Thursday, November 26, 2009

How to read- This month on Yareah magazine

Article about literature by Charles May:

This month Indian Legends in U.S. on Yareah magazine

Read this article by Silvia Cuevas Mostacero:

Metamorphosis on Yareah magazine

A lot of different articles are on Yareah magazine/november about Ovid and Kafka and about other metamorphosis... ordinary metamorphosis. See the whole issue:

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Sabela Baña in Ireland (Dublin)

I like the painter Sabela Baña.
Read this article:
and see her webpage:

La Revista Absenta Poetas

Leer el artículo que sobre la revista publica Yareah magazine:

Y el de la presentación de la revista Absenta poetas en el Bukowski Club de Madrid:

Leer la página cultural de la revista Absenta poetas:

Monday, November 9, 2009

Literatura en el Bukowski Club de Madrid

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Ovid, the roman poet, on Yareah magazine

The whole issue of November of the bilingual cultural magazine Yareah is dedicated to the roman poet Ovid.

"... Ovid was exiled to Constanta (called Tomis in Roman times) by the emperor August. According to the poet, it was a “mistake” and current historians disagree about what sort of “mistake” he made: sexual, politician, religious?
Anyway, he arrives to his exile in the 8th a. C. and in spite of his requests, he never was forgiven, dying in this city in the 16th..."

Read more:

Poetry by Zhaul on Yareah magazine


It’s a double dare, distance and your eyes

It’s a double sight, what happened and what will be
It’s a double dream, remembering you and hope

It’s the pleasure of the sea caught in your eyes
Standing there and watching you walk
Palm trees bowing as you went by

Read more:

Poems by Martin Askem on Yareah magazine


WE have Destroyed and we have raped Mother earth

WE have invaded space and wasted time

WE have made nature un-natural

WE have driven God's creatures into extinction

WE have persecuted and executed generations of Man

WE are not MEN, and we are unkind

WE have destroyed mankind


That is THE question

Read more:

Music in Madrid, Fudacion Juan March

Ver más:

Monday, September 7, 2009

Martin Askem: a surrealist writer and artist on Yareah magazine

Martin Askem is on the issue of September of Yareah magazine: a cultural bilingual (Spanish- English) magazine which dedicated this number to Avant-Garde.
In October, he will be the main artist and we can enjoy his paintings.
A very interesting surrealist artist.
Read more:

The writer Martin Cid reviews Finnegans Wake by James Joyce on Yareah magazine

Is Finnegans Wake a poem or a novel?.... Difficult question. The writer Martin Cid reviews on the issue of September of Yareah magazine, dedicated to Avant-Garde, one of the most important books of the 20th century: Finnegans Wake by James Joyce.
Read the folloving url:

Tristan Tzara on Yareah magazine

The issue of September of Yareah magazine is dedicated to Avant-Garde.

Here you will find poems of Tzara:

Here three interesting articles:

by the painter David McDowell

by the teacher Zhang Huaming

by the writer Charles Kinney Jr.

Anyway, you should read the whole issue. Do not forget to download the pdf for free and if you read Spanish, this article by the writer Martin Cid is very interesting too:

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Haiku on Yareah magazine by Jess C Scott

3 Haiku

The emblem of lust;
How the succubus dreams of
Your naked body.

Mindful perfection
Genuine servitude, to
The Chosen Pinchful.

The Dragon as Venus
The cool, seductive
Icy gaze belies the heart's
Ferocious fire.

Read Jess C Scott's poems

Read Jess C Scott's opinion about Nibelungs at the issue 3 of Yareah magazine:

Saturday, May 2, 2009


The issue 7 of Yareah magazine is dedicated to Romanticism. You can see poems and comentaries of Byron, Keats, Hoffman, Brontë's sisters, Wordsworth, Whitman, Allan Poe, Pérez Bonalde, Espronceda, Bécquer... and Goethe.
See this article of Elisabeth Powers about Goethe and America

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Poems by Elaine Magliaro

Another of my favourite current poets.
Read more:

Quetzalcoatl by Rachel Dacus

Not only the old poems are beautiful but do are the new ones. See Rachel Dacus on:

and on

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Gustavo Adolfo Becquer in English

The dark swallows will return
their nests upon your balcony, to hang.
And again with their wings upon its windows,
Playing, they will call.
But those who used to slow their flight
your beauty and my happiness to watch,
Those, that learned our names,
Those... will never come back!

In Spanish

Volverán las oscuras golondrinas
En tu balcón sus nidos a colgar
Y otra vez con el ala a sus cristales,
Jugando llamarán.
Pero aquellas que el vuelo refrenaban
Tu hermosura y mi dicha a contemplar.
Aquellas que aprendieron nuestros nombres,
¡Esas... no volverán!

Saturday, March 28, 2009



Old Euclid drew a circle
On a sand-beach long ago.
He bounded and enclosed it
With angles thus and so.
His set of solemn greybeards
Nodded and argued much
Of arc and of circumference,
Diameter and such.
A silent child stood by them
From morning until noon
Because they drew such charming
Round pictures of the moon.
Vachel Lindsay(b. 10 November 1879)

Read more on:

Saturday, March 7, 2009

If by Rudyard Kipling

rudyard kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!


Si guardas en tu puesto la cabeza tranquila,
cuando todo a tu lado es cabeza perdida.
Si tienes en ti mismo una fe que te niegan
y no desprecias nunca las dudas que ellos tengan.

Si esperas en tu puesto, sin fatiga en la espera.
Si engañado, no engañas.
Si no buscas más odio, que el odio que te tengan.
Si eres bueno, y no finges ser mejor de lo que eres.

Si al hablar no exageras, lo que sabes y quieres.
Si sueñas y los sueños no te hacen su esclavo.
Si piensas y rechazas lo que piensas en vano.
Si alcanzas el TRIUNFO ó llega tu DERROTA,
y a los dos impostores les tratas de igual forma.

Si logras que se sepa la verdad que has hablado,
a pesar del sofisma del Orbe encanallado.
Si vuelves al comienzo de la obra perdida,
aunque esta obra sea la de toda tu vida.

Si arriesgas de un golpe y lleno de alegría,
tus ganancias de siempre a la suerte de un día,
y pierdes, y te lanzas de nuevo a la pelea,
sin decir nada a nadie lo que eres, ni lo que eras.

Si logras que los nervios y el corazón te asistan,
aún después de su fuga, en tu cuerpo en fatiga,
y se agarren contigo, cuando no quede nada,
porque tú lo deseas, lo quieres y mandas.

Si hablas con el pueblo, y guardas la virtud.
Si marchas junto a Reyes, con tu paso y tu luz.
Si nadie que te hiera, llega a hacerte la herida.
Si todos te reclaman, y ninguno te precisa.

Si llenas el minuto inolvidable y cierto,
de sesenta segundos, que te llevan al cielo.
TODO lo de esta Tierra será de tu dominio,
Y mucho más aún ...

¡ Serás un HOMBRE, hijo mío !

Isabel del Río

A poem is a mirror,
a broken but perfect image
of a broken but perfect mirror.
You can see my image
and your image
and the image which is hidden
in its deepest glass.

Finnegan's Wake

Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street,
a gentle Irishman mighty odd
He had a brogue both rich and sweet,
an' to rise in the world he carried a hod
You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way
but the love for the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on his way each day,
he'd a drop of the creator every morn.

Whack fol the dah now dance to your partner
around the floor your trotters shake
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

One morning Tim got rather full,
his head felt heavy which made him shake
Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull,
and they carried him home his corpse to wake
Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,
and laid him out upon the bed
A bottle of whiskey at his feet
and a barrel of porter at his head.

His friends assembled at the wake,
and Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch
First she brought in tea and cake,
then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddy O'Brien began to cry,
"Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see,
Tim avourneen, why did you die?",
"Will you hold your gob?" said Paddy McGee.

Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job,
"Biddy" says she "you're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
and left her sprawling on the floor
Then the war did soon engage,
t'was woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
and a row and a ruction soon began.

Mickey Maloney ducked his head
when a bucket of whiskey flew at him
It missed, and falling on the bed,
the liquor scattered over Tim
Bedad he revives, see how he rises,
Timothy rising from the bed
Saying "Whittle your whiskey around like blazes,
thunderin' Jesus, do ye think I'm dead?"
Finnegan's Wake
Irish traditional

Dies Slowly by Pablo Neruda

Dies slowly he who transforms himself in slave of habit, repeating every day the same itineraries, who does not change brand, does not risk to wear a new color and doesn't talk to whom doesn't know.
Dies slowly he who makes of television his guru.
Dies slowly he who avoids a passion, who prefers black to white and the dots on the "i" to a whirlpool of emotions, just those ones that recover the gleam from the eyes, smiles from the yawns, hearts from the stumbling and feelings.
Dies slowly he who does not overthrow the table when is unhappy at work, who does not risk the certain for the uncertain to go toward that dream that is keeping him awake.
Who does not allow, at least one time in life, to flee from sensate advises.
Dies slowly he who does not travel, does not read, does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself.