sábado, 3 de diciembre de 2011

The joy of moonlight sonata

Concerns about facts neither of both had lived,
We as possible witnesses of broken models in an unknown future,
Outside the grass jumpers play music to the moon
You awaken by birds sings to the sun and the bee around pretending ignore you
 even not content, distract the bright stars from me.

The moonlight sonata unites our heart in the same beat
through the wireless that today lift us to antique letters.

The silence became our perfect scenario
miles of deep blue kingdom were not distant enough
to keep the Ode of joy
that enters as whisper to our ears.

Souls embrace in just one stare
differences now die forgotten to the act of your lips on mine
and the heat of our bodies presence the classic dance
where merciless time catches us play with the wind and fire.

Angels are praying these ashes travels springs and autumns
to conceive the pleasure of our desires
that unconsciously rejoices every dawn
with hopes to wake up under warm sheets
where the brown land and the blue sea meet in a smile
 after eruptions accept cool drops of dews
and the night ends with the promise of a morning next to you.


Nicole García. 29/Nov./2011

sábado, 19 de noviembre de 2011

There is a country in the world

There is
  A country in the world
In the same way the sun,
A native of the night,
In an improbable archipelago
of  Sugar and rum
            As a bat's wing
Supported in the breeze.

As the trail of kiss on the singles
          Or the day on the roof.
Fruit, fluvial and material. Yet
Simply hot and kicked

as a teenager in the hips
simply sad and oppressed.
Sincerely wild and uninhabited.

With three million
                           Sum of life
And among all
              Four cardinal ridges
And a huge bay and another huge bay,
Three peninsulas adjacent islands
And a wonder of vertical rivers
And land under trees and land
Under the rivers and the foothills of Mount
and at the foot of the hill and beyond the horizon
and earth from the roosters cantío1
and earth under the gallop of horses
and land on the day, under the map around
and under all the tracks and through love.

                       This is what I said.
There is
A country in the world
just wild and uninhabited.
Some love will believe
that in this fluvial country where the land rises,
And it pours and cracks like a broken vein,
Where the day has its true triumph,
The farmers will go with amazement and apero2
to cultivate.
                            their own fringe.

This love
Will break his solitary innocence
                                  But no.
And will believe
That in the middle of this rise land,
Everywhere, where rolling hills in the valleys
As fresh blue coins, sleeping in
A forest in each flower and each flower, life
The farmers will  walk for the hill sleeping
To enjoy
                            With its own goods.

This love
Double its light arrow.
                         But no.
And will believe
That where the wind assails the innermost clod
And become them summits troops and grasslands,
where each tor looks like a heart,
In every farmer will go the spring
        between the rows
                              their property
This love
Reach its flowering age.
                     But no.
There is
A country in the world
Where a farmer brief
Dry and bitter
                dies and bites
           Its powder demolished,
And the land is not enough for its row death.
Hear it well! Not enough to fall asleep.

It is a small country and attacked, just sad
Sad and grim, sad and acrid. As I already said:
Just sad and depressed.
Is not that only.
                              Men are needed
For so much land. That is, are missing
who undress the Virgin Mountains and make them mothers
After a few songs.
                            Mother of the vegetable
Mother of bread, Mother of the canvas and the roof
request Mother and night by the bed ...
Men are needed to kneel down the trees and then
rise them against the sun and distance.
Against gravity´s the laws.
And I take from them rest, rebellion and clarity.
And men who lie with clay
And left them calving walls.
                              And men
To decipher the river´s gods
And upload them trembling between the networks.
And men on the coasts and in the cold
And in all desolation.
That is, missing men.
                              and need a song.
From the depths of the night
I come to speak of a country.
Poor of population.
                               Is not that only.
Nature of the night I'm the product of a trip.
Give me time
                              to make the song.
Lung Nest down at the moon
Golden Health open guitar
End of the journey where an island
the peasants have no land.

Tell the wind surnames
Of the thieves and caves
And open your eyes where a disaster
The peasants have no land

The sharp air a brief fist
Is stopped by a stone
Open an injury where the eyes
The peasants have no land.

Those who do not have angels stole
They have orbits between the legs
They don´t have sex where one homeland
The peasants have no land.

They have no peace between the eyelashes
Landless they have no land.

Unlikely country.
                           Where the land springs
And it pours and cracks like a broken vein,
Where it reaches the statue of vertigo,
Where the birds swim or fly but in the middle
There is no more than earth:
                         The peasants have no land.
And then
                        Where did that song come out?
How is this possible?
                       Who says that between the thin
Gold Health
                the peasants have no land?
That's another song. Listen
the delicious song of sugar mills
And rum.

Look at a sudden rush of rail
are of  the sugar mill
Holders of the aborigine green
are of  the sugar mill
And the native mountains
are of  the sugar mill
And the grass and cane and wicker
are of  the sugar mill
And the path and its two scars
are of  the sugar mill
And small towns and virgins
are of  the sugar mill
And the simple man's arms
are of  the sugar mill
And his young veins caliber
are of  the sugar mill
And guards with guns voice
are of  the sugar mill
And the lead spot in the groins
are of  the sugar mill
And the anger and hate without limit
are of  the sugar mill
And the laws are sad and silent
are of  the sugar mill
And the blame is not redeemed
are of  the sugar mill
Twenty times I say it and I said
are of  the sugar mill
"Our fields of glory repeat"
are of  the sugar mill
In the shadow of the anchor persist
are of the sugar mill
Although shed the burden of crime
Far from the port
With the blood, the sweat and salt
are of the sugar mill.
And this is the result.

The bright day
Returning through the glass
of Sugar, first meet the farmer.
Then to wood worker and the chopper
                                of cane.
Surrounded by his children filling the roads.
And the child of guarapo3 and then the serene old
with the clock, watching him with his secret death
and the young girl sewing early its eyelids
in the sack hundred thousand, and the trail of salary
Lost among the leaves of the timekeeper. And to sweaty profile
of the chargers wrapped in their dark muscle´s cloaks.
And the celestial mason
Placing in the sky the last brick
of the fireplace. And to the gray carpenter
jabbing the coffin for the immediate death
When the whistle blows, white and definitive,
 that the rest contains.

The bright day wakes up in the back
Suddenly, running between the rails
Climb up the crane, falls into the stores.
In the yards at the foot of a laundress,
Wet in the songs, crackle and rejuvenates.
On the streets complaining in the proclamation. Just
their foot stands out tears the cribs.

Walk around the cities full of lawyers
they are just signatures and silence, to the poets
they are nothing but fog and silence and judges
Silent. Climb, jump, delirious at the corners
And the bright day is solved by an imminent dollar.

One dollar! Here is the result. A gush of blood.
Silent, strict. Blood wound in the wind.
Blood in the effective product of bitterness.
This country is a country that Doesn´t deserves the name of the country.

But grave, coffin, or burial hole.
It is true that I kiss it and it kiss me
And that your kiss will not taste more than blood.
What day will come, hidden in the hope
With her basket full of implacable wrath
And made ​​faces and fists and knives.
But be careful not fair that the punishment
Fall on everyone. Let's find the culprits.

And then drop the infinite weight of the people
upon the shoulders of the guilty.

And so
             Pallor of the moon
uninhabited and wild dew,
goes mountains and valleys along the river
Way of the foreign ports.

It is true that the river´s traffic.
Honey ridges, gorges
of sugar and crystal sailors
Will enjoy a metallic whim,
And at the foot of the cooperative effort
the proletarian instinct appears.
But drunk with oregano and anise
and martyr of hot landscapes
There's a man standing in the gears.
Banished in his land. And a country
In the world,
In the same way of war.
Land speculators and landless.
Material. Morning. And banished.

And cannot be like that. From soil
will procedure a light whisper
probably hoarse and shed.
Probably in pursuit of  the land.

 artist: Candido Bidó
Pierce the fields and the celestial
domain from east to west
thrilling the last root.

And taking off the heroes from the grave
there will be blood back into the country.
there will be blood back into the country.

And this is my last word.
                             I want it
hear it. I want to see on each door
of religion, where open hands
request a miracle of the estuary.

I want to see the bitterness necessary
where man and the beef and the furrow sleep
and dreams get thin in the germ
of quiet that perpetuates the praying.

Where an angel breathe.
                            where burns
a pale and secret prayer
and following the road lane
a herdsman is extinguished in the afternoon.

          I do not want more than peace
                               a nest
of constructive peace in each palm.
And perhaps to the purpose of soul
The swarm of kisses
                      And oblivion.

"Seeing this country so I exploded and kicked in desperation,
I wrote 'There's A Country in the World,"
Pedro Mir,  
 (published Cuba, 1949).
Translation: Nicole García.

3. Guarapo: juice of sugar cane, typically made in The Dominican Republic.
2. Apero: instrument used on farming.
1. Cantío: singing of a rooster.

viernes, 11 de noviembre de 2011

Temporada Cultural Japonesa en Otoño iniciará con concierto Oyama x Nitta

Getao Takahashi-bajo,Masairo Nitta- Shamisen,
 Hiromu Motunaga- (Flauta), Yutaka Oyama-Shamisen,
Suichi Hidano Shinta- Taiko (Tambor).
La Temporada Cultural Japonesa en Otoño  organizada por la Embajada de ese país en República Dominicana Iniciará este sábado 12, a las 5:00 de la tarde con el concierto de  música tradicional japonesa en la presentación única del duo Oyama x Nitta y miembros especiales, en el auditorio Manuel del Cabral de la Biblioteca Pedro Mir (UASD), Santo Domingo.

Con el lema Tradicción e Innovación, el concierto que también será espectado el domingo por el público del  Gran Teatro del Cibao ofrecerá según su programa, más de diez canciones como: Popurri de canciones folklóricas de Aomori, El sol, Karma, Akita Nikata Bushi, entre otras.

La agrupación calificada por su éxito en Japón y escenario del mundo está integrada por profesionales experimentados, quienes interpretan  piezas originales y clásicas utilizando un acercamiento innovador y creativo a la versatilidad de sonidos del instrumento Shamisen.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LHArh3OCjk

La  Temporada Cultural que cuenta con la colaboración de la Universidad Autonoma de Santo Domingo (UASD),UNAPEC,Gran Teatro del Cibao y más instituciones desarrollará su programa desde el 12 hasta el 30 de Noviembre con la realización de un concurso de oratoria del idioma japonés, la premiación del concurso nacional de HAIKU y el JFEST.

sábado, 22 de octubre de 2011

Impactas en el aire
Al ritmo del tiempo en que camina gente
Como huellas que borrarán las olas
Hasta que luz y lluvia veneren tu color.


Transparentada en profetas que gritan en toda dirección
Desde escenarios,  memorias, reinventas  pluma y papel
Quemadas por el sol.


Como espejismo del cosmos en la biósfera.


Contemplada en la embriaguez  de pieles sobre la alfombra
Atravesando humo
¿Y para qué entenderte?.

martes, 18 de octubre de 2011


El  primer Festival Iberoamericano de Cine( I FIC) que promocionan la Asociación de Consejeros y Agregados Culturales de la Unión de Países Iberoamericanos (UPI) en coordinación con la Cinemateca Nacional iniciará este miércoles, a las  7:00 de la noche con el  filme del país anfitrión  LA HIJA NATURAL, Rep. Dom. 

Una muestra de las 17 películas de los países integrantes que se presentarán desde el 19 hasta el 30 de este mes  en la Cinemateca, Plaza de la Cultural, Santo Domingo.

Cinemateca Nacional
Proyectar la cinematografía Iberoamericana actual  y las realidades recurrentes como problemática económica, de emigración, narcotráfico, entre otras mostradas a través de la gran pantalla en representación de: República Dominicana, España, Bolivia, Brasil, Chile, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, México, Nicaragua, Perú, Venezuela y Uruguay, entre otras características  serán  expuestos en el acto inaugural por los promotores del evento.

Las embajadas y consulados Ibéricos en República Dominicana  que organizan el Primer Festival Iberoamericano de Cine para el que  seleccionaron  17 muestras por sus  valores sociales, culturales, cinematográficos e históricos pretenden que esta sea el  comienzo de más festivales y  actividades culturales.

En cartelera:
El jueves 2,  a las 7:30pm: “American Visa” de Bolivia.

Viernes 21,  5:30 pm: “Tropa de Élite 1”  Brasil,
                            7:30pm: “Maneras de Ser  Feliz”, Chile.

El sábado 22, 5:30pm: “El Tigre de Papel” Colombia,
                             7:30pm: “Caribe” de Costa Rica.

Domingo 23,  5:30pm: “Páginas del Diario de Mauricio” Cuba,
           7:30pm: “Que tan Lejos”, Ecuador.

El martes 25,  7:30pm: “La Vida Loca” de El Salvador.

Miércoles 26,  7:30pm: “25 Kilates” de España.

 Jueves 27,  7:30pm: “El Silencio Neto” de Guatemala.

El viernes 28, a las 5:30pm: “Amor y Frijoles” Honduras,
                   7:30pm: “Espiral” de México.

 Sábado 29, a las 5:30pm: “La Yuma” Nicaragua,
                               7:30pm: “El Acuarelista”, Perú.

El Festival cerrará el domingo 30 de Octubre con la presentación de las películas:
“Dudamel” de Venezuela, a las 5:30pm   y   
“El Baño del Papa” de Uruguay a las 7:30pm.

miércoles, 12 de octubre de 2011

12 de Octubre, ¿Qué nombre le pondremos?

Es interesante en conmemoración de la cultura mostrarles un poco de dominicana,

En hora de recreo del colegio,  niños y niñas jugaban en grupos y se les escuchaba cantar:

·                                 Ambos ador,
Matarile- rile- rile
Qué quiere usted?,  matarile – rile- rile,
Qué quiere usted?,  matarile – rile- rile-ro.

Yo quiero una Quisqueya Libre de colonos,  matarile – rile- rile
Una Quisqueya  Libre,  matarile – rile- rile-ro.


Otro grupo de voces,  respondían…

v                                Eso No tendremos nunca , matarile – rile- rile,
Eso No  tendremos nunca, matarile – rile- rile-ro…

Aquí  traemos más esclavos para Españoles, matarile – rile- rile,
africanos y Españoles, matarile – rile- rile-ro.

·       ¿Qué nombre le pondremos?, matarile – rile- rile… 
Al 12 de octubre, matarile – rile- rile...

  Le pondremos Encuentro Cultural
matarile – rile- rile,
matarile – rile- rile-ro.


Una niña mestiza  se cruza de brazos y da un paso al frente,
 Mira a sus compañeros y les dice:
Dios!, y es qué ustedes no leen historia?, pero  si esclavizaron a todos los indígenas
y casi aniquilados los sometieron junto a africanos a merced  de sus altezas españoles.

Se adueñaron de Todo, toditito el oro y las tierras,  
y les regalaron pedazos de espejos,
Encriptados de orgullo español, manchados de sangre...

 A coro gritaron:

¡Ese nombre no conviene!,  matarile-rile- rile...

Le pondremos,¡ INVASIÓN!, materile- rile- rile –ro.