

Facing the stars,
combining emptiness,
the world smiles at me
with his cadaverous face.
All the black cats,
those of their eyes on fire,
look at me with their immobile smile.
The lights of another village
Are blinking fearfully,
The stars promise
New magical spells
And a faraway invisible hand
is crossing herself.
I recover ancient myths of childhood
My hair grows past my neck.
Rectilinear, my hips get longer and smooth.
The curves of my breasts are gently erased.
My skin softens.
The road widens
And an invisible hand
settles on my forehead.

  (From "Cemetery of sparrows)

sábado, 16 de julio de 2011

The angel of silence

   It´s three o´clock in the morning and everything is calm. I love this time of night when everything is quiet. As if an angel had deployed his wings over the world and have touched our forehead with his fingers of clouds to make us sleep. I´ll be good. So, I will close my eyes right now. Good night, World.

viernes, 15 de julio de 2011


It will not be because the sea was not in calmness,
Not because the winds were weaving storms
in the sails of my ship aground on reefs.

If I sink tonight,
I will have nothing to say about all this.
There is a long endless silence,
 An incredible peace in my windows
 And an absence of you that nobody knows.
    (From "Perhaps the light")

jueves, 14 de julio de 2011

Captain Thunder

  Kites wake up on your temples
And you write to yourself with school letter.
With almost thirty years in your sleeve
you read again your book of dreams.

You lost your calligraphic skill,
the lie gave to you its blow of cane,
your ideals face to the wall.

Recite your lesson, Captain Thunder,
Rider on a rocking horse:
Sigrid divorced your past,
Crispín got lost in the way,
Goliath lives in exile under the ground.

You started the war of work,
Nude of protective armor,
riding, winner, on the sidewalks.

The adventure wakes up from time to time
And you put to sea,
Sail bodies.
You walk on the beaches of the doubt,
and hang your shirt on the clothes hanger.
On the distant comet of the ant.

   (From "Cemetery of sparrows")

miércoles, 13 de julio de 2011


    I get up and do not feel like getting up, although I'm on vacation and I can have my time as I want. But I do not want to get up. Today I have laziness in the soul and do not know how it is possible to arrange this. I have laziness of drawing my smile to peek  into the world. I have laziness of living and of living through myself.

I have laziness of writing, though I have firmly proposed to close half a chapter throughout the day. I have laziness of reading and the book stretches itself on the bedside table, looks at me and asks me if we are angered, because I give him the back. I have laziness of having nostalgias for breakfast, because I do not still have sugar to sweeten the sadness.

Too lazy to open memories and pictures, to look at the eyes of the woman I was and not knowing who I am now, right now. I have laziness of sewing my dreams and my hope. Laziness of preparing some coffee and clear the cobwebs of my mind.
I do not like to draw my smile. So, if we are going to meet each other in the street, I warn you: this lady who does not smile, this slept lady with her eyes almost sad… she is not me. I still have not woken up this morning.

martes, 12 de julio de 2011

LETTER TO PATRICIA (my teacher´s daughter)

   Nothing I can say now is going to heal your pain. All the mothers are unique and special for their children, and for that reason, they are unforgettable. With their strengths and weakness, with their lights and shadows, with their moments of love and moments of tenderness. Each mother has knitted scarves of stars to shelter our souls before let us go to school. Everyone has prepared sandwiches of courage and has gotten them into our schoolbags of fears. Everyone has recited magical spells against the monsters of our nightmares, has caught our hands in a storm of coughs and sneezes.
Every mother, Patricia, has sewn our broken wings after a fight with our best friends, has found a solution to a math problem, solved a complicated enigma (does he love me, doesn´t he love me?) that kept awake.
 Every mother has has put a glass of warm milk on the table, dried up millions of tears. And she has darned, unhurried, large holes in our hearts. That´s all what you know about yours.
   But let me tell you a bit about the lady who shared your whole life and spent many years in mine. Conchita Gimeno, my teacher.    That is, My Teacher, in large print, emphatic capital letters. Because you know, Patricia? I have been fortunate to have three wonderful teachers in my life: Pilar Cañete, Julita Díaz and Conchita Gimeno.  I loved all of them very much, all I still love them a lot. And I feel  great love, great respect and immense gratitude for the three. I always remember your mother´s encouraging smile, her contagious joy.
As I wrote a few years ago, she was sweet and good to us, but firm and serious at the same time. She had that rare patience that makes us more bearable our failures. The patience to explain the things without altering, even when we had got confused of the development of the class.
   Thanks to your mother, Patricia, I learned to enjoy the simple things, to value the small details, to smile through my tears, to thank life for every second of happiness. I learned to be juster and more humane. It also learned to add flowers and embroidery dreams, to try to put myself in someone else's place when I feel hurt, to celebrate the big and small achievements of my friends as much as my own.
  I also received a wonderful, a rare and precious gift from her. She gave me an island full of treasures that no one has ever been able to steal me. An island where I can shelter my fear and sadness, my laughter and my joy, my light and my hope.An island where fairies and elves still inhabit, where there are princes and princesses who sleep, and wake up after a hundred years, an island full of stories that sound with her voice and the voice of many of my old teachers. She gave me the passion for reading. I would need  thousands of lives to live thousands of books. So my teacher was. Your mother, Patricia."She loved you very much," you say hugging me, before entering the church. "So I did - I reply-. She was very special. " All the mothers are like this to their children. But yours was not only special for you. She will always be unique and special for all who were fortunate to have her as a teacher. For all those who were her students.
Nothing I can say now is going to heal your pain, I know. But I needed to try to wrap up your soul and put you a strip of affection. As she always did with us when we were children.
As she has always done with the adults we are now.
You are not alone, Patricia. You'll never be alone, believe me. One day you'll realize that those who we loved and loved us, are still here. They are always with us, because they never go completely. It is because hey are anchored in our hearts. The most beautiful thing we can do for them is to remember them with love, serenity and tenderness.
I know  you will do it.
Take care, Patricia. She is looking at you. So, take care as much as she'd take care of you.
All for her smile her sweet smile, eternally.
A big hug,

lunes, 11 de julio de 2011


Peace is a girl by the fire,
Head on knees,
Under the gentle hand of an old lady
closing the girl´s eyes sweetly.

The large rubber of silence
Is roundly erasing the capital letters
of Love, Freedom, War…
to leave so only,
so only,
this little peace,
this love,
the freedom of stroke,
if you want to do it.


I never confessed to you
That what I told you about David was a lie
And Goliath,
The fearsome giant of my story…
That giants learn to be alone,
They are more vulnerable than children.
There are good giants crying at night
And evil dwarfs who kill sparrows.

   I never told you that I feared you grow
And discover
That there was no one
To hear the stories we invented.

Never told you that we, seniors,
Didn´t want to grow either,
Didn´t want to discover ourself
-half children and half adults-
in other different theatre footlights.

And you were transferring your role as a small boy
And one day, without stones
To return home,
-follow-bent on the sly-
in our street we found you,
around a corner,

      (From Cemetery of sparrows)

domingo, 10 de julio de 2011


  I have been with the ladies of Bilbileyendo, our local  book club. We had read "El amor en los tiempos del cólera", a book by Gabriel García Márquez.
  The best of these meetings is the ambiance, the joy of living and the camaraderie among us.
  Evening falls. We discuss about books and life. The wine glass is empty. Our hearts are filled with laughter and words.

A poem by Ramiro Gairín

  Ramiro Gairín is a young Aragonese poet. I am reading his last book these days, "Que caiga el favorito" ("May the favourite fall down"). A book full of wonderful love poems that I recommend reading at any time. They are short as a wink, soft as a sigh, and sweet, very sweet. I love this poem:

 May the favourite fall down,
and that who spends the most money
loses the big games
and the world won´t move an inch

I turn off the news and look at you

and you are like finding survivors
several days after the earthquake.

(Zaragoza, March 2010)

Ramiro Gairín has a blog:

I don´t remember

  I do not remember the colour of your eyes.  
I can´t remember your skin, or your eyes.
I can´t remember your laugh, or the way
you have
of speak or shut up.
I can´t remember your hands,
those hands that
slowly, slowly,
sometimes recreate
to draw silences.
I don´t know how you were.
You see? I can´t remember.
All is well then.
Except my memory.

sábado, 9 de julio de 2011

The wizard hat has aged

Time passes and one day we look back. And we realize that we have lost some important little things. Are they still in our lives? Are we still able to believe in magic?
"The lost fairy wand
was mowing our braids
and -the aged magician hat,
the mutilated magic-
we were looking for boxes-coffins
of our ancient tiny shoes,
(buried peter pan

The balloon seller did not recognize us,
the confectioner had retired,
the cheerful ice-cream man
and the traveling cinema
never returned..."

    Centuries ago I have not seen traveling cinemas. I loved the traveling cinemas. They used to come to the Old Square of my village. Are there still traveling cinemas?

With the incomplete puzzle

Now I republish my first book, "Cemetery of sparrows". These are some verses from the first poem:
"When we wanted to realize
the old cemetery of sparrows
was not in its place
and the angel of childhood
was crazy
with the incomplete puzzle in his hands".
Time passes and we lose people we love. Missing pieces in the puzzle of our lives. But life goes on. And here we are.

The weaver of words

Welcome you who enjoy reading poetry. You can hear the air and figure out what it says. You can decrypt secret messages in the stars. You know the salty taste of defeat and despite everything, you are still dreaming. You know the songs of the river waters, the music of the words. The verses excite you.  Poetry touches your soul. Welcome if you are just a dreamer.