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The Leoncio poet Luque, member of the group Katerba Noble, and now serves as professor of literature at a school in Villa El Salvador, had a very original idea to raise students' interest in poetry. It was not pushing them to another art again, something distant, almost abstract, no. Quite the contrary. Sought, promoted and encouraged every one of those guys were high school seniors participating in creative writing. Moreover, not of the same texts that are repeated in the typical college textbooks, which many of us we had to endure and many more turned away from literature and reading in general, with its readable and got it squared a series of poems and stories complete ossified. Professor Luque gave them access to other creations, other authors, from different eras, different realities, and invited them to find a link to each of these works. But let us explain himself:

The start of reading poetry is a fun question that begins when the student is given a pile of books of poetry from different generations, bringing it to their context, their generation. And the issue of creation flows like something closer. Because students are more familiar and you feel him, and who start investigating certain author who has captured your interest. Then collected, read, models, design books they think edit by hand. I copied by hand or you take photostat, do you, take over from the acquired poetic taste. The fillings with different materials, according to your taste and interest, card, cardboard, corrospón, microporous simple cardboard, cloth, painted, etc. Then there is the work of a poet anthologized as a single text. The student has done his research material, has found that feelings for the new poetry, not so new, it's not all rhyme, but music, rhythm, cadence, diagrams, pictures, and then share their research with the rest of the students and increase their knowledge of Peruvian poetry.

As we see this experience is not a simple extension of classes, a job to do, but an opportunity to connect with the rest of the world, other worlds: the art and living in interior.

think they can be editors, writers, designers, librarians and can make an International School Fair with foreign writers. I happy, but exhausted, but happy. I am a teacher, but before the teacher, I am a poet, and do not want to be stingy in denying knowing the actual poetry, when all information is available. I do not want to have fifty years and just found out that a writer close to the time he was publishing in search of a reader.

Now, tomorrow in the school premises Republic of Peru will hold a Expoferia where we know and enjoy the work for each of those guys.

Here is a small sample of what we find:

An initiative indeed worth emulating.

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poetry or short essay towers on the minimum (II)

II

Who knows Enrique Bustamante and Ballivián? There are very few who can attest to the author of the Antipoems, a nice book that deserves at least a couple of tests and assessment hermeneutic appropriate. It is true that Bustamante and Ballivián is not a "great" poet, not a Vallejo or Eguren-founders of some of the most vital traditions and substantive poetry in Latin America of our time. His office was not only poetry, also devoted himself to editorial work. We owe it to this side of him the first issue of abolition of death (one of two key books Emilio Adolfo Westphalen) and the first study on the poetry Alejandro Peralta, the bard Puno rated yet profound ways. These books are indispensable part of his legacy. His job was to be there at the right time, to offer and humbly offered as an editor, even without knowing it and, perhaps, perceive not.
art, like any human activity is made up of defects, failures, of hatred, of affection and all that is part of the insignificance of the work. The great monuments, those books (and now I speak as a reader of poetry) rights, are seen in the distance, forming a first truth: that which has the difficult art of creation, the confrontation with the missing word and efficient, free verse but beautiful. From our place in the world witnessed the fatal witness of poetic creation. Not for us to stillness. The appreciation of these works is, it should be, just a hint, no doubt, in our search key. Poetry is also reciprocity and love. In small dimensions, but some minor work, there is also poetry. If major works are perceived towers in the distance, not enough to contemplate. Be approached. Feeling the dry land which is erected, and unbearably heinous that dust that covers everything real. Its geography is ruinous testimony, colorless voice says the pieces of a world eager to resurrection. The minutiae, the accident, the accessory are also part of this great art. How to weigh the true value of artistic work without acknowledging that any creation of man is the product of a circumstance beyond reproach absurd, chaotic, abusive, unreal? Yes, the reality is unreal. It has always been, will continue. His consistency is temporary and random. Every day, new combinations and possibilities, mixed with our desires and hopes, why are not dead?, Why my house is still standing?, Why one word yields to the presence of another? What chance is confused with the cause: that fleeting balance arises incandescent work of art. How many times have we discovered in our mouth an unfamiliar word? Who do we thank? In a world where divinity has been relegated, we are all, each one of us, the living body in the world. This is the first matter of art, the combination that defines their existence: the voice of the dead friend, hate desperate, furious beat of a heart on fire, the splendid half wound to the face. From this arises and, just because the man is an animal in constant pain, just because an animal is still surprised, then back.

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News employees (René Llatas Trejo)

As we said on one occasion above, we want to reward the support given by our employees, providing its new activities and spreading your current project. This time, a preview of the novel René Aftersun Llatas Trejo, publishing partner -8, with the article "Henry Miller and the framework of fiction." Also, let them know who is in pre, just 15 soles. ***

Custom and its greatest virtue. The disintegration of misery, a new chain of emotions through the city, a new discovery, a small imaginary exile, a chess puzzle feeling less competent. The obstinacy of seeing a sunrise indistinct, provide that objects are processed and return to be the same. But nothing has happened. Any lesser extent has been diluted and fermented like a wolf urine. We need to open windows and leave the things that Clea has not been able to bear.

Trinidad
Letter:

'is four: winter sun. I would be drugged. I imagine a dark and hazy room, a little cold, and background sound of a guitar. I would be looking at the ceiling without looking, while puffs expired. I would run to the beach and sit on the edge of the pier, with a pecan ice cream. And you? Stendhal? "


Your name flies, is locked in my hands like a kite, and falls into a blank page. His name is the name of the woman I love. Her voice hangs up on me. Even if bad is good, the right of every soul has to wake up. Vanity is fierce. I read one page without having to be someone else.

Trinidad
Letter:

"I do not know, it's ironic and funny at once. If I were not in Clea obviously I had not married. I'm a mess, and I'm sorry. I'm disappointed in myself, and really sad and frustrated. Unlike you, I miss being alone, alone, alone. It is absurd but I miss. I miss who I was, and I feel that Clea is sleeping through my fault, because each time the full of sleeping pills. It is terrible, as if standing on a cliff and I could throw. I have fear of not being here, not recover, Stendhal. "
***


University. People walking, transit, talk. It is a modern day, there are no shadows. There is a kind of platform and on each corner a block of cement. Only one stands out for its size than the rest. This I support. I'm waiting for Clea. Look around. Appear within minutes. I looked, and Clea too. Walk slowly and expects to lift his face to look at me as she knows. I get up, road and not stop her.


An empty room, high ceiling and wooden floor. Clea and I are sitting. We hugged, caressed our hands, pensive. Support my hand on his cheek and kiss her neck. Clea makes a small movement away, but imprisons.

"I observed everywhere. I knew you were there at the front, side, up, down. I immediately realized that if I saw you I was lonely. I missed your eyes. Clea

smiles.

"I knew you did not like.

"I never said that.

"Now is a dagger that never stops. Clea

smiles.

-be fate perhaps.

"We'll be us.

Sorority Paddling 2010

Deniau and wall-verre Dallas Harlequin



know the work of Victor Loup Deniau, for lovers of beauty
is an appointment with magic or L'Athanor ... as the artist describes it well.
combines creation and death! Visit their site
and dance together.

Victor Loup Deniau


But ...
What to do when looking for words to describe, a flush, a feeling
and actions exceed what ... Still, I try.

For your magic
Condemned by the beauty
only a fragment of the creation
without moment generating eternity. Fade
the sad dark dust, flapping
scattered like chimes.
Descend and climb spiral
landslides with vertigo and float ...
Attract, do not fit dreams.
Congoja to alchemy.
Bells, mudras and
'm drifting sailboat ...
of your work!


Embrace.

indianala.

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Marco Aurelio Denegri and magic



And so, ever react against this harassing gadfly of the reason ...

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To be one with all life ... (From Friedrich Holderlin)

To be one with all living things, come back in a happy oblivion of himself, the whole of nature. Often reached the summit ... but a moment's reflection it is enough for the falling down. Meditate, and I feel like it was before, just with all the pains own mortal condition, and the asylum of my heart, a world entirely disappears, nature crosses his arms, and I to stand before her as a stranger, and I do not understand. I wish I had not ever been to your schools, because in them is where I became so reasonable, I learned to differ fundamentally from what surrounds me, I'm isolated from the beauty of the world, have been expelled from the garden and nature , where it grew and blossomed, and I August to midday sun. Oh, yes! The man is a god when he dreams and a beggar when he reflects.

In: Hyperion or the Hermit in Greece