Congratulations Clipart

MORQUENCHO POETRY ANTHOLOGY OF LITERARY GROUP "Signs" - 2010

Erika Madrid (Buenos Aires - Argentina, 1977): Besides poetry, photography and painting done. Currently residing in the city of Villa Gesell. Published the book Olivo and rhetoric. Has three unpublished poems.


edge After

mouth is closed
me and something I was taught to call
anxiety and sometimes
catches me, tied my arms behind
and suspended me on my stone
only while supplies last She and exhausted me.

sometimes how little I am, God
and how much pleasure it gives me!
in the sex organs and fire
that revolution excites me.

look at the clock and then induce me to think straight

omnipotent and in that state have not discovered what I used
eyes and mouth
what gave me
arms and guts in the stomach, what
sex or what comes after the blood
edge inevitably expands.


Days

Some days I want to die
but I have so far and so great

Some days I think in love and their bullshit
but I have so far and so great

sunny day like today
sweet time in the playground I knock at the pleasure of
disturbs me and makes me be part of an alleged sum.

There are days when my mother looked like she tenderly
wondering what I want and who I am

Stir campaigns
my peers in the meantime short lavender
patio and think of Borges with his conspirators.

Some days I look noisy in a dream, a vision of sea or land
dead
some memories but I have so far and so big.



Caesar Boyd (Ferreñafe, 1981): Educator and editor. Winner of poetry competitions, short stories, essays and drama. He has published three books of poems, and has been considered in several anthologies.

Gnoseology


I wake up at dawn the sun passed through the slit ready

what the sun crossed
if curtains covering the panic?

philosophy does not explain anything to me
science

silent as no sun also raises the indifferent
and only that he should rather accept them


movements to be perennial in the pain of waking

believe that
knowledge explains more than the eyes
the only true sources of contempt


Joint all

undone things. In place things in the hope

observed no differences, just built the world
,

saving a place in the distribution of instruments to kill
or to live again.
Things are what I
located at the site of mobility, mental
my place (especially) in the syllabus of a love
by no
things which are the more I find when I read about rigor
undefined ,
and when I do, they bleed to greet
Immaculate, like at the end of the world
without things, without hope of calculation,
of selfishness. Bumping into things in the air, including rubbing
the essence of disappearing.
Things. They fight on top,
in the pit, fewer of them, increasingly independent
doubt
time the dream, once more, one less time, using the Self



José Abad (Jaén, 1979): Educator. Winner of Poetry Prize at the Universidad Nacional "Pedro Ruiz Gallo." Author of two books. Considered in several anthologies.


7
Alejandra

A world
When I rush to madness,
when demons have consumed my body completely
,
when I possess so little sun goes off;
survive to avenge me much distress has been living
.


9

A Cesar Boyd

look in the mirror my face aged by the time
rough tongue. Spent my eyes, my eyes where
opaque shadow dance. I look at my furrowed brow
harsh memories, my hair turned gray, my body useless and
wrinkled, my ribs thirsty earth and concrete. Miro
my clumsy hands, my nails gnawed, gnawed to bleeding into white nights
. Look at my legs barely hold me
, and my navel bloodless inhabited lust. Miro
these walls where spiders weave age
memories of the dead do not return. I look with dread,
with tenderness, this man who does not know who looks with tenderness,
his last days of Cain, the last flight of insects, small
mortal fatal immortalized by the finding of living,
by the mockery of God looking at me with contempt, and not
also known to hate and contempt with compassion
human being, while God, God always is
left alone in this land of dead.


Ronald Street (San Ignacio, 1984): educator and lawyer. Local award winner, and one in Spain for an essay on "Don Quixote." Author of two books of poems.

I

My words are like children looking
rain.
Then everything was quiet,

I walk away with any face
with wet teeth. XVII




Great evil is to be conscious.
The best justice is madness
and hell, the greatest existence.
intend to be on the verge of madness
this thirst to be bitter live with this misery

favorable than the other not enough. XXIII




True,
has ever avoided
love and you've foolishly left without caring

eyes you said goodbye from a slot,
from an old window.
you met at last the cost of silence.


Hazzel Yen (Durango - Mexico, 1987): Network is a member of the Independent Writers of Durango. She has attended various workshops and seminars of poetic literature.
have titles: Anatomy of the Fairies, The toenails and the other Kingdom. He has done readings poetry in various literary forums and has participated in meetings of writers nationwide. His work has been published in electronic journals and printed in Mexico and other countries.


II

Among the thickets of this century is the sword
silence: no one remembers the music

to raise stealth monsters.


They knew the point where the webs are made harps and crystals
syllable laugh

needed to wake dragons the throats:

knew the room was veiled
since time was invented meat and anxiety
transmuted on pendulums.


A tree

The soul of a living tree in every book.
Oh, strange wonder!:
still echo the tree shattered remains
tree.

root, branches,
and their noble quest
fruits within the heart.

Life
a tree does not end in a book:
begins.
trees are forever in their branches
because eternity begins.


Mario Morquencho (Piura, 1982): He lives in Lima since 2006. He was part of the missing group "Heridita." He has participated in various fairs and poetry readings. Ciudadelirio book published in 2010.


Film

Because it's like when a movie ends, the names
go unnoticed,
closing music ends
straying into the sound of the empty seats that turn dark
and disdaining both the screen ,
faded by the lights coming back on again:
as waking life and the afterlife
that
sleep with the window closed to fantasy,
ephemeral and dreamy, engrossed in a film
. ST




Ve ... poor boy fuck
after winning so well that now he
oil well:
fregao
after walking so well dressed
always accompanied by a pretty girl walks
now sees no shoes

all dirty and skinny and scruffy dog \u200b\u200btormented

slaughter and delusions as the raging sea walk in here asking p'allá
stealing coins on street corners or walking with knees
the poor boy
that sometimes has no choice to rub
his chest worn by the town's streets
leaving his mange their fleas
blood lost in a pool of toxins
and barking that twist
nerves poor boy
the smoke is so
you see my son and you're
poetry is a fucking whore is
drug that hits you as tick
body sucks cock and wallet, then the soul but you want to walk
in your own slice of freedom walled
all moody like a palm tree watching humpback
the ground and gets lost in his shadow
son be careful not to sprain a lot and fall
poor boy Oh boy fuck



Ricardo Musse ( Lima, 1971): Based in Sullana has published numerous books of poetry, fiction and essays. He has received numerous awards, and have obtained the third place XII National Competition in Education "Horacio" or Cope Award finalist with her book Poetry Film of adolescence.


III

So-maybe-at birth were the blue sphere
moving, muddy and melancholy in the songs of
our existence, the dad
were those of the Sonora Matancera,
that what put in a good mood,
but joy since we did rotatably
transient
we were not old enough to make the full rotation, as well
was too late:
So far only the feet are moistened and follow
walking.




X Wind blows everything where our feet sink,
beats are drawn, causing the migration sandy silence,
route necessarily be abrupt and full
sinuous ridges and headlands,
night can only offer the small round
their tracks around the earth, so the only
we consider in our pilgrimage
to transcend the small circles, but we need
wings and wind: Meanwhile
(accumulate in the heart) the dunes are advancing. XV




As a desperate rain bird feathers
celestial
migrate to beat my melancholy

wet and I remember that the existence
eventually be deposited into the light-pilgrim in the universe.


Anita Ramos (Chicago, 1993): Fifth High School student. First Prize in the Regional Short Story Contest (2008). Second Prize in the internal audit of Juan Mejía Baca Private College in 2008 and 2009. First Prize in the Poetry Intern same school (2009). First Prize in the Regional Poetry Contest (2010). The poems have unpublished the voice of black rose and Visions Judas.


The Crow

I told when I looked
crow on a branch:

I have fear of the end of my poems
and how far will the clouds.

He replied Bumble


land and get used to what
soon be yours.

then absorbed my eyes.


Confessions of a junkie

White
in my arms was like the moon to her lover. And
inadvertently slipped his body next to liquor
knelt and told me that he loved her, she smiled

and returned to being a bitch.

Reasons



suspicious of my poems reveal the reason
of my widowhood.

I bother their eyes. My writings are

fingered hands
and
drop tears.


I only wrote because he was barefoot
and water dripped on his face.

say that there must have died. He smelled

Christ suffered. I know everyone



have killed someone in your mind.

I in my writing.



Ronal Perez (Jaén, 1981): Educator. Second place winner in the "First Competition Literature: Poetry and Short Story, "organized by the Faculty of Education UNPRG. Has contributed to numerous magazines and Culture and have unpublished books as: Caressing the Wind (poetry) and Visos of madness (stories). He is currently teaching at the private educational institution "San Antonio de Padua" Tarapoto.


XVIII

Now I love you like the sea, almost by surprise. Insurance

not loving look at you, I embrace you as the night.
signs of life. Signs
extinct in the solitude of your kisses. Insurance

not love I miss you like the sweet miracle of each day. XX




Ah, if I could choose more than you!
verses on the sky on the moon habitats.
I would be a question then,
further humiliation, a sheer arrogance.
I would be anything from a nonexistent god, the path of wounds;
a trivial light on the horizon, looking for you. XXVI




The eyes are the language.
If your eyes talk, talk forever.
You can love me when you want as the morning.
You can be the other night, the day complacent. Kiss
the solitude of my fingers, the sunset of my eyes.
And being that little bit of me where you overnights as an intact landscape.



Wilfredo Gonzales (Chicago, 1989): studied Communication Sciences at the USAT. Besides poetry makes short films. He has won numerous film awards and has unpublished collection of poems Love in Indigo.


I

gangrene gray taste does not justify kissing,
ceased to be the primary
simple now, stale bread, trembling
coming hours to seconds, seconds
butts rum or staying overnight in the lungs,
when beer is not drunk and tastes sweet, or when the brain
delay a response.
One word if only it were so, wind
articulated decoding a silence Silence unwelcome
prescribing an appeal,
between lines or lines or between fingers or simply
eyelashes.
As inadequate streets,
as eyes that are tired with semen
and seduce like smoking cigars at the primary, or death when
rebukes and does not comply: It hurts!
hurts like thinking after night.
Trivial as the morning when I'm bird
and economic such as love ... that calm
coin and serves to anger;
And then the rush of water
I need a mystery

brawl between hair leaving traces on honey ...
glimpsed a verse which masturbated, or late to silence
where there are more than chairs, souls, the crazy vertigo
breaks the majesty of your cleavage,
and crouches behind the bridal eclipse.
And these times reborn in ashes, the taste of touch
granted.
In the wind, where the skin lies hidden;
without knowing
has dawned and exists only in thought,
absconding on phone lines in the Crétaz
of symphonies,
or alkaline
remember that deflowers sweat .


II

Perhaps the night might summarize your fingers or maybe
understand sex noon colors.
silence may mean less
or a flush draw on your tongue,
perpetrated in the innocence of the hair or the distribution
inaccurate winks ...
criterion can lock in the morning the aroma of coffee
night or sap legacy your height,
trying new memories, so future
as described in indigo boy pleasure.
primary odor can be determined without sweetness
sea. Versed sea of \u200b\u200bred
alligators. Of reckless anchored red.
Red Sea! Red Sea!
As gentrified infiltrated leaves,
red, sea, water. You can hide the black
aroma
of kisses when he girded the vast night, night and passenger
or perennial, highly elusive.
And it may be,
red again,
trial brain sexed or lewd,
sea of \u200b\u200bsun or a color that is drawn
[to say unless silence]
a stunned silence in the freedom of the influx, in
choice of a truce, the decision
a baritone prison.
Where the perfect combination of
bodies is summarized in a flush away, sea
absent absent absent
red, briefly, of sex.


Gisella Limo (Chicago, 1984): Marketing and Management Study Companies in the Peruvian Institute of Business Action (IPAE). Second Place in Regional Competition for Poetry (2010). It is linked to literature and painting since he was twelve. It has several unpublished poems.


(01)

A dry leaf.
A big rave at the root of your fingers and a donor
ending
screaming in my veins. Yesterday

slowly turned and took forms of years.
Today I understand as before.
at me! Breathe
unfinished
my blue letters carefully written
after the tunnel

up ... Look at me! And I will give another

dry leaves at the end of fear in the hour
empty veins
after
light like the dawn of centuries. Fall
me!
under someone's feet. Silence


02
Thomases
If only my sunset walk between your islands,
at the bottom of your eyes open, the fear would be gray sky.
If you existed in the endless night of tenderness sterile
someone would say that there is a decline in the skin of lovers ...
If only half of your voice was blue, would certainly
me no worldly
close the sea near you. If only dully
intransitive temieras
lose my address alone,
my blanket and my touch in ocean wind
questions ... If you loved suddenly and my whistle and airtime,
final tears are among the scales of matter would exist ...
Indeed, intransitive
fall from me to believe in the shadows of spring
INTRANSITos
FREE ... I would rather smell the end of these lines,
this foam still and this becoming slim ... Much later
any day ...
Among all the design slightly,
in a free card and melancholy. Much later
any day ...
bones are lifted and the January drop
giving
-odd sometimes. To give a few

and ever.
So, as a
forget too that let it go.



Harold Castillo (Chicago, 1980): Educator and editor. Short story contest winner. He has collaborated with the magazine threshold of the Faculty of Education UNPRG. Have unpublished the storybook Transfiguration.


Eternal

I was moving slowly toward the closet. I was digging and extracting something from a small drawer. Noticed a sad expression on his face and a slight hand tremor depositing that object, wrapped in the blanket compact purple on the marriage bed.
You could tell she had been crying. Felt all the pain that dwelt in her heart and all the anguish populating his spirit. The previous hours had been terrible. When given the fatal news just knew he wanted to die. She could not comfort him then. He was crushed.
"How I wish I could tell you something valuable in these times, something that will help ease your pain" he had said. But he only heard the rumor of the night, attach itself to his loneliness, the cold wind cry to beat the dark shutters. The distant voice and loss of happiness, now completely absent, dismissed the rumors of that traffic harmful.
"Why? ... Why? ... I do not understand," he said through tears.
now also in tears, uncontrolled and free, unwrapped the object wrapped in purple tissue. Even sat on the bed for comfort. Then she asked: "What do you keep there?". He did not answer.
It was only two hours that friends and relatives had withdrawn their request.
"Leave me alone please, I want to be alone to mourn my wife," he implored them. Nothing else she was accompanying him, for he realized to perfection that loneliness was not the best advisor to a big pain.
"I'm leaving ... I can not retire and, in this state," he had said.
Since then the two of us stayed in the room, only in the company of the corpse that was lying in bed. Both spoke in fact very little, only when he expressed some discomfort, she tried to answer using the right words as possible.
Most of the time stood together, gazing at the beautiful face of the deceased, feeling a slight but very real emanation distant and cold from death. Totaled pain. The color of hours stuck on the cheeks.
"What do you keep there?" She asked again. But then the answer is expressed through a peculiar sound terrible, like a gun being loaded.
"No way! He cried, startled, what you gonna do! ".
"Nothing matters," he said. Nothing matters. "
"No, no way! "He chided, and again, overcome by panic-Do not, do not!".
He completely ignored. Then joined with a determination irrevocable, a simplified determination by fate. Kissing
last After his wife was willing to kill themselves. Separated even a few feet to not sully the detonation. The instant
full, near death, his eyes embraced powerlessness and anger focused on the flow coagulated your fingertips. Seconds later, he stopped.
She, her great friend, with a convincing criterion was taken from the table, the picture of marriage with the two girls. Now he seemed so angry, rubbing in the face, as if to point out that if there was anything that would have to die that night, it was just selfishness.
He stared at the portrait so embarrassed, so sad. After throwing the gun side crumbled to the ground, broke out in uncontrollable weeping.
"Please do not cry, do not want to mortify; just want you to realize the responsibility you now have with the girls," she said.
"Please forgive me ... forgive me. I know I was stupid to try to do this, "he said, clamping his eyes on the corpse of his wife. The girls need me ... more than ever. "
"Stand up, go with them, tell them that mom is always at your side, you always love him more than anyone, you never forget," she said.
He only managed to see out the window this huge moon lighting up the landscape. Its pearly color reminded much to his wife, his face everyday.
"I have to go," she said, but remember I'll always need me. "
Suddenly, her dark hair was stirred by the wind and moonlight suddenly invaded his face, mingling with his pale expression. Only then could distinguish bright eyes wet wet-the-perfect eyes, the warm eyes projected from any enduring substance.
He could not even guess that was so close, crying, that was precisely what she saved his life was just a minutes. It even came with it from the very hour of his own death.
not suspected that his wife, standing by the window, which had been comforting. Accompanying.
not think twice. Speaking of girls, aloud, he overcame the pain, and experienced-without trying-some special equivalent to peace. Continued after muttering: "Beyond ... Beyond us life," as he walked. She vanished
repeating, again and again, as adding value: "Beyond."