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martes, 31 de enero de 2012




Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love.



sábado, 21 de enero de 2012



  He wrote: “I know there is a sea between you and me now. And it can separate each other. I know it is impossible to reach the beach where you live. It is impossible to touch your lips and kiss your words. Impossible to write love words on your shoulders, drink your tears or dream together”.

   There were big clouds in the sky. He looked at the sea in front of him, threw a little stone and saw how it sank in the water. It started to rain. As if all the angels were crying for her and for him.

HAVA NAGUILA. A game for your pupils


 These days I have been playing a guessing game in class. My pupils had to guess what was "HAVA NAGUILA". I only could answer "yes" or "no".
    At first, they thought it was an animal and when I showed them Andre Rieu playing the violin at the Royal Albert Hall, they smiled. This is the video:

After Andre Rieu, we watched another video, by Lauren Rose:

 You can watch this one by Azúcar Moreno:

Even in Iranian style:

I told them the story of this song:

lunes, 16 de enero de 2012

POEM II, almost unknown poem by Alejandra Pizarnik


No matter if when love calls me
I am dead.
I will come.
I will always come
if love
sometimes calls.

   No importa si cuando llama el amor
yo estoy muerta.
Siempre vendré
si alguna vez
llama el amor.

This poem was published for the first and only time in Buenos Aires, in the "Poesía=Poesía" magazine, in 1959. In this publication, there were two poems that were later included in the book "Árbol de Diana" (Diana´s tree). Specifically in the "1959". We will never know why Pizarnik put aside this small text.

ALEJANDRA PIZARNIK (Buenos Aires, 1936-1972). She was a great Argentinian poet, representative of the poetic surrealism. She committed suicide at the age of 36, but wrote an important literary work.

sábado, 7 de enero de 2012

THE NAIL, a short story by Pedro Antonio de Alarcón

PHOTO from:

"The thing which is most ardently desired by a man who steps into a stagecoach, bent upon a long journey, is that his companions may be agreeable, that they may have the same tastes, possibly the same vices, be well educated and know enough not to be too familiar.
When I opened the door of the coach I felt fearful of encountering an old woman suffering with the asthma, an ugly one who could not bear the smell of tobacco smoke, one who gets seasick every time she rides in a carriage, and little angels who are continually yelling and screaming for God knows what.
Sometimes you may have hoped to have a beautiful woman for a traveling companion; for instance, a widow of twenty or thirty years of age (let us say, thirty-six), whose delightful conversation will help you pass away the time. But if you ever had this idea, as a reasonable man you would quickly dismiss it, for you know that such good fortune does not fall to the lot of the ordinary mortal. These thoughts were in my mind when I opened the door of the stagecoach at exactly eleven o'clock on a stormy night of the Autumn of 1844. I had ticket No. 2, and I was wondering who No. 1 might be. The ticket agent had assured me that No. 3 had not been sold.
It was pitch dark within. When I entered I said, "Good evening," but no answer came. "The devil!" I said to myself. "Is my traveling companion deaf, dumb, or asleep?" Then I said in a louder tone: "Good evening," but no answer came.
All this time the stagecoach was whirling along, drawn by ten horses".

You can read the story on:

Pedro Antonio de Alarcón was born at Guadix in the province of Granada, the 10th of March 1833, the
fourth of ten children of an old and noble family, whose wealth had been lost in the wars of the Napoleonic
period and the disorders that had followed. His father destined him for the bar, and after reaching the baccalaureate at the age of fourteen, at the seminario of Guadix, he went to Granada to begin his professional studies, only to be recalled by the res angusta domi to his home, where perforce he exchanged jurisprudence for theology, and began preparation for the priesthood.
The boy's heart was not in his professional studies, and his best efforts were given to other matters; he
taught himself French and Italian, began to write, and formed the project of going to Madrid, to set up as a
man of letters. His parents declined to support him in this ambition, but Alarcón persisted. Through Torcuato
Tárrago, a young writer at that time living in Guadix, he was introduced to a Cadiz publisher, who undertook
the issuing of a weekly journal, El Eco de Occidente, which was to appear at Cadiz and Granada, and whose literary redaction was to be entrusted to the two young men. The venture [p. vi] was successful. After three years' work the savings seemed sufficient, and on the 18th of January, 1853, Alarcón left home.He went first to Cadiz, where he gave his attention to matters concerning the journal, and a month later he
reached Madrid,—without introduction or friends, but with some little money and with a goodly sheaf of
verses, notably an ambitious continuation of Espronceda's Diablo Mundo, all of which he burned, after much interviewing of publishers. In short, he did not get along at all at the capital, and when his money was gone
and the husks were sour, he made his own the immemorial custom of the prodigal, and went back to his
father's house. A complete reconciliation followed his return. He had been drawn for military service: his
father purchased his release, and gave him permission to live in Granada, where he renewed his connection
with the Eco de Occidente. In Granada also he found agreeable literary society, and the year spent there was one of profit to himself and of success for his journal, in whose management he had an increasing influence and part.

For more information about the author:

martes, 3 de enero de 2012


  PHOTO: Monasterio de Piedra by BLANCA LANGA

 Don´t  wash your soul for me:
I can love you as you are.
I am not scared.
Let me bite your heart of snow
and get my teeth frozen.
Let me sleep in your silence,
stab your eyes.
I want to know I am a part of you.
I want to be even a part
of the hidden side of your soul.

domingo, 1 de enero de 2012

A TEAR AND A SMILE, a poem by Khalil Gibran

PHOTO taken from the site:

I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart
For the joys of the multitude.
And I would not have the tears that sadness makes
To flow from my every part turn into laughter.

I would that my life remain a tear and a smile.

A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding
Of life's secrets and hidden things.
A smile to draw me nigh to the sons of my kind and
To be a symbol of my glorification of the gods.

A tear to unite me with those of broken heart;
A smile to be a sign of my joy in existence.

I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I live Weary and despairing.

I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the
Depths of my spirit,for I have seen those who are
Satisfied the most wretched of people.
I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and Longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody.

With evening's coming the flower folds her petals
And sleeps, embracingher longing.
At morning's approach she opens her lips to meet
The sun's kiss.

The life of a flower is longing and fulfilment.
A tear and a smile.

The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come
Together and area cloud.

And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys
Until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping
To the fields and joins with brooks and rivers to Return to the sea, its home.

The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting.
A tear and a smile.

And so does the spirit become separated from
The greater spirit to move in the world of matter
And pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow
And the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death
And return whence it came.

To the ocean of Love and Beauty----to God.

KHALIL GIBRAN (born Jan. 6, 1883, Bsharri, Leb. — died April 10, 1931, New York, N.Y., U.S.) Lebanese-born U.S. philosophical essayist, novelist, poet, and artist. He immigrated with his parents to Boston in 1895 and later settled in New York City. His works, written in both Arabic and English, are full of lyrical outpourings and express his deeply religious and mystical nature. The Prophet (1923), a book of poetic essays, achieved cult status among American youth for several generations.

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