The Philosopher. Poem by Luis Fores. Translated by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
 
Burning surplus together with the dawns
praying for a percentage of heaven,
harvesting sunsets in the bitter cold
unknowing how passionately you loved.
 
Night knew of that pain by which you covered
inimical veils of mists that hovered
so envious of so much ardour
the way the passion was consumed by yours…
 
A trade that wouldn’t make love feel arrogant…
And pass in waiting a sinister entrapment
to kill the days by thought imprisonment.
 
And even though the heart be soothed by dreaming,
still it is made a fugitive maddening in…
A night now fleeing like a nightmare – galloping.
 
 

El filósofo
 
 
Quemando con auroras plusvalías,
rezando a porcentajes por el cielo,
ocasos cosechando entre los hielos,
a fuego amaste cuanto no sabías…
 
La noche supo que el dolor cubrías
con la enemiga niebla de los velos.
Y tanto ardor en ello que eran celos
en los que de pasión te consumías…
 
Oficio que al amor no hiciera altivo…
Y en el siniestro pasar pasó esperando
matar los días de un pensar cautivo.
 
Aunque calmare al corazón soñando,
en su locura lo hizo fugitivo…
Y así en su noche hoy huye: galuchando…
 
 
Luis Fores (España)
 
 
Translated from Luis Fores El filósofo
by Robin Ouzman Hislop

This sonnet together with its translation appeared in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Exciting new sonnet anthology edited by Richard Vallance now available on Barnes & Noble: Phoenix Rising from the Ashes BN ID: 2940148833628 Publisher: FriesenPress Publication date: 11/20/2013 Sold by: Barnes & Noble
 

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Luis Fores (1960) is a poet, philosopher and arts anthropologist, as well as a devoted practitioner of plastic arts. He has completed practice and theory studies at the Escuela de Artes Imaginarias de Madrid (TAI), and in the Faculty of Arts at the Complutense University of Madrid. Following research in modern and contemporary arts, he achieved his Ph.D. in Philosophy of Art from the same University. In addition, he has achieved his Master in Arts Aesthetics and Theory, by the Autonomous University of Madrid and a Bachelor´s degree in Arts Anthropology by the Complutense University. He has worked in the fields of photography and design for both books and magazines. To his various creative activities, he adds poetry writing, arts theory and teaching as a philosophy professor. He has published essays (research) on arts and philosophy, as well as poetry collections and photography in Spanish and foreign publications.

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Robin Ouzman Hislop Editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at Poetry Life and Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, his recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at The Poetic Bond and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.
 
 
robin@artvilla.com
PoetryLifeTimes
Poetry Life & Times

editor@artvilla.com
www.artvilla.com
Artvilla.com

 

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How Could I Ever Forget You Sonnet by Jose Antonio Pamies.Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop.

 
 
 
How could I ever forget you, sonnet,
comforting evenings, without wickedness,
finding there knowledge of challenge, to fight
and to love freely, wrists without handcuffs.
 

Your dream is as if of secret corners
that’s yet in everything so far away,
things, that never get the respect today,
your neglected home of ancient roses.
 

I’d never studied how to fashion you
believing I found you in ancient books,
stroking your rhythms, I encountered you.
 

And from that noble form emerged the dream
flowing with other words to kiss your looks,
destroying eve time, loving oblivion.
 
Translated from José Antonio Pamies Cómo he podido olvidarte soneto by Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
 
Cómo he podido olvidarte soneto
 
 
Cómo he podido olvidarte soneto
que acompañabas las tardes dichosas
sin maldad, hacerte aquí sabe a reto
y a amor libre, muñecas sin esposas.
 
Suenas todavía como un secreto
arrinconado lejos de las cosas,
chismes de hoy que no merecen respeto,
olvido es hogar de las antiguas rosas.
 
Nunca estudié una manera de crearte,
en libros viejos te hallé imaginando
acariciar tu medida, ubicarte.
 
Y desde la noble forma soñando
otras palabras con las que besarte,
destruyendo tardes, olvido amando.
 
José Antonio Pamies (España)
jose pamies

José Antonio Pamies (Alicante, 1981) Finalista del III Premio internacional de poesía 
Andrés Salom 2005 y del II Premio de la editorial poesia Eres Tu 2010 con Las Ruinas 
de la Aurora. Ha publicado Campos de hielo (Babilonia, Pliegos de la palabra nº 3, 2012) 
y Afonías (finalista del XXVI Premio Gerardo Diego de Poesía), así como poemas en revistas 
y numerosas antologías. Reside en Madrid, donde realiza estudia Teoría de la Literatura y 
Literatura Comparada.


José Antonio Pamies (Alicante, 1981) His early poetry collection Las Ruinas de la Aurora was a runner up at the III Andres Salom International Poetry Award in 2005 and the II poesia Eres Tu Publisher Award in 2010. He has published Campos de hielo (Babilonia, Pliegos de la palabra nº 3) and Afonías a runner up at the XXVI Gerardo Diego Poetry Award. He currently lives in Madrid, pursuing studies in Theory of Literature and Comparative Literature.

 

This sonnet together with its translation appeared in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Exciting new sonnet anthology edited by Richard Vallance now available on Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF BN ID: 2940148833628 Publisher: FriesenPress Publication date: 11/20/2013 Sold by: Barnes & Noble

 

WIN_20140415_213447

 

Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 

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Burning on the Stiff Mast of her Bones. Sonnet. Poem. Luis Fores. Translated by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Her body flamed like fiery wings
burning on the stiff mast of her bones,
whilst the nights were rendered to waltzes
by the sweet tame words of her kisses.

Now her womb fluctuates obsessive echoes,
echoes where once a life’s blood was lighten…
and that in the flesh of her day is frozen
now in her ruins, as the burden that weighs.

It was a female’s dream of its seed
of torrential moons upon the shores
lovingly healed the wounds of destiny.

She sows the word with its deed,
she loved with the love of spring waters,
drowning as thus her light and her way.

 
Translated from Luis Fores Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos
by Robin Ouzman Hislop

 
Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos

 
Quemando el duro mástil de sus huesos
un fuego de alas en su cuerpo ardía.
Y a una danza de noches se rendía
el dulce y dócil verbo de sus besos.

Su vientre ahora vacila ecos obsesos,
ecos de viva sangre que prendía…
Tan gélida es la carne hoy de su día
que todo es peso en ruina de sus pesos.

…Fuera semilla el sueño de la hembra
a la orilla de lunas torrenciales
que amando cierran llagas de destino.

Entraña de palabra que se siembra
amó con el amor de manantiales,
ahogando así la luz y su camino…


 
Luis Fores (España)

 

This sonnet together with its translation appeared in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Exciting new sonnet anthology edited by Richard Vallance now available on Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF BN ID: 2940148833628 Publisher: FriesenPress Publication date: 11/20/2013 Sold by: Barnes & Noble
 

0
 

Luis Fores (1960) is a poet, philosopher and arts anthropologist, as well as a devoted practitioner of plastic arts. He has completed practice and theory studies at the Escuela de Artes Imaginarias de Madrid (TAI), and in the Faculty of Arts at the Complutense University of Madrid. Following research in modern and contemporary arts, he achieved his Ph.D. in Philosophy of Art from the same University. In addition, he has achieved his Master in Arts Aesthetics and Theory, by the Autonomous University of Madrid and a Bachelor´s degree in Arts Anthropology by the Complutense University. He has worked in the fields of photography and design for both books and magazines. To his various creative activities, he adds poetry writing, arts theory and teaching as a philosophy professor. He has published essays (research) on arts and philosophy, as well as poetry collections and photography in Spanish and foreign publications.

 
WIN_20140415_213447
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.

 
robin@artvilla.com www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

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Series. Poems by Andres Fisher Translated from Spanish by Robin Ouzman Hislop


CASTILLA X

i.
Grandes segadoras trabajan en los campos mientras aviones cruzan el cielo, lentamente, sobre ellos.

ii.
Las mismas montañas se alzan en lontananza sin embargo otros vehículos ruedan por los caminos.

iii.
Donde antes fue la bestia, hoy es el motor mientras el hombre es el mismo que siembra, cosecha y muere.
 
 
CASTILE X
 
i.
Large harvesters crop the fields as aeroplanes slowly cross the skies above them.

ii.
The same mountains rise in the distance even though other vehicles run the roads.

iii.
Where it was the beast before, now it’s the engine, whereas man, who sows, reaps and dies,
remains the same.
 
 
CASTILLA XI
 
i.
Campos de amapolas en los llanos de Castilla.

ii.
Como islas rojas en medio de la marea verde que los circunda.

iii.
Primavera muy lluviosa. Resplandece el llano en el trigo y los cultivos.

iv.
En las flores silvestres, que siguen creciendo junto a los castillos.
 
 
CASTILE XI
 
i.
Poppy fields on the plains of Castile.

ii.
Like red islands surrounded by a green tide.

iii.
A very rainy spring. The plains glisten through the wheat and crops.

iv.
As well as the wild flowers, that still grow beside the castles.
 
 
CASTILLA XII (*)
 
i.
Aun se siembra el trigo en los márgenes de la gran ciudad.

ii.
Que refulge y palpita, confundiendo sus luces con las del ocaso.

iii.
Ya no es la mano del hombre la que siega el trigo.

iv.
Que sin embargo sigue creciendo, enhiesto, en dirección al cielo.
____
A José Viñals, in memoriam.
 
 
CASTILE XII (*)
 
i.
Wheat is still sown on the outskirts of the big city.

ii.
Gleaming and palpitating it mixes its lights with dusk’s.

iii.
Now it’s no longer the hand of man that harvests the wheat.

iv.
That nevertheless still grows straight towards the sky.
_________
(*) To José Viñals, in memoriam
 
***
 
CASTILLA XIV
 
i.
Día nublado en el verano de Castilla:

ii.
inusual como los aviones, de los que ahora solo existe el sonido.

iii.
Gentes van y vienen por las plazas de los pueblos:

iv.
que languidecen o reviven, según desde donde se los mire.

CASTILE XIV.

i.
A cloudy day in the summer of Castile:

ii.
as unusual as the aeroplanes, whose sounds now only exist.

iii.
People come and go through the squares in the small towns:

iv.
that wilt or revive according to the point they’re observed from.
 
 
CASTILLA XV
 
i.
Aun pastan ovejas en los prados de Castilla.

ii.
Y en los campos de rastrojos, ya en la meseta o circundados por colinas.

iii.
Suenan los mismos cencerros que los castillos han oído desde nacer.

iv.
Que oyeron antes las ruinas romanas, hoy circundadas por los nuevos molinos de metal.
 
 
CASTILE XV

i.
Sheep still graze on the pastures of Castile.

ii.
And in the bundle stacked fields, whether on the flatlands or the surrounding hills.

iii.
The same sheep-bells heard by the castles ever since their birth still sound.

iv.
Heard before the Romans and their ruins now surrounded by new steel mills.
 
 
CASTILLA XVI
 
i.
La disciplina del cereal y del olivo dotando de su rigor a los campos de Castilla.

ii.
Las sierras no formando mares sino alzándose como cuchillos que dividen las llanuras.
 
 
CASTILE XVI
 
i.
The discipline of the cereal and the olive tree endowing the fields of Castile, its rigour.

ii.
Ridges not forming seas but rising like knives dividing the plains.
 
***
 
CASTILLA XIX
 
i.
Es invierno y nieva en las sierras de Castilla.

ii.
El manto blanco, sin embargo, no llega a cubrir el pardo que domina en el paisaje.

iii.
En el llano, no obstante, las cepas son apenas vestigios en la superficie de una gruesa capa blanca.

iv.
Y en la autopista, los quitanieves trabajan a destajo para abrir un solo carril.
 
 
CASTILE XIX
 
i.
It’s winter and it snows on the sierras of Castile.

ii.
It’s white shroud, however, fails to cover the grey that dominates the landscape.

iii.
On the plains though, stumps of vine remain as vestiges capped in a thick white .

iv.
And on the motorway, snow ploughs work without respite merely to open a single lane.
 
 
LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO IV
 
i.
Aun existe el ocaso en los espejos retrovisores.

ii.
Delante, la luna se alza sobre un cielo azul oscuro.

iii.
Es el mismo vehículo el que rueda por la autopista y la carretera comarcal.

iv.
Y el que conduce, a bordo del coche y de sí mismo.
 
 
THE ICE POEMS IV
 
i.
Dusk still exists in the rear view mirrors.

ii.
Moon is rising on a dark blue sky ahead.

iii.
It’s the same vehicle that rides the motorway and the byway.

iv.
As is the driver who boards both car and himself.
 
 
VARIACIONES SOBRE UN POEMA SIN TITULO DE DAMSI FIGUEROA.
 
i.
Tres toros blancos corrían por tu sueño.

ii.
Golpeaban tu mejilla con arena.

iii.
Florecían cardos en una pradera amarilla que llegaba hasta el mar.
 
 
VARIATIONS ON AN UNTITLED POEM OF DAMSI FIGUEROA
 
i.
Three white bulls ran through your dream.

ii.
Beating your cheek with sand.

iii.
Thistle bloomed in a yellow prairie ending in the sea.
 
 
AEROPUERTO
 
i.
Se incendia el cielo en los ventanales del aeropuerto.

ii.
Mientras, aviones van y vienen apareciendo y desapareciendo entre las nubes.

iii.
Autobuses, furgonetas y pequeños tractores bullen en las pistas.

iv.
Mientras, los viajeros caminan y desaparecen al entrar en las pasarelas.
 
 
AIRPORT
 
i.
Sky burns in the airport windows.

ii.
Meanwhile, planes go back and forth appearing and disappearing amidst the clouds.

iii.
Buses, trucks and small tractors bustle in the tracks.

iv.
Meanwhile, travellers walk and disappear entering the ramps.
 
 
AEROPUERTO I
 
i.
Cae la noche en los ventanales del aeropuerto.

ii.
Ahora los aviones son puntos luminosos en un cielo negro y uniforme.

iii.
Gentes y vehículos mantienen su actividad cíclica e interminable.

iv.
Mientras, los altavoces emiten mensajes no siempre comprensibles.
 
 
AIRPORT I
 
i.
Night falls in the airport windows.

ii.
Planes now are luminous spots in a dark and motionless sky.

iii.
People and vehicles maintain their cyclical and endless routine.

iv.
Meanwhile, speakers deliver not always understandable messages.
 
 
***
THE PICKAXE AND THE WORM (*)
 
The pickaxe can cut the worm but chooses not to do it, putting him gently aside.
 
(*) Almost from William Blake
 
***
 
 
Escenas. Scenes.
 
i.
Un hombre solitario, camina en línea recta mientras un incendio, a sus espaldas, calcina su presente;

su presente que se elonga, calcinado, mientras los pasos se repiten, rítmicamente, ajenos a toda sensación térmica o corporal.

i.
A solitary man proceeds in a straight line whilst a fire behind him burns to ashes his present,

a present that as it stretches is burnt to ashes, whilst his steps rhythmically repeat themselves, detached from any thermal or corporal sensation.

ii.
Una mujer, a lo lejos, realiza el trayecto mas lento entre el horizonte y las nubes de sus ojos;

nubes a medio camino entre el horizonte y la bruma, cerebral, que impregna de amarillo el espacio entre el horizonte y sus propios ojos.

ii.
A woman in the distance travels a slower trajectory between the horizon and the clouds in her eyes,

clouds halfway between the horizon and the cerebral haze which impregnates yellow space between the horizon and her own eyes.

iii.
La visión de un gato, absorto, tenso en la potencia que lo habita:

que dibuja una ventana en cada muro; que convierte en hipotenusa cada movimiento del gato, tenso, absorto en la visión de su propio movimiento.

A Juan Luis Martínez.

iii.
The cat’s vision, absorbed, tense in the power that inhabits him:

a vision that draws a window on each wall; and that turns into hypotenuse each movement of the cat, tense, absorbed in the vision of its own movement.

To Juan Luis Martinez.

iv.
Un automóvil, abandonado, viaja sin pausa por una larga carretera;

una costanera interminable por la que el automóvil vaga, ensimismado, con dos soles sobre el horizonte como testigos oculares.

iv.
An automobile, abandoned, travels non stop the long motorway:

an endless esplanade, where the automobile roams engrossed with two suns on the horizon as ocular witnesses.
 
 
Escenas 1 Scenes 1
 
i.
Un hombre, a la distancia, pareciera caminar en círculos mientras a su espalda, las huellas dibujan un trazado ortogonal:

trazado que se extiende, circular, mientras sus pasos se alejan, ajenos a toda intención geométrica o lineal.

i.
A man, in the distance, would seem to walk in circles, whilst at his back his tracks draw an orthogonal sketch:

a sketch that extends circularly as his steps walk away, oblivious to any geometrical or linear intention.

ii.
Una mujer, entre la bruma, pareciera dibujar el horizonte con sus pasos sobre la arena:

trayecto lineal, hipnótico, donde los ojos son un recuerdo borroso que tiñe de amarillo cuanto existe en la memoria.

ii.
A woman amidst the mist would seem to draw the horizon as if with her steps on the sand:

a hypnotic linear trajectory, where the eyes are a blurred memory tinting in a yellow haze all what can be remembered.

iii.
Un gato, absorto, se solaza con la visión de su propio movimiento.

desplazamiento lineal que elimina muros, obstáculos, oxidando en su fuerza cuanto se interpone entre el gato y su visión.

iii.
Absorbed, a cat takes pleasure in the vision of its own movements:

a linear displacement that eliminates walls and obstacles, oxidising in its strength,
all that stands between the cat and its vision.

iv.
Un barco, a la deriva, se deja adormecer por la trama rítmica de la marea:

secuencia de olas a medio camino entre la costanera y el horizonte, entre los que el barco agota sus posibilidades de existir.

iv.
Lulled by the rhythmic weavings of the tide, a boat drifts drowsily:

wave sequences, midway between the esplanade and the horizon, where the boat exhausts its possibilities to exist.
 
 
Escenas 2 Scenes. 2
 
i.
Un hombre, bajo la lluvia, camina sin detenerse hasta que el agua, gota a gota, moja su mirada:

mirada húmeda que ve cargado de amarillo el espeso cielo gris del centro del invierno

i.
In the rain a man walks non stop until the water drop by drop wets his gaze:

a wet gaze that sees charged by yellow the dense grey sky of the winter’s core.

ii.
Una mujer, bajo el cielo del invierno, no detiene sus pasos que la acercan a las nubes:

sucesión de nubes grises entre las que la mujer se detiene, con sus pies sobre la arena

ii.
A winter’s sky doesn’t stop a woman’s footsteps beneath bringing her closer to the clouds:

a succession of grey clouds that stay between the woman with her feet on the sand.

iii.
Un árbol, desnudo en el invierno, enseña al viento su estructura:

a un geómetra, que encuentra en ella el sentido de la vida.

iii.
Stripped by winter, a tree shows the wind its structure:

to a geometrician, who finds in it the meaning of life.

iv.
Las luces de su arboladura son los únicos puntos visibles de un barco, entre la niebla de la bahía:

luces que se confunden con las del tendido eléctrico de la ciudad, apenas unos metros mas arriba.

iv.
Rigging lights are the only visible points of a ship in the fog of a bay:

lights which get confused with a city’s electric lights suspended just a few meters above.
 
 
Escenas 3. Scenes. 3
 
i.
Un rostro, desvaneciéndose, aun conserva rasgos que lo vinculan a la especie:

pertenencia laxa, cuya disolución a la luz de la tarde pone en jaque a la especie, que lo ignora, embotada en su rutina.

A Foucault

i.
A fading face still retains traits that link it to its specie:

a lax belonging, whose late afternoon dissolution checkmates the specie, which, dulled by routine, it’s unaware of.

To Foucault

ii.
Los anos del hombre desintegrándose, espasmódicamente, mientras sus huellas se acercan a los dominios del arquetipo;

territorio geométrico, sin edad, que encanta la consciencia y troquela los anos del hombre.

ii.
The years of man disintegrate in spasms as his footsteps approach the domain of the archetype;

in an ageless geometrical territory delighting consciousness and indenting the years of man.

iii.
Una calle dando tumbos, ebria, entra en el vértigo de un viaje circular:

que desorienta a las puertas, psicoactivándolas, haciendo lineal el trayecto de pajeros y peces que deambulan por la calle, delirante, en el cenit del periplo

iii.
A street staggers along inebriated entering the vertigo of a circular journey:

disorientating, psychoactivating doorways, turning lineal the trajectories of birds and fish that roam the street deliriously in the zenith of the trip.

iv.
Un espejo, al fondo de un pasillo, es desbordado por los destellos de una imagen triangular;

triangulo equilátero, evanescente, que entrega su identidad al espejo aferrándose, difusamente, a un vago anhelo de eternidad.

A Borges

iv.
A mirror at the end of a corridor is overwhelmed by the glimmers of a triangular image;

an evanescent equilateral triangle surrendering its identity to the mirror clutching dimly a vague desire for eternity.

To Borges
 
 
LOS POEMAS DEL HIELO. THE ICE POEMS.
 
i.
El cielo solo existe en los espejos retrovisores. Delante, el asfalto se extiende sin fin aparente troquelado por el ritmo hipnótico del trazado discontinuo.

El sol es un detalle. Solo uno más para el que rueda por el asfalto mientras el cielo sigue existiendo únicamente en el cristal de los espejos.

i.
The sky only exists in the rear view mirrors. Ahead, the asphalt extends without apparent end indented by the hypnotic rhythm of the continual broken road lines.

The sun is a mere detail to he who rolls on the asphalt as the sky goes on existing only in the glass of the mirrors.

ii.
La carretera solo existe en la retina del viajero. Fuera, rueda y asfalto son una unidad que constituye en sí misma el movimiento.

El ojo reconoce apenas borrosas señales de ruta mientras la retina vaga por otros campos. Por otros áreas de la conciencia en movimiento.

ii.
The motorway only exists in the retina of the traveller; outside wheel and asphalt are a unit, which constitutes itself as the motion.

The eye recognises only blurred route signs, as the retina wanders in other fields, other areas of consciousness in motion.

iii.
El silencio sincopado del habitáculo de un coche define la existencia del conductor, cuya presencia otorga sentido a la maquina.

Un sentido que se entremezcla con el trazado discontinuo, con el sol que incide sobre el y con el conductor, definido entre el silencio y la sincopa.

iii.
The syncopated silence of the car’s compartment defines the existence of the driver, whose presence gives sense to the machine.

A sense that blends the continual broken road lines, the sun on them and the driver defined by silence and syncopation.

iv.
La mirada del conductor de un vehículo que rueda. Su extensión en un área delimitada por el horizonte y el trazado discontinuo.

Por el sol al fondo. Vórtice que define la existencia del conductor, de su mirada y la del vehículo que rueda.

iv.
The driver’s sight in a rolling vehicle, its range on the area marked by the horizon and the continual broken road lines;

by the sun, afar, a vortex that defines the driver’s existence, his sight and the rolling vehicle.

v.
El asfalto de la carretera como requisito necesario del movimiento. Su existencia
pétrea definiendo a un individuo.

Sujeto que viaja, insomne, consciente de deber su existencia al movimiento engendrado por la interacción del asfalto y de la rueda.

v.
The asphalt of a motorway being a necessary requirement for motion, whose stony surface defines an individual.

A sleepless subject, who travels aware it owes its existence to the motion engendered by the interaction of asphalt and wheel.

vi.
El movimiento de un vehículo solo existe entre el trazado discontinuo y el sol, que define la presencia de lo visible.

Movimiento materializado en la consciencia a través de la retina, en le que el sol troquela cuanto tiene posibilidad de existir.

vi.
The motion of a vehicle only exists between the continual broken lines and the sun defining the presence of what is visible.

A motion materialised in consciousness through the retina, in which the sun impresses all possibilities of existence.

vii.
La noción de un conductor y de una máquina. De su desplazamiento sobre el asfalto blando de una carretera.

Incisión de una marca en el asfalto. Huella que definirá la presencia de conductor, maquina, asfalto y carretera.

vii.
The concept of a driver and a machine. Their motion over the soft asphalt of the motorway.

Incision of a mark in the asphalt. A trace that will define the presence of the driver, machine, asphalt and motorway.

viii.
La mirada de un sujeto en movimiento sobre la luz, que materializa la presencia de lo real.

La conciencia del conductor que debe su existencia al movimiento y al sol: atravesado en el horizonte por el trazado discontinuo.

viii.
A subject’s sight in motion on light materialises the presence of the real.

The driver’s consciousness, which owes its existence to motion and the sun: crossed on the horizon by the continual broken road lines
 
 
VARIACIONES SOBRE FRAGMENTOS DE LA HISTORIA VERADERA DE LA CONQUISTA DE NUEVA ESPAñA, DE BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
 
VARIATIONS ON FRAGMENTS OF THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF NEW SPAIN BY BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO.

i.
Tanta vara y piedra y flecha nos arrojaban, señor, que todo el suelo estaba cubierto de ellas y aun el cielo oscurecían cuando peleábamos de día.

Y derrocaban nuestras murallas, señor, y aunque arremetiéramos reciamente matando treinta o cuarenta de ellos en cada embestida, tan enteros y con mas vigor que al principio acometían.

i.
So many spears, rocks and arrows they hurled at us, my liege, that the ground was covered and even the sky darkened by them as we fought throughout the day.

They knocked down our walls, my liege and though we retaliated stoutly killing thirty or forty at each onslaught, yet as a whole they stormed us with even more vigour than before.

ii.
Sesentiseis de los nuestros nos tomaron en aquel desbarate, señor, y nos herían a todos, tanto a los de a caballo como a los de pie.

Y veíamos como los subían a lo alto del gran templo para sacrificarlos, señor, y los ponían sobre unas piedras delgadas y con grandes navajones de pedernal, les aserraban los pechos y le sacaban los corazones bullentes para ofrecerlos a sus dioses, que allí tenían

ii.
Sixty six of us, they took from that disaster, my liege, both those on horseback and those on foot.

And we saw how they climbed to the top of their great temple to slaughter them, my liege, to lay them on thin stone slabs and with great flint shards sever their breast to draw forth their pulsing hearts as an offering to the Gods they had there.

iii.
Desde lo alto del templo, señor, hacían sonar un gran tambor que se oía en dos leguas, que tenia el sonido mas triste, como instrumento de los demonios:

Y venían muchos escuadrones a echarnos mano y cerraban con nosotros tan reciamente que no aprovechaban estocadas ni cuchilladas; ballestas ni escopetas y daban en nosotros, señor, llenos de heridas y corriéndonos la sangre.

iii.
From the top of the temple, my liege they made a great drum roll you could hear from two leagues, it had a most sad sound, as though an instrument of demons:

they came in many squads closing us in at hand so that neither neither slash nor thrust, shotgun nor crossbow was of avail, and so they struck us, my liege, full of wounds and running in our own blood.
 
***
 
andres fisher
 

Andres Fisher was born in Washington DC in 1963. At an early age he moved to Chile where he was raised. In 1990 he moved to Madrid, Spain, where he got his PhD and started publishing poetry and related work. Since 2004 he’s back in the US where he teaches at Appalachian State University, Boone, NC, and he still spends 2 or 3 months a year in Madrid. His last book of poetry is Series, collected poetry 1995-2010 (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica, 2010). In 2009 appeared his bilingual anthology of Haroldo de Campo’s poetry, Hambre de Forma (Ed. 27 letras, Madrid) and in 2010 Caballo en el Umbral, anthology of Jose Viñals’ poetry done collaboratively with Benito del Pliego (Ed. Regional de Extremadura, Mérida). In 2013 appeared Entremilenios (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica), a translation into Spanish of Haroldo de Campo’s posthumous book. Also in 2013 was released Círculo de Hueso, translations into Spanish of the poetry of Lew Welch (Varasek eds.) done with Benito del Pliego and recently in 2014, they have published Objetos y Retratos. Geografía, translations into Spanish of a sample of Gertrude Stein’s poetry (Ed. Amargord. Col. Transatlántica)

 
***
 
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Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com/ and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at PoetryLifeTimes

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Eternity Shivers with a Coldness Translated from José Antonio Pamies’ “Toda la eternidad tiembla de frío” by Robin Ouzman Hislop

  

Toda la eternidad tiembla de frío,

es un plan muerto antes de nacer,

porque la cáscara nutre el vacío

ahondando en el alma de las cosas.

*

Yo sé que tú no crees en lo baldío

de la flor siniestra sobre el café,

la tarde es para ti como un estío

abrasado de calor contra las rosas.

*

Traerá Mayo su trasnochado azul,

contemplarás bajo el color nevado

tallos ocres de cuando fuiste oro.

*

Raíz negra rugiendo en el baúl,

solar sin tregua, sexo desmayado

donde el calor despierta sueños de otro

*

José Antonio Pamies (España)

 *

Eternity shivers with a coldness

from a plan dead before it is born

because the rind which feeds the emptiness

deepens in concerns of the soul its form.

*

But you dont believe in the sinister

wasteland of this coffees wild flowers,

evening for you is seen as a summer,

a scorching heat burning against roses.

*

May will yet come in her outmoded blue,

you will watch beneath a snowy colour

before when you were gold, stems of ochre.

*

Black roots twisted in the wooden trunk scream

on a relentless ground of sex fainting

where the heat awakens anothers dream.

*

Translated from José Antonio PamiesToda la    eternidad tiembla de frío by Robin  Ouzman Hislop

 

jose pamies

José Antonio Pamies (Alicante, 1981) Finalista del III Premio internacional de poesía 
Andrés Salom 2005 y del II Premio de la editorial poesia Eres Tu 2010 con Las Ruinas 
de la Aurora. Ha publicado Campos de hielo (Babilonia, Pliegos de la palabra nº 3, 2012) 
y Afonías (finalista del XXVI Premio Gerardo Diego de Poesía), así como poemas en revistas 
y numerosas antologías. Reside en Madrid, donde realiza estudia Teoría de la Literatura y 
Literatura Comparada.


 José Antonio Pamies (Alicante, 1981) His early poetry collection Las Ruinas de la Aurora was a runner up at the III Andres Salom International Poetry Award in 2005 and the II poesia Eres Tu Publisher Award in 2010. He has published Campos de hielo (Babilonia, Pliegos de la palabra nº 3) and Afonías a runner up at the XXVI Gerardo Diego Poetry Award. He currently lives in Madrid, pursuing studies in Theory of Literature and Comparative Literature.

 

This sonnet together with its translation appeared in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Exciting new sonnet anthology edited by Richard Vallance now available on Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF BN ID: 2940148833628 Publisher: FriesenPress Publication date: 11/20/2013 Sold by: Barnes & Noble

 

WIN_20140415_213447

 

Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Francisca Aguirre Nana del desperdicio de la tristeza Lullaby for Sadness Amparo Arrospide Robin Ouzman Hislop Translated Poem

Francisca Agirre

 

Nana del desperdicio de la tristeza

 

 Al abrigo de la arboleda de Soto del Real

   y cerca de María Fernanda y Emilio Barrachina

 

Tengo delante de los ojos

el asombro de la arboleda

que me abraza.

Miro los fresnos susurrantes,

 los callados abetos,

los sauces melancólicos

 y no sé bien qué hacer

con el desperdicio intangible

 que llamamos tristeza.

 La tristeza es quizás

 el mejor animal de compañía,

 

la fiera más doméstica,

 pero también la más hambrienta.

 

La tristeza es un hueco que nos sigue

y que al menor descuido nos alcanza,

se sitúa delante de nosotros

y nos canta su nana de desdichas,

su lamento de fiera abandonada,

su machacona relación de oprobios,

su quejido de bicho que se empeña

en pegarse a nosotros

 y decirnos

que no la abandonemos

 a su suerte,

que nuestra obligación es adoptarla.

El viejo desperdicio de la pena,

tan opaco y radiante a un mismo tiempo,

nos va reconociendo con su hocico

y nos lame las manos con su lengua

y se acurruca manso a nuestro lado:

conoce palmo a palmo

 el territorio.

Sus lágrimas nos lavan con modestia,

mientras el animal nos sigue terco,

 con la amable seguridad

que da el abismo.

 

***

 

LULLABY FOR SADNESS

 

 Sheltered by the Soto del Real grove

 and close to María Fernanda y Emilio Barrachina

 

Before my eyes stands

the sheltering grove´s amazement

 which embraces me.

I look at the whispering ash trees,

 the still firs,

the melancholic willows

 and am at a loss

with the intangible remains

 we call sadness.

Sadness is perhaps

 the best pet to keep you company,

 

the most domestic beast,

 but also the most ravenous.

Sadness is a vacuum that pursues us

that leaps out on us unawares

to confront us

to lull us with its lullaby of wretchedness,

its lament of a forsaken beast,

and its monotonous list of injuries,

its plaintive creature´s groan insisting

in attaching itself to us

 and imploring us

not to abandon it

 to its fate,

that it is our duty to adopt it.

The old remnant of sorrow,

so opaque and bright at the same time

that starts by recognition through nose

then the licking of hands with tongue

tamely curling up at our side:

bit by bit it takes hold

 of the land.

Meekly its tears wash us

whilst the beast pursues us stubbornly,

 with that gentle assurance

offered to us by the abyss.

***

Translated by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide

***

 

Francisca Aguirre was born in 1930 in Alicante, Spain, and fled with her family to France at the end of the Spanish Civil War, where they lived in political exile.  When the Germans invaded Paris in 1942, her family was forced to return to Spain, where her father, painter Lorenzo Aguirre, was subsequently murdered by Francisco Franco’s regime.  Aguirre published Ítaca (1972), currently available in English (Ithaca [2004]), when she was 42 years old. Her work has garnered much critical success, winning the Leopoldo Panero, Premio Ciudad de Irún, and Premio Galliana, among other literary prizes.  Aguirre is married to the poet Félix Grande and is the mother of poet Guadalupe Grande.

 

 
Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 
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Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine.

 

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EL ANGEL PROMETIDO. THE PROMISED ANGEL (Extract)Poem.Javier Diaz Gil.Translated Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide

 

(i)

Creyó que era un ángel.

Tuvo suerte.

 

Resulté

ser un fantasma.

****

He believed I was an angel.

He was lucky.

 

I happened

to be a ghost.

****

(ii)

Terminarás aprendiendo

 –yo te enseñaré–:

 

Lo más difícil

de todo

 

es desaparecer.

****

You will end up learning

 — I will teach you–:

 

Most difficult

of all

 

is to vanish.

****

(iii)

A plena luz

los fantasmas

son más visibles.

 

Sólo los ángeles

buscan la noche.

****

In broad daylight

ghosts

are most visible.

 

Only angels

seek the night.

****

(iv)

¡Aprovéchate!

 

Los fantasmas

tenemos

 

sexo.

****

Be cool!

 

As yes,

we ghosts

have

 

sex.

****

(v)

Te asustarás

si ves un fantasma.

 

Pero preocúpate

si es

un ángel

lo que ves.

****

You’ll be scared

should you see a ghost.

 

But you should worry

if it´s

an angel

you see.

****

(vi)

En caso de duda

levanta la sábana

del fantasma.

 

A veces debajo

se esconde

 

un ángel.

****

In case of doubt

lift the sheet

from the ghost.

 

At times beneath

hides

 

an angel.

****

(vii)

Los ángeles

siempre

regresan

al

lugar

 

 

del

crimen.

****

Angels

always

return

to

the scene

 

of

the crime.

****

Febrero 2012 Javier Diez Gil

Javier Díaz Gil, Madrid, 1964. A Bachelor in Geography & History, with a diploma in General Education Teaching. Until 2006, co-founder and director of the literary magazine Rascamán. For over ten years he has supervised Creative Literature Workshops. Director and moderator of the cycles Escritores en la Biblioteca (“María Moliner” Library). He has published the poetry books Humo, granted the Humberto Tenedor award, Abarán, 2000; Hallazgo de la visión, granted the Nicolás del Hierro award, Piedrabuena, 2000. In 2006 at Santiago de Chile he took part in the Latin American poetry meeting “Poquita Fe” and in 2007 at São Paulo (Brazil) in the “Festival de Tordesilhas”. His poems have been published in literary anthologies and magazines such as Poeta de ©abra (Madrid), Luces y sombras (Tafalla), sèrieAlfa (Valencia), Cuadernos del Matemático (Madrid) o Celuzlose (São Paulo). He was selected at the “Diputación de Badajoz” 2008 Experimental Poetry Award, nominated for the 2010 Addison de Witt Poetry Award and awarded the 2013 “Manzanares el Real” Poetry Award. His poems have been translated into English, Portuguese and Catalan. A member of the Society of Spanish Writers & Artists, since 2006 he chairs the weekly literary gathering Rascamán held at the Café Ruiz in Madrid. His blog can be found at  http://javierdiazgil.blogspot.com

***
WIN_20140415_213447

Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

 
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Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Abandoned Church(Ballad of The Great War)Poem.Torre A. DeVito Translated from Iglesia Abandonada.Federico García Lorca

IGLESIA ABANDONADA
(BALADA DE LA GRAN GUERRA)

Yo tenía un hijo que se llamaba Juan.
Yo tenía un hijo.
Se perdió por los arcos un viernes de todos los muertos.
Lo vi jugar en las últimas escaleras de la misa
y echaba un cubito de hojalata en el corazón del sacerdote.
He golpeado los ataúdes. ¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo!
Saqué una pata de gallina por detrás de la luna y luego
comprendí que mi niña era un pez
por donde se alejan las carretas.
Yo tenía una niña.
Yo tenía un pez muerto bajo la ceniza de los incensarios.
Yo tenía un mar. ¿De qué? ¡Dios mío! ¡Un mar!
Subí a tocar las campanas, pero las frutas tenían gusanos
y las cerillas apagadas
se comían los trigos de la primavera.
Yo vi la transparente cigüeña de alcohol
mondar las negras cabezas de los soldados agonizantes
y vi las cabañas de goma
donde giraban las copas llenas de lágrimas.
En las anémonas del ofertorio to encontraré, ¡corazón mío!,
cuando el sacerdote levante la mula y el buey con sus fuertes brazos
para espantar los sapos nocturnos que rondan los helados paisajes del cáliz.
Yo tenía un hijo que era un gigante,
pero los muertos son más fuertes y saben devorar pedazos de cielo.
Si mi niño hubiera sido un oso,
yo no temería el siglo de los caimanes,
ni hubiese visto el mar amarrado a los árboles
para ser fornicado y herido por el tropel de los regimientos.
¡Si mi niño hubiera sido un oso!
Me envolveré sobre esta lona dura para no sentir el frío de los musgos.
Sé muy bien que me darán una manga o la corbata;
pero en el centro de la misa yo rompere el timón y entonces
vendrá a la piedra la locura de pingüinos y gaviotas
que harán decir a los que duermen y a los que cantan por las esquinas:
él tenía un hijo.
¡Un hijo! ¡Un hijo! ¡Un hijo
que no era más que suyo. porque era su hijo!
¡Su hijo! ¡Su hijo! ¡Su híjo!

 ***

The Abandoned Church
(A Ballad of The Great War)

Translated and further interpreted by Torre DeVito
from “IGLESIA ABANDONADA” by Federico García Lorca

I had a son who was named John.
I lost a son whom I look for in
the ruins of the church one All-Hallows eve.
I see him playing on the steps during a mass long since ended,
Dipping his little tin pail into the well of the priest’s heart.
I beat the coffins for my son (My son!) and cast
chicken bones during a full moon to try and understand

I had a vision that my little child was a fish
left where they move the vendor’s carts away.
I had a little child, a fish that died
in the ashes of incense burners.
And in my vision I was the sea. What? My God! A vast sea!

During his funeral I rang the bells,
but the bells have decayed like wormy fruit.
and I lit the candles, now devoured:
eaten like the spring wheat.

And in the wine, I saw the invisible reaper which
plucks the black heads of anguished soldiers:
in those trays with rubber housings
in which they pass around cups filled with tears.

Amongst the holy flowers of the offertory you will find my heart
when the priest raises the host like one who lifts
a mule or an ox with his strong arms. He does this to
scare away the toads that come out at night to haunt
the frozen landscape of the chalice.

I had a son who was a giant,
but the dead are stronger than the living
and they know how to devour pieces of heaven.

If my child was a bear,
I would not be afraid of the alligator’s stealth,
nor would I have seen the sea tied to the trees
to be ravished and trampled by regiments.
If my child was a bear!

I wrap my child in stiff fabric to dispel the cold of the mosses.
I know very well that I will get a sleeve or an armband;
but in the middle of the funeral I will break the rudder
we will drift to a rock in the sea – full of the madness of
penguins and seagulls, and it will cause those who sleep and
those who sing from the street-corners to cry:
He had a son. A son! A son!

I had a son! Not that he was more than my son,
but because he belongs to us all now, they cry:
Our son, our son, our son…

***

( http://www.tdevito.com )

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