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transskywardsword · 8 months ago

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okie okie yall pinky promised!! here is part one of the prologue of 'bovzek and the devil' and you are all required to read it. constructive criticism is encouraged bc im not used to this writing style and I'm still getting used to it. this is very much a first FIRST draft!!

some notes-- this is a dark fairytale esc story taking place around ~1000 AD in eastern eourpe in an imaginary country, Milan-Rosae. the folktale creatures are slavic in origin. tw for misogyny from the pov character, pregnancy, death during childbirth, talk of a baby dying from starvation (the baby does not die!), and a dude seriously having it out for a literal infant

enjoy!

Queen Wenzel was pregnant. Her stomach was swollen, her belly button poking out as stretchmarks made vines across the taut, cellulite-puckered flesh, like ivy creeping up brick. The baby--their baby-- kicked often, shifting beneath the skin of her belly, and Claudius took great pride in feeling the fluttering movement under the palm of his hand as he rested it on Wenzel’s stomach. Their boy (because it would be a boy, Claudius was sure of it) would be strong, with arms as mighty and unwavering as the kicks against the wall of its mother’s womb. Wenzel was due any day now, maybe even any hour. Drowsy spring stretched on outside the castle windows and Claudius could hardly contain his excitement, just as he could barely hold back the growing annoyance he felt towards his wife. Her vomiting, her crying, her whines of pain and backache as she grew larger, her once beautiful body now ruined with child, all grated on him like porcupine quills against fresh bark.

Wenzel and Claudius’ marriage hadn’t been born out of love, but instead a treaty between a rich walled kingdom that gnawed on the tail of the Roman Byzantine Empire, and Milan-Rosae, the heart of the East. Nestled between Pomerania, the fiercely held vassal of the Holy Roman Empire, and the Duchy of Bohemia, back before the Schism of 1212 split the world apart, Milan-Rosae was a place of beauty that, in Claudius’ opinion, rivaled no other. Surrounded by the Šumava, a towering roof of green spruce that clung against the sides of the Murmuring Mountains, and the Vydra, the Mighty Otter, a river that cut through the green and brought with it icy lakes and peat bogs, Milan-Rosae was protected from all. Queen Wenzel and King Claudius the VII had made a loveless marriage into a successful allegiance, one that would soon bear an heir, and Claudias awaited that day with bated breath.

Claudius shifted in his saddle. Technically, a royal hunt could have (and probably should have) been put off until Alois was born, but Claudius couldn’t spend another damn day with Wenzel. If he had to listen to his wife vomit all over her swollen belly again he might tear out what little hair he had left. He’d taken to having her sleep in a guest suite; Claudius couldn’t spend another night listening to her sniveling. No, what he needed was fresh air and the company of his men, not Wenzel’s displaced humors, and a hunt would provide just that. Wenzel had pitched a fit of course, as all women did, whimpering something about how she couldn’t be left alone when the birth was so close, and how frightened she was to pass the boy without a hand to hold, but frankly, Claudius had no intention of being there when she did pop his boy out. Too much blood and shit and organs. He’d much prefer his only memories of his wife naked be when he thrust himself in and filled her with his children, not when she was shitting and bleeding all over herself, thank you very much. As long as he could hold a baby boy soon, he was happy.

The royal hunt was supposed to be to find a great Azhdaya, deep in the forest, after which rClaudius and his men would take down the beast, a demonic wryn with three heads, and make a headboard for the newborn prince from its breastbone. In truth, Claudius was just ready to be alone in the wilderness and wild, with only his vassals and knights by his side, sword in one hand and bow in the other, his hounds gnashing their teeth and yanking on the lead as they smelled the air for the scent of dragon. Claudius was ready to let them loose, to swing his sword and spill blood; Wenzel, as beautiful as she was, was desperate to emasculate, constantly carrying on about the importance of kisses and gentle touches. Claudius did not approve of striking women-- he was a Godly man, after all-- but sometimes Wenzel’s nauseating need to be held at night after fucking tested him. Hopefully, the baby would provide an outlet for her, but until the baby came, Claudius needed an outlet for his pent-up frustration, and dragon hunting would do just that. The hunt called to him, whispering of glory and freedom, and Claudius was more than happy to answer that call.

Claudius clicked his tongue, and with a sharp flick of his reins, the horse moved forward. The spring had been mild, the Ride of the King untouched by heavy rain or wind, a sign of good to come. The festival and parade had been grand, and Claudius had been proud to sit above it all and watch the Pentecostal precession march by. May was nearly halfway through, and soon the breath of summer would blow across the treetops of the Šumava and turn the capital city into a sweltering pit of misery, but until then, Claudius enjoyed what was left over from the peaceful shower that had fallen yesterday. They turned the greenery of the forest a bright emerald, the plants soaking up the rain like a sponge did lye, and the ground was spongey with moss beneath his horse’s hooves. Mist and moisture hung in the air, the humidity almost uncomfortable as it sunk into his chest. Arnold rode in step with Claudius’ horse. The vassal was a good soldier, loyal and reverent with a touch of bloodlust that excited Claudius at every joust and hunt, and, had his family not been as brown-blooded as they came, Claudius would have called the man a friend.

“I smell a storm coming, my liege,” Arnold said, his horse walking a respectable five feet behind and to the left of Claudius’ own. He craned his head back to look at the towering spruces around them, and Claudius took a deep breath in. Yes, he could feel the weight of rain settling in his lungs. It was coming, and soon. Rainstorms meant the Vydra would swell, bringing with her all sorts of creatures, ones that Claudius would very much like to avoid. That was the downside of a forest as majestic as the Šumava. Poets had compared the spruces of Claudius’ forest to giants, creatures of wood reaching up with branches so that they might shake hands with God. With her protection, Claudius need not fear the Holy Roman Empire, nor Pomerania, nor the Duchy of Bohemia. Should the massive trees fail to deter invaders, then her tenants certainly would; after all, it wasn’t just bark and roots and tree nettles that could be found on the forest floor. No, the Šumava carried with it secrets-- grand, dangerous secrets.

Fae. Samojuda and Vila, Baždarica and Rusalka, even Vodník all made their homes amongst Claudius’ trees, on the banks of its river and lakes, up in the branches and down in unmarked graves. Father Michael would surely click his tongue and shake his head to hear Claudius speak of such things, but it was the simple truth. Strange creatures lived in the forest, with too-big eyes and too-long teeth, who spoke with gentle, booming voices. Claudius believed in the fae; it was foolish not to, and now, as they moved through the wet glittering spruces, the creatures felt close.

“Aye,” Gregory said in reply as Arnold repeated himself for the third time. Arnold had a nasty habit of jabbering, a little too fond of his own voice. In contrast, Gregory, the newest and youngest of his knights, was quiet and self-contained. He carried promise, if he’d simply harden his heart a tad. He was too kind, too mushy, and it would bite him in the ass sooner than later, and when it did, Claudius was not going to bail the man out of his troubles. “It reeks of lightning. Should we turn back, my Lord?”

Claudius hummed, peering up at the sky. The sky couldn’t open up, not now when they were so deep in the forest away from warmth and shelter. They hadn’t even heard a sniffle from the Azhdaya, let alone its roar, and Claudius had no desire to return empty-handed. That and, should it rain, his new doublet, a fine green thing that perfectly complimented the foliage, would be ruined by the mud, which would be an absolute shame.

“Give it an hour more,” Claudius said, giving his horse a slight squeeze with his knees and sending it off from a slow, steady trot to a canter. “If the sky darkens anymore, we shall turn back.” The two men nodded, turning in their saddles to repeat the order to the other vassals and knights present. The party pressed closer together and spurred on their horses, moving through the spruce like snakes through tall grass. Claudius was beginning to debate picking up the pace even more when, as if the sky had been waiting for the decision, the clouds split. The grey clouds had been deceptively small-- now, as the rain poured down, Claudius was quickly becoming sure this would be much more than a simple spring shower. Damn it.

Arnold swore, jerking his horse to a stop, with Gregory not far behind. A flash of lightning lit up the sky with a crack. Claudius jerked his horse back. Well, shit. The lightning had been close, dangerously so; they needed to turn around. Claudius turned to shout the order to Arnold when another pearl of lightning came down from the sky, striking a tree not even a hundred yards away in a spray of light and heat. The tree split with a scream, the sound almost drowned out by the thunder. It swayed once before tilting back, then forward; Arnold let out a shout, calling for Claudius, but the tree had already fallen, crashing to the ground between Claudius and his men. Claudius’ horse reared up in surprise, eyes wild and ears flattened, and Claudius struggled to grip its slick leather.

“Easy, beast!” Claudius yelled over the rain, jamming his heels into the horse’s sides. Instead of settling, the creature bolted. Clinging to it desperately, Claudius pressed himself close over the horse’s mane. Still delirious, the stupid beast leaped over the tree that was already taking flame and took off into the trees. Claudius could do nothing but grit his teeth and struggle to stay in his saddle as the horse wove through the trees. The forest had quickly become dark with rain, the sky now completely blanketed with clouds, the only light the blinding flash of lighting every few minutes. The horse squealed at a particularly large flash, rearing back and shaking its head, and the leather was too wet, the rain too thick, the spring air too electric—Claudius’ hands slipped from the reins and as the horse spun directions he was flung off, back into a tree, smacking his head against the bark, ripping hair and flesh as he tumbled to the ground. He didn’t have the time to think of his wife, of his unborn baby, even of Arnold or Gregory; he didn’t think at all before he crashed to the ground, still and dim as a snuffed candle.

---

When he woke, the forest was dark. Claudius pulled himself from the ground with a sound of disgust. Mud crusted his new doublet, thoroughly ruining it, and he was soaked to the skin. Moss clung to his beard and vines wrapped around his legs; it took an obnoxious amount of time to free himself from them. He spat out silt, struggling to right himself. The mud had sucked him down like a yearning lover, and with a grunt, he struggled to his feet.

The forest was silent. The rain had stopped. The sky was clear of clouds, but still black, the stars dim and the moon gone. There was no light in this night, no north star, and Claudius frowned as he brushed off his trousers.

“Arnold!” He yelled, turning in a circle, taking in the soaked trees. “Gregory!”

Nothing.

Fuck.

His men wouldn’t abandon him, of that Claudius was sure, and his idiot of a steed—which was now, of course, nowhere to be found—couldn’t have dragged him far. But it had been light when the rain started and now the sky was a black velvet blanket. Claudius was clueless as to how much time had passed. He sighed.

“Arnold! Gregory! I’m here!” He shouted, knowing the words wouldn’t travel far in the soaked moss of the forest. Still, he refused to let his growing concern enter his voice.

“Damn it all, you idiots, here I am!”

Nothing. Not a sound, not even the chirp of spring insects. Perfect silence. He could sit and wait, but then his trousers would get wet, and he was growing anxious. How far had the horse dragged him?

How far from home was he?

Suddenly, a low, mournful sound cut through the silence of the night, and Claudius’ heart skipped a beat. Wolves. He took a steadying breath. He had a sword and knew well how to use it, but one man against a pack of beasts was still unfortunate odds. He could climb a tree and wait the wolves out, but the thought of being surrounded by a pack throughout the night, perched precariously and shivering on high branches as they slobbered and panted, waiting out their hunger was terrifying. Claudius knew he was a strong man in good health, he was unsure how long he could hold himself up.

The mourning voices came again, louder, longer, closer, and Claudius’ well-thought planning left his mind entirely. He turned on heel and ran, breaking through the trees, water and mud sucking at his boots, spruce needles clawing at his face and ruined doublet, and Claudius knew that surly the wolves were just behind him, their foaming gums and teeth gnashing at his ankles.

(The wolves were, in truth, far from Claudius. They gave little thought to the king. After all, the lumberer had died today, her sweet breath gone and her gentle heart stopped. No longer would she run with wolves, no longer would she feed them the finest parts of the deer from her hand. No longer would she scare away hunters and clap in delight at the wolves’ song. The lumberer was gone, dead and cooling. The stars and moon had dimmed their lights in mourning, and the sky opened its clouds in her memory— even the fair folk that lived amongst the spruces wept for h. The lumberer had died and the whole forest hung its head.)

Claudius ran, his blood pounding in his ears. The trees clawed at him, and it seemed to Claudius that the whole forest wished to devour him. He pulled his riding cloak tighter around him in hopes it would somehow protect him from the creatures that stalked the trees at night, until he came stumbling into a clearing he did not recognize. And there, in the center, as if the spruces had politely moved to make just enough room for it, was a house.

House was clearly an overstatement—the wood was warped and swollen, the nails rusted, the door uneven and crooked on its hinges—but the late lumberer’s home radiated warmth, the kind that could never be found in a court or a castle. Piles upon piles of wood, somehow untouched by the rain, sat proudly by the side of the wall, ready to be cultivated into fine lumber, and a sprawling garden of all wonderous things took up the right wall of the home. Vines curled protectively around the pane-less windows. Claudius squeezed the rain and mud from his doublet, straightened the crown on his head, and knocked on the door, kicking the gunk from his boots on the edge of the welcome step.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

“I stand before you as King Claudius Rampars the VII of Milan-Rosae, King of this land and the Šumava forest, and demand you open your door.” He called. He could hear shuffling inside, and the sound of stifled cries, and huffed. How dare they not open when he called? Who did this idiot think they were anyway? He grabbed the doorknob and tested it—unlocked, and unlatched. Very well. If this was what he needed to do to make himself known, then he’d happily let himself in. After all, as king, every door belonged to him. Claudius, with little care of the coming consequences, flung the door open, and stepped inside.

A woman sat by the fire. Claudius immediately turned his eyes—it seemed she’d mistaken living alone for living in heathenry, and sat in just her skirts, her bare flat chest open for all to see, exposing creamy flesh and plump curves of fat that rolled across her hips. She hissed something in some barbaric, unfamiliar language and drew herself up, impossibly tall with clear, too-wide dark eyes and hair the color of starlight tumbling in rich waves down her back. She turned her eyes upon him, and at that moment a word was whispered deep in the back of Claudius’ head: samojuda. But that couldn’t be so. The samojuda, those beautiful women of another world, lived along the Otter, not in shacks in clearings where the closest water was a hand-dug well.

“What in the Great Hells do you think you are doing?” The woman spat. The power in her words raised the hair along Claudius’ spine, a fear he didn’t quite understand-- but then there came a soft sound and a wail from a box nuzzled close to the fire. The woman let out a pained gasp and rushed to the box on the ground, softly shushing it, before gathering up a bundle of wool and skin—a baby. Small, painfully small, no more than a day old, with tan olive skin and bare swirls of auburn, brown-red hair, face scrunched up near in pain as it (he?) screamed.

“Shh, shh, hush little one, all is well, Matka is here,” the woman whispered, bouncing him desperately, and Claudius waited for someone with milk-filled breasts to come from deeper in the home to feed the clearly starving child, but instead the woman just held him close, face pale and shaky, eyes wild.

“Well?” Claudius said, watching the baby’s shriveled up face, “Aren’t you going to feed him?”

“I… I can’t,” the woman said, painfully soft. “I’m not his birth mother. I have no milk to give.”

Claudius scanned the small home for the mother—there was the fire, a loft, and little else, and no mother in sight.

“Then where is she?” He asked and the woman flinched, clinging tighter to the baby.

“She’s dead. I—she was sick, I tried to stop the bleeding, but it all happened so fast, and, and…”

The woman buried her face in the bare chest of the baby. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her,” she said softly, more to herself than him, “I can’t feed him. I’ve tried with a rag and some goat milk, but he won’t latch. Every child I’ve created from the forest I haven’t thought of for even a moment once I rid myself of them, but he… he has his mother’s eyes, I cannot… I cannot watch him die.”

The woman took a shuddering breath. “I wish he had died with his mother. At least then it would have been quick. Now he will starve, long and slow, and I can do nothing to stop it.”

Slowly, the baby quieted, and the woman’s eyes, glittering in her skull, softened. “My little boy…” she whispered, brushing a finger over his closed eyelid, “my precious little boy.”

Claudius shifted uncomfortably in the doorway.

“Does he have a name?”

The woman let out a bitter laugh. “Why bother? He’ll be dead in a few days.”

“Will he be baptized?”

The woman’s face twisted. “Absolutely not.”

“Why? You’re not some heathen in the woods, are you?” Claudius said with a scoff, and the woman turned her dark eyes to him, shining with something malicious.

“Watch your words, your majesty.” She spat, and Claudius took a step back without thinking too.

“I—”

“You speak to me of baptism? You know nothing of how this forest works, its history, its people, its magic. Nothing!” She said, taking a strong step forward, soon nose to nose with Claudius, her baby nearly pinned between them.

“Leave.” She said, “Leave this place. Forget me, forget the babe, go back to where you came from, king. You are unwelcome here.”

And then the baby began to cry. Weaker this time, quieter, less a wail and more a wrecked sob, and the woman swore, rocking him gently.

“Look what you’ve done.” She hissed, “Won’t you let us die in peace?”

Claudius’ mouth stuttered. “I—”

“Is it too much to ask for a creature and her baby to die, together and warm and unbothered?”

“Ma’am—”

“Don’t ma’am me when you barged into my home!”

The baby’s cries had become screams, and tears had begun to drip down the woman’s face, and Claudius’ insides shriveled. Never in his life had he seen a baby cry up close, and the scrunched flesh and watery eyes gutted him in a way nothing had before. His baby would look like this. His Alois, his son, his heir. Would he die too if Wenzel were to pass before she could hold him to her breast?

No. No, Wenzel wouldn’t pass, and even if she did, God protect her, Alois would have a wet nurse and a million men and women and court folk who would happily hold him to their breast. Alois would have everything, and this woman (Woman? Creature? Samojuda?) would have nothing.

“I am a king,” he said softly, and the woman’s face twisted with a sneer.

“Oh, truly?” She said mockingly, and Claudius held up a hand.

“Please, listen. I am a king—I have access to many resources and many pregnant and nursing nobles who would bend over backward to please me. If I asked, they would welcome your baby into their crest in an instant.”

The woman stopped, mouth hanging open. “I… are you…?”

“It is a generous offer, but one I am willing to hold myself to.”

The woman cradled her baby even closer to her chest. “You would?” She whispered, and Claudius felt himself nod, not even sure he was doing so.

The woman took a step back. Between them, the baby had quieted. She walked back to the fire and slowly sunk down to the box, sitting on its edge, and began to hum. Claudius found himself entranced by her song, her sound, like sweet dew and warm sunlight, and a deep breath after a dip in cold water. She waved him over and slowly, he moved to her side and sat beside her.

“What was the mother’s name?” He asked softly, and the woman took his hand, guiding it to the baby’s head. Claudius wondered at his wispy hair, his dark eyes, and the baby smiled at him. Claudius smiled back.

“She was a lumberer,” The woman said, “She wooed me with little carvings and statuettes, carved them till her hands bled and left them for me to find until I fell in love with the little things and then, slowly, with her. She was beautiful, with skin like an oak leaf, hair like a river, and eyes like starlight. She loved the world unabashedly, loved the wolves and the buzzards and the worms as much as she did the flowers and the larks. She was my little lark. She… she always had a long on her lips, and we joined in bed together, so ready to raise a little one… We were overjoyed when she became fat with child.”

The reverent look on her face faded, replaced with a bitterness that made Claudius shiver. “She grew pregnant, that’s for sure. Then sick, and then bloody, and then dead.”

“My wife, she is with child, too,” Claudius said. “A boy, I’m sure of it, and I will name him Alois, after the mighty warriors, so he will grow to be strong and unbreakable.”

“Strong and unbreakable,” the woman said softly, “isn’t that a wonderful thought? Maybe my boy will be the same. Will you, beloved? Will you be strong and unbreakable?”

The baby gurgled up at them. Claudius was struck with a sudden warmth despite the chill of his wet clothes and couldn’t tear his eyes from the boy. He was perfect in every way, with his olive skin, dark eyes, and auburn red hair.

“He shall be,” Claudius said, and the softness in his chest scared him. Claudius was not a soft person, but beside this baby, his heart felt as mushy as a rotten apple, as sweet as sugar syrup. He felt… weak before this baby, and for a moment a stalk of fear struck him. How could something so small be so powerful? It was almost… otherworldly. Claudius glanced at the baby’s mother and her too-big eyes, her pale hair, her unashamed half-nakedness. What kind of woman was this, alone in the woods with a lumberer as her only company? Who was she, to be so content without civilization, so without civility that she’d sit without anything to cover her chest while before a man, a king? Was her lumberer just as uncivilized?

The baby’s eyes had slipped shut, and the woman ran fingers across his tan cheeks.

“Sleep, worldly king,” She said. “Take the spot by the fire. My boy and I shall take the loft. Enjoy the warmth, and dry yourself. We shall leave early in the morning for your kingdom.”

Claudius perked at that. “You can take me home?”

“Aye. I know these woods better than any else. I can take you to the forest’s edge where the walls that surround your kingdom are. A walled kingdom with a walled capital. How strange—are the bricks to keep all out, or all in?”

Claudius pursed his lips. “The Holy Roman Empire--”

The woman waved a hand. “I have no care for petty human politics. You all die in the end.”

“And you do not?”

The woman looked to Claudius with faraway eyes and gave no answer. Claudius shuddered.

“Take the spot by the fire,” The woman said again, and Claudius nodded without even thinking too. The woman bundled the baby to her chest and moved deeper into the home to the loft, murmuring to the child and not giving Claudius a second glance. Claudius sat, bewildered, and finding he couldn’t speak as he watched the bare back of the woman (samojuda, samojuda, samojuda…). He found his thoughts tumultuous and tangled. The fire couldn’t seem to calm them.

He knew then he would never be able to sleep.

Still, Claudius curled up on the fur on the floor, close to the hot coals, and closed his eyes. He’d take the boy in the morning, but until then… until then he would share a home with a fae and the spring storm howling just outside the pane-less windows.

---

Claudius woke slowly, his eyes heavy and his mouth foul tasting, and furrowed his brow. Something low and melodic drifted through the air, and he sat up. Someone was humming. Claudius slowly stood. It was likely the woman, spending as much time cradling her baby as she could before she lost him forever. Claudius approached the ladder to the loft, ears perked, as the woman stopped humming and began to sing in a low, husky voice, heavy and thick with magic. Claudius felt gooseflesh ripple across his skin at the sound of it. It was heavy with power, and Claudius knew in that moment that this woman was far from mortal. The word ‘samojuda’, that beautiful forest spirit, echoed in his head.

Samojuda, samojuda, samojuda…

He stepped up on the first rung of the ladder and strained his ears as the samojuda continued to speak.

“My sweet, brave little boy," the samogude sang to the baby, "Before you leave me forever, I call upon the Fates to bless you and keep you. I ask they give you the gift of creation. May a love for making something out of nothing temper your heart into shining steel. I ask they give you the gift of compassion- may you be just and good to all men.”

The samojuda took a deep, shaky breath, and Claudius could hear love and despair in it.

“Little one… I ask they give you the gift of love, true, deep love, like that of your mothers’. May you find love that never wavers or breaks. May you be loved by great things— may you live lavishly and be loved by someone greater than all else, who can spoil you as much as they adore you. May you… may you love and be loved by a child born to a king!”

The humming returned, the samojuda done with her song and content to simply rock her baby. The creature’s words were shrill in Claudius’s ears.

A child born to a king.

Claudius dropped down the ladder and sunk to his knees. The boy… he was not some starving lumberer’s child. He was a child of a samojuda, and a beloved one at that. This fae women were known for their changelings, for thrusting babies onto unsuspecting parents and drowning the couple’s original children. For a samojuda to wish to keep a child, to protect it… It was unknown, unfathomable, and spoke of terrifying power. The fae had great influence over the Fates, and if those holy women decided something, it was as good as sealed. That damn samojuda, should the Fates follow her wishes, had just damned a king’s child to a wretched fate. To marry a lumberer’s child… Claudius' heart twisted with disgust at the thought of some half-blooded creature marrying into a court.

It was a bastardization of nature, for something so tainted by inhuman blood and poverty to even look upon a king’s child, let alone touch one, love one, breed with one. Claudius couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t condemn some poor royal to that fate. If something like that were to happen to his own son. The though made Claudius pause. If he took this creature into his court, right after the birth of his own son, his own heir, the chances that... His stomach rolled, and he pressed a hand to his mouth. He couldn't allow it. He wouldn't damn his unborn child to such a life. Fuck promises made, fuck agreements, that child could never step foot in a court. Never.

Claudius would protect his child from such a monstrous fate; the only question was how.

#batd tag #my writing

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gojorgeworld · 2 months ago

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“PRIMAVERA”

HOY VI AL SOL DESPERTARSE LENTAMENTE

PINTAR LAS CALLES DE DORADO BRILLO

DESPERTAR LOS TRINOS CON TIBIEZA

ESPEJARSE EN LAS CARAS DE LOS TECHOS

CAMINAR EN PUNTILLAS SILENCIOSAS

PARA VER VIVIFICAR LA PRIMAVERA.

CON SU ROPAJE DE COLORIDOS PÉTALOS

DEBÍA SUBIR EL REY HACIA SU TRONO

MÁS ALLÁ DE LAS NUBES Y LOS VIENTOS

COLOCARSE SU CORONA DE ESTRELLAS

TOMAR SU BASTÓN DE MANDO

AFERRADO A LA COLA DE UN COMETA

CON SU CAPA DE PURÍSIMA VÍA LÁCTEA

ESPERAR A QUE SU LUNA APARECIERA

ENVUELTA EN LA LUZ QUE LE PRESTARA

PARA QUE SEA EN LA NOCHE LA MÁS BELLA

HERMOSO DÍA PARA ESTAR ENAMORADO,

PERO LA DUEÑA DE SU AMOR NO APARECIÓ

SE QUEDÓ DORMIDA ENTRE LAS ROSAS

NOSOTROS LOS AMANTES DE LOS SUEÑOS

LOS QUE VOLAMOS CON ALAS DESPLEGADAS

LOS QUE PINTAMOS CON PALABRAS, PAISAJES Y CAMINOS

LOS QUE GRITAMOS LA PAZ CON NUESTRAS LETRAS

LOS QUE EN LOS SURCOS DE PÁGINAS EN BLANCO

SEMBRAMOS SEMILLAS DE BOHEMIA

NOSOTROS QUE VOLAMOS POR JÚPITER, MARTE Y SATURNO

RECORRIENDO EL UNIVERSO MONTADO EN METEORITOS

DESDE LA LÁMPARA DEL CIELO

EMBOBADOS CON SU CARA SEDUCTORA

EMBRIAGADOS DE SUS MARES Y CRÁTERES

CONTEMPLAMOS QUE EL UNIVERSO SE CORONA

PARA DAR ESPLENDOR A UNA NUEVA FLORACIÓN

CON LABERINTOS DE AZAHARES Y JAZMINES.

DR. JORGE BERNABÉ LOBO ARAGÓN

MARÍA ISABEL CLAUSEN -MARISA- (MIC)- ESCRITORA.

#ARGENTINA #CÓRDOBA #TUCUMÁN #ESPAÑA #MÉXICO #MUNDO

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notangelbutangel · 6 years ago

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LAS 3 MIL VIVIENDAS

En nuestros sueños son de castillos las tres mil viviendas, donde a estos angelitos arropas con tu seda de mármol. Torres confeccionadas en oro falso de diferentes alturas, con miles de ventanas y espejos en cada una. Un laberinto circular de ríos de agua negra transparente, reflejan ángeles caídos que ahí viven, entre palacios de escombros reconstruidos. Rodeado con un jardín de cemento, nuestros castillos no pertenecen a ningún rey. Pero no se distinguen de los que sí lo fueron, unos por necesidad y otros por codicia. Todos para morir en ellos sin que nadie los vea. En cada habitáculo de esa mansión de ricos sin dinero, las cortinas de telaraña ondean con el viento mientras las damas de rojo y ojos morados anhelan escaparse asomándose al vacío. ¡Qué dolor! Pero están hechas de papel y cada palabra de su amante es un afilado cuchillo que las desgarra por dentro. Los niños juegan con el polvo mientras los defensores que no defienden a nadie y visten de verde rodean como una guardia de centinelas las tres mil viviendas. Cada cien días regresa el malabarista, compinche del centinela verde, y vende polvos de estrella y copos de nieve a precio de diamantes a quienes no pueden permitirse ni pan para sus dientes. Leche del paraíso, el cielo líquido. El malabarista malobra y dirige títeres jóvenes y sin cabeza para que cabalguen caballos de alquitrán y pinten de blanco la ciudad. Las grietas del castillo son cada vez menos estrechas y de ellas salen cabezas gritando sin ruido. Ay, las almas en pena que se retuercen en quejíos. Todos lo oyen pero nadie hace oídos. La señora que vive en una caja nunca cesa sus quejas, pero nada hace para calmar el dolor de las tres mil viviendas. “Ay, zarza de espinas y rosas que defiende al rey puritano, ¿Quién eres tú para hablar de los gitanos?”. El cura vende su moral de puerta en puerta, pero nadie abre, y quien lo hace no vuelve. Pero el cura también llama a la puerta de la dama roja y es él quien no vuelve hasta el amanecer. Entre pasillos sin luces se cruzan amantes que no se conocen, él con una guitarra y una melena castaña rizada; ella con un vestido de sangre y carmín asesino. Ambos extremadamente pobres de alegrías; él por poco reconocimiento y fortuna, ella por poca sensibilidad, actriz de falsos romances. Sus ojos nunca se cruzan y la luna llora y llora. La luna siempre llora. Cernida la noche y las nubes púrpuras, las luces son de bohemia y el castillo está construido en santo roble de la víctima Dafne. Los moradores de nuestro castillo tienen una guitarra española por corazón, las venas son las cuerdas y si llegas a él oirás sus tristes melodías. Cada noche se desgarran la camisa, y las puedes oír. La luna ya no llora sola, las tres mil viviendas lloran con ella. ¡Ay, que pena! Vuelven a llover diamantes y lo quieren ver pero las luces de la ciudad brillan más y cubren con sedas de luciérnagas las lágrimas de nuestra luna. La quieren ver, la quieren ver. Las tres mil viviendas la quieren ver. La dama de rojo huye hacia la boca del lobo. ¡No vayas, no vayas! “Debo ir”. ¡No vayas, no vayas! “Debo sobrevivir”. La dama de rojo se infunde con la noche y se la ve desaparecer. La luna sigue llorando. No hay nada que pueda hacer. El poeta que no canta se queda en su habitación, recitando poemas y tejiendo los versos con la luz de la luna como pluma, para que los gitanos sin romancero comprendan sus propios dramas, pues no hay biblia escrita sobre sus vivencias. No hay monjas en las iglesias que vivan en las tres mil viviendas. No hay hombres de política y gabardinas negras, ni rubíes ni joyas. Solo gitanos, poetas y prostitutas en las tres mil viviendas. Fuimos engañados cuando nos dijeron que ese era el precio que debíamos pagar para conocer la poesía de la belleza.

#My Poetry

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abensica · 1 year ago

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Para todos los amantes de "El Principito" ¿Sabían que "La Rosa" no era solo un personaje cualquiera? Resulta ser la salvadoreña Consuelo Suncín, esposa de Antoine de Saint Exupery, mujer controversial considerada por algunos una mujer adelantada a su época y para otros, una mujer con vocación "puteril" Hija de un General dueño de fincas cafetaleras, a los 18 años consigue una beca y se va a Estados Unidos a estudiar inglés; esto dice mucho de ella. Se casa con un militar mexicano, aunque después se supo que solo era un vendedor de pinturas. Decide divorciarse meses antes de que su esposo muriera en un accidente de ferrocarril. Viuda y con ganas de comerse al mundo, llega a México con una carta de recomendación y solicita entrevistarse con José Vasconcelos, si, el mismo que dijo “por mi raza hablará el espíritu”; la hace esperar por dos horas y cuando al fin la recibe, le dice: “una mujer bonita, joven y viuda no necesita trabajar, puede ganarse la vida con sus encantos”. Consuelo insiste y aunque Vasconcelos no le da el empleo, le ayuda para estudiar Derecho, se enamora de ella y tienen un romance. La lleva a París y conoce al prosista guatemalteco Enrique Gómez Carrillo, era considerado el más exitoso escritor latinoamericano. Consuelo lo abandona y se casa con Gómez Carrillo. Despechado, Vasconcelos le dedica varias páginas en sus memorias y dice que el romance con el príncipe de los cronistas es debido a la vocación "puteril" Vuelve a quedar viuda pero ahora con mucho dinero, así que bonita, joven, viuda y con mucho dinero, viaja a Buenos Aires a liquidar las propiedades de su difunto marido y ahí conoce a Antoine de Saint Exúpery. Lo de ellos fue amor a primera vista, él la invita a volar y ahí suceden una serie de incidentes pero Consuelo mantiene a raya a Antoine (Creo que ella me ha domesticado, dice Saint Exúpery. ¿Les suena?). Se casan en contra de la voluntad de la familia del escritor ya que era odiada por la sociedad francesa por el hecho de ser extranjera, "venida de quien sabe dónde”. En realidad no le perdonaban que una mujer viuda y de origen indígena se ganara el corazón del escritor más famoso de Francia. La familia Saint Exúpery era terriblemente antisemita y para ellos era peor aún que casarse con una judía. La única defensora de Consuelo fue su suegra y según sus propias palabras: “si su hijo la amaba. Consuelo y Antoine vivieron 13 años de matrimonio intenso, el gusto por la vida bohemia y sus múltiples infidelidades Según palabras de ella, ser la esposa de un piloto fue un suplicio, pero serlo de un escritor, fue un verdadero martirio. A pesar de sus peleas siempre estaban al pendiente uno del otro, ella era asmática como "La Rosa" (que tosía) y el Principito la tenía en un capelo para que no le pasara nada. La sociedad francesa trató de no relacionar su nombre con el escritor y le propinaron tremendos desaires, y fue hasta hace pocos años que reconocieron que sin su influencia, El Principito no habría sido escrito.

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diarioelpepazo · 1 year ago

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León Magno Montiel @leonmagnom Cuando la gente escucha la voz de Francisco Hidalgo no advierte que es un joven, su timbre con registros bajos armónicos, unido a su sabiduría caudalosa y la forma en que rememora la historia de cada gaita, hace pensar que se escucha a un señor entrado en años, a un maestro que ha pasado por mil batallas y nos habla desde su sillón de reposo. Al tenerlo en frente, la gente se sorprende al ver a un joven universitario, con cara de niño, ajeno a todo lo provecto. Él nació el 4 de octubre, día de San Francisco de Asís, por ello lleva su nombre, sinónimo de austeridad, de hombre franco y humilde. Nació en 1994 luego de un embrazo difícil de Irene del Carmen Valbuena, quien lo trajo a este mundo con apenas 32 semanas de gestación, por padecer placenta previa. Sus primeros días en el planeta fueron críticos, estuvo dos semanas en la Unidad de Cuidados Intensivos, pero salió airoso de la prueba, los pediatras catalogaron su caso como un milagro. Irene del Carmen es educadora, dedicada a la enseñanza de menores. Su padre es William Enrique Hidalgo, su compañero fiel en las andanzas gaiteras y veladas de la bohemia. Un hombre dedicado al duro trabajo del transporte pesado. Sus estudios primarios lo realizó en la unidad escolar Panamericano en el sector La Limpia, donde laboraba su señora madre. Como todos los nativos digitales, muchachos que nacieron en la década de los 90, Francisco maneja con solvencia el mundo 2.0, la era digital, la web semántica y su evolución alucinante. Ese universo virtual él lo convierte en herramienta para escudriñar el pasado, a través de esa plataforma va a la raíz del hecho cultural, descubre cómo nacen las canciones, desglosa cada obra del arte popular y sus autores. A Francisco, lo más importante que le ha ocurrido en su corta vida, es haber conocido a Humberto “Mamaota” Rodríguez en el año 2003 y establecer una amistad fecunda con ese hombre cronos de la gaita, el mayor compilador de la discografía y las biografías gaiteras, el más importante antólogo en nuestra historia musical zuliana. Francisco fue su amado discípulo, Humberto lo consideraba el hijo que no tuvo. Juntos compartieron muchas tardes de tertulia, auténticos exploradores en la búsqueda de tesoros musicales, escudriñando los datos escondidos en el transitar de los juglares. Siendo Francisquito un menor de edad, casi un niño, estaba deslumbrado por la sabiduría del sabio “Mamaota”, de su lustre en el mundo musical. Durante varios años trabajaron formando equipo en el Centro de Educación Popular Jesús Rosario Ortega “Chevoche” ubicado en la antigua barriada palafítica Santa Rosa de Agua, allí establecieron su laboratorio cultural, entre manglares, vitrolas, cabañas y puentes de madera. Digitalizaron la extensa discoteca del bardo caroreño, la ordenaron tarde tras tarde, siguieron biografiando autores y cantantes con la colaboración del comunicador, cineasta y cantor Israel Colina. Establecieron un riguroso registro de los cultores más representativos de los géneros: gaita, décima y danza en el occidente del país. Fueron muchos los encuentros del maestro y su discípulo en su casa del sector Delicias, en su discoteca que llamaba “El mundo de la gaita” repleta de álbumes de vinilo, fotografías, gramolas y una considerable hemeroteca, realmente ése era su mundo. Allí aprendía con cada palabra del erudito con embeleso. Esa rutina duró hasta poco antes de la muerte del maestro Rodríguez acaecida el 12 de marzo de 2011. Con toda justicia se puede afirmar que Francisco Hidalgo es el heredero más directo de la obra de Humberto “Mamaota” Rodríguez. El escritor Jorge Luis Borges dijo que imagina el paraíso en forma de biblioteca. En el caso de “Mamaota”, el edén lo imaginó como una discoteca llena de los álbumes que atesoró, en interminables estantes ajedrezados, con las carátulas de los elepés que guardó con celo. Como todo joven nacido en esta capital musical, ciudad puerto de vasto historial artístico, Francisco ha conocido

la música de cámara, el jazz, ha participado en eventos de reguetoneros, ha escuchado el vallenato en fiestas, autobuses, repiques de teléfonos móviles y en las emisoras. Pero su preferencia, su gusto y privanza es por la gaita. Ese amor por el género pascuero lo llevó a realizar radio, en calidad de comentarista en la estación Metrópolis 103.9FM al lado de Enio Trujillo, su amigo entrañable y en Coquivacoa 94.3FM bajo la égida de Giovanny Villalobos ubicada en el C.E.P. de Santa Rosa. Actualmente es estudiante destacado de la carrera de comunicación social en la Universidad “Rafael Belloso Chacín”, donde cursa la mención audiovisual. Se prepara para en un futuro inmediato, ser productor de una estación de radio y comentarista del área cultural en la televisión local. A Francisco Ramón lo mueve una profunda fe cristiana, es un chiquinquireño entusiasta, devoto, que va al templo y se siente emocionado ante la magnificencia de la Virgen, está en sintonía con los eventos de mayor relevancia religiosa como La Bajada de la Virgen, su misa solemne el 18 de noviembre, la Aurora de la Virgen. Es un joven respetuoso de esa hermosa tradición mariana, que ya rebasó los tres siglos de existencia. Desde el año 2013 Francisquito presta sus servicios como cronista en la Fundación para la Academia de la Gaita del Estado Zulia “Ricardo Aguirre” (Fundagraez). Allí forma parte del equipo de investigadores y cronistas que apoyan en su gestión cultural al sociólogo Giovanny Villalobos Añez, actual Secretario del Poder Popular para la Cultura del Estado Zulia. Tiene la gran responsabilidad de darle sustento intelectual a la labor de difusión y promoción de la gaita en las escuelas de la región, coordinar los festivales gaiteros escolares y ser un oportuno anunciador de los hechos relevantes del ambiente gaitero. Goza de un gran respaldo popular, se ha convertido en una referencia entre los comunicadores gaiteros, forma parte de la vanguardia en la generación de relevo. La timidez es su tarjeta de presentación, característica que lo hace reservado y meditabundo al comienzo del contacto con personas desconocidas, evade el encuentro visual, toma distancia. Pero una vez pasada esa etapa de reconocimiento, se transforma en un ser abierto, generoso y amigable, extrovertido, que sabe admirar a los que poseen talento y lo expresa a viva voz. Por ello ha establecido puentes de amistad muy sólidos con el destacado locutor Ramón Soto Urdaneta y su hijo Ramón Alí, con el empresario Bolívar Blanchard: propietario y animador estelar de la agrupación Rincón Morales. Dentro del mundo de intérpretes de la gaita, Francisco admira en demasía a Ricardo Cepeda, de quien es amigo, cercano cofrade. Con el cantante colosal tiene muchas vivencias, probado afecto. El compositor más afín con el joven cronista es Heriberto Molina Vílchez, el decimista, humorista, gran letrista de la gaita, que en la era de las redes sociales se hace llamar ”zurda de oro”. Considera que Heriberto es el hombre más creativo que ha conocido, además es su consejero y un chistólogo genial. En la actualidad, Francisco Hidalgo forma parte del equipo de la estación Suite 89.1FM en calidad de productor independiente y animador del programa “La hora del Coloso de Cantares” espacio que difunde los éxitos y vivencias de la agrupación Rincón Morales. Y es parte del rey pionero SABOR GAITERO. Allí despliega sus conocimientos cada tarde con gran solvencia, talento y gracia. En América Latina estamos viviendo la primavera de la crónica como género periodístico, en contraposición al periodismo convencional, cuyo lenguaje parece una moneda que ha perdido su imagen, según palabras de Darío Jaramillo Aguedelo. La crónica que ha sido definida por el mexicano Juan Villoro como el ornitorrinco de las formas periodísticas, porque une estilos literarios con la narración de sucesos noticiosos. Es un todo con partes diversas. Ese es el género que cultiva Francisco Hidalgo, aunque de forma oral, en la radio. Desde esa

línea de investigación y comunicación, él tiene un gran reto y una gran oportunidad para trascender. Los que tenemos décadas en este quehacer de la comunicación, de la crónica cultural, nos sentimos orgullosos de contar con Francisquito, en la generación que nos relevará, con su inteligencia y talento para comunicar en la radio. Celebramos su llegada al medio y apostamos a su triunfo. Cito de nuevo a Borges: “porque lo bueno ya no es de nadie, ni siquiera del otro, sino del lenguaje o la tradición”. Ese elemento, lo bueno de la tradición, es lo que defiende cada mañana Francisco. Francisco Ramón Hidalgo Valbuena a pesar de ser tan joven, ya es un personaje distinguido de la gaita, goza del cariño del gremio por unanimidad, con apenas dos décadas de tránsito vital ya tiene un sendero de éxitos trazado, que lo proyecta como el cronista más joven de la gaita en Venezuela, el abanderado de la zulianidad, blindado con el conocimiento paradigmático de la tecnología y las redes sociales. Él está llamado a derrotar el cainismo que ha caracterizado al movimiento gaitero en las últimas décadas, porque él porta la luz del conocimiento sin mezquindad, y la luz no puede ocultarse por mucho tiempo. Vamos joven Francisco, ingenioso hidalgo de la gaita, sigue avanzando por los campos musicales, traza tu camino entre los molinos de agua y de viento, aférrate a tus sueños de grandeza y mantente fiel a tu gentilicio, siempre unido a tu Sancho Panza de la zulianidad y escudero fiel: Enio Trujillo. No temas a los animales que te atacan, esos no trazan caminos, se arrastran. Para recibir en tu celular esta y otras informaciones, únete a nuestras redes sociales, síguenos en Instagram, Twitter y Facebook como @DiarioElPepazo El Pepazo

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bitter69uk · 8 months ago

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KLAXON! Pink Palace – the weekly queer film club at The Rio cinema in Dalston – is holding an ultra-rare screening of the documentary Tally Brown, New York (1979) on Wednesday 27 March. If you’re London-based, your attendance is compulsory! I’ve seen the doc just once before: at The Barbican in October 2017 (on a grainy 16-millimeter print on loan from The New York Public Library for the Performing Arts). Back then, I reflected: Watching Tally Brown, New York I couldn’t help but think thank God, a filmmaker documented this remarkable, charismatic and completely original woman. And that it was someone as simpatico as queer New German cinema maverick Rosa Von Praunheim. Von Praunheim weaves a revealing portrait of chanteuse, actress, show business doyenne, bohemian earth mother and all-round diva Tally Brown (1924 – 1989), preserving both her riveting nightclub act and her personal offstage life. And good thing he did as Brown - a vivid scene-maker in New York’s underground art subculture in the sixties and seventies - seems to have completely fallen through the cracks in the decades following her death. A Torch for Tally – the blues album she recorded in the fifties – is long forgotten. The Andy Warhol art movies she appeared in like Camp (1965) and Ari and Mario (1966) languish unseen in locked vaults at The Warhol Foundation. Today, Tally Brown barely seems to exist as a footnote. As the title implies, Von Praunheim positions flaming creature Brown - a native New Yorker - as the personification of her city’s decayed glamour. In atmospheric and beautifully degraded footage, we see seventies New York at its most gloriously scuzzy, grungy and decrepit: the porn cinemas and peepshows of Times Square, gay bathhouses, The Chelsea Hotel, neon signs, dive bars, dissolute nightclubs. And it all looks heavenly! And if that’s not enough, Brown’s pal Divine crops up! (She jokes about regularly getting mistaken for Divine - and even signing autographs as him). How can you resist? See you at The Rio! Tickets. Read more of my musings about Brown here.

#tally brown #tally brown new york #rosa von praunheim #warhol superstar #underground cinema #lobotomy room #cabaret chanteuse #underground queer cinema #lgbtquia #andy warhol #Divine #new york bohemia #new german cinema #old showbiz

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stfssmile · 1 year ago

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Hombre Frío ❄

Hombre frío, no entiendo por qué eres inmune, no demuestras nada. Y aún así, tu mirada fugaz es droga de hadas. Tu frialdad es magia, mi bohemia exagerada la dejas paralizada, impregnada en cada una de tus transitorias miradas.

Hombre frío, no entiendo por qué eres tan ácido, exento de emociones, de humor no sarcástico, y aún así me haces flotar en un lugar plácido, un paraíso de sueños, deseos, lujuria, un lugar exquisitamente mágico.

Hombre frío, por qué te haces el desinteresado? Libre de sentimientos, me provocas un sigiloso daño, me paralizas mis años. Tu boca es la entrada a la solución de conflictos raros, aquellos emocionales que hacen mis inviernos largos.

Hombre frío, eres tan pez para tus cosas, actúas como si los sentimientos no fueran delicados como pétalos de rosas. A tu alma le niegas el ingreso a esas sensaciones maravillosas, intensas, exquisitas y adictivas como una bolsa de coca.

Hombre frío conviertes mi interior en una lápida, cuando te entrego amor y tu lo rechazas de manera rápida, repelas mi mundo volviéndome más trágica, dramática, estática y oscuramente tétrica. Hombre frío vivir sin emociones nunca ha estado en mis opciones, necesito que sea complejo, intenso, infinito y pleno. Tu magnifico don de mezclar amor sin emoción.

youtube

#Youtube

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inspiracionsthings · 1 year ago

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Eres

Es tu amor

El que llena de ilusión

De anhelos a mi corazón

Con tu llegada

Llenaste de color mi mundo

Lo cambiaste por completo

Solo es necesario pensarte

Para que mi corazón

Lancé suspiros al viento

Tan llenos de sentimientos

Tan llenos de ilusión

Te amo

Por tu forma de ser

Por esos hermosos sentimientos

Por lo hermosa de tu alma.

Eres

Brisa fresca que da fuerza a mi corazón

Anhelos renovados que llegan como suspiro, como caricia.

Sentimientos que hacen posible lo imposible

Cómo los primeros rayos de sol, como aurora de la mañana

Cómo agua cristalina que sacia la sed del alma

Cómo canto del cenzontle por la mañana.

Cómo sentimientos en una noche romántica

Mi fuerza, mi pensamiento del día y la noche, mi mayor anhelo.

Eres

Eres tú , la que con solo pensarte alegras mis días , la que con con solo oír su dulce voz hace un huracán de mis sentimientos , eres tú la que con una sola de su mirada , se adueñó de mi corazón , es usted una bella inspiración que cada palabra que se le escriba va con muchos sentimientos y amor se va tejiendo lazos de amor , es usted la bella inspiradora de querer bajar la luna , para en una noche bohemia declararle mi amor , es usted un ser especial , que se encuentra una vez en la vida .

Eres esa brisa fresca que en los días caluroso hace más llevadero los días,por qué tienes otra perspectiva de las cosas , tienes otra forma de ver la vida , en toda situación das tu mejor sonrisa aunque lleves en el corazón una lágrima , eres mi Juana de arco , mi mejor amiga , mi cómplice , mi amante , mi compañera de vida , te amo por qué desde el primer minuto que entraste en mi vida , desde ese instante la comenzaste a cambiar , tus caricias , tus tiernos consejos , tus abrazos me dan más seguridad , te amo , por lo que eres , por esos hermosos sentimientos de que está echa tu alma , te amo , te amo por lo que siento cuando estoy contigo , a tu lado, te amo por todos los sentimientos que has hecho crecer en el corazón mío , por eso amor mío en esta hermosa rosa roja que hoy te doy te entrego mi corazón que desde el primer día de tu llegada dejó de ser mío , te entrego mi corazón hoy vida mía.

Eres una brisa que me refresca con una de tus sonrisas , eres la ilusion necesaria para mirar el nuevo día con anhelos , te amo por que al estar contigo cualquier sueño es posible , por que mi corazón te lo grita en cada suspiro , dime amor , si en las alturas no te a llegado , un suspiro que tes diga te amo , no has visto una nube en forma de corazón , no has visto en la luna nuestras imágenes dándonos un beso , tan solo dime , si supieras que con cuánto anhelo yo te e buscado , en mis brazos el miedo hubiera desaparecido y al juntar nuestros labios todo hubiera quedado en el olvido .

Eres dueña de mi corazón , aunque no lo creas eres dueña de mis sentimientos de mis pensamientos , eres un hermoso ser lleno de amor , sueles esconderte en un velo de seriedad , tan enigmático , tan tuyo , pero al irte conociendo , al ir desnudando tu alma , ese velo desaparece , apareciendo la verdad , esa seriedad es por las cicatrices , por la duda , que en su momento llega , pero al ir conociendo a la persona , empiezas a ser tu , alguien tan alegre , bromista , juguetona y muy responsable , es cuando se puede conocer a la gran mujer a la bella dama que se esconde tras ese velo de seriedad , pero poder ver mi silueta en tu hermosa mirada hay en esos ojos tan expresivos es algo extraordinario , algo de otro mundo , tu bella sonrisa y tu hermosa figura , eres una hija digna de Afrodita , una gran mujer , una bella dama .

Eres la que le da color a mis días , quitas las tonalidades grises , con esa bella sonrisa.

Eres la que con una sola palabra , esa dulce voz salida de tu boca , se adueña de mis sentimientos .

Eres la que con una sola de tus miradas , crea sueños , anhelos , deseos .

Eres la a cambiado todo con tu sola llegada .

Eres un sueño echo mujer algo que todos sueñan y solo uno puede tener .

Eres la bella dama , una guerrera , que va por la vida , como una gran mujer .

Eres mi sueño y mi anhelo , mi más grande deseo .

Eres , amor , pasión , deseo , ilusiones , sueños , anhelos .

Eres , si , eres , la que habita en mi corazón , la que se adueñó de mis sentimientos , de mi ser .

Por que con una sola de tus sonrisas y tu bello mirar , hay está tu verdadera magia , hay está tu poder , por que sin pronunciar palabras , te metiste en mi corazón , conociendo mi ser .

Eres , una persona especial , por que tienes todos mis sentimientos , tienes mi amor y para ti son los suspiros de mi corazón .

Eres , la persona que yo amo y con la que quiero caminar a tu lado por la vida ,.

Eres el amor de mi vida .

Eres como el agua cristalina del río

Cómo la brisa de viento

Eres el crepúsculo de mis días, esa hermosa lluvia de colores que los hace diferentes

En noches obscuras eres mi rayo de luz que ilumina mi camino al estar a mi lado

Eres la belleza del paisaje que un pintor se inspiró

Eres la brisa fresca de mis días con solo verte despertar

Eres mi inspiración, mi fortaleza

Eres la dueña de mi corazón

Es tu forma tan diferente de ver la vida, tan tu ya, lo que me hace amarte más

Eres con la que quiero pasar el lapso de tiempo llamado vida

Tu bella mirada deja ver esa hermosa luz de tu alma

Tu bella sonrisa arranca suspiros a mi corazón

Es ver mi reflejo en esos bellos ojos mi más grande anhelo

Te amo, te lo grita mi alma con la mirada y te lo dice mi corazón en cada suspiro

Eres una persona muy especial , es como si me conocieras de toda la vida , como no amarte , si con esa bella sonrisa , tu hermosa mirada , atrapas cualquier suspiro con solo ver tus hermosos ojos tan expresivos , es un gran sueño echo realidad el poder ver mi reflejo en tu mirada , si es como si nos conociéramos de hace mucho tiempo , dicen que polos opuestos se atraen y que polos iguales se repelen , pero contigo fue diferente , algunos gustos son iguales y los valoramos , pero los gustos diferentes los amamos el uno del otro , el irnos conociendo nos a acercado más , eres mi compañera de vida , compañera de sendero , la perfecta compañía , eres una bella compañía , eres mi bella dama , te amo vida mía .

Seudónimo:Ho

Autor: Hugo E Olivares M

Fecha: martes 18 de junio de 2019

País: México .

#cosas que escribo #escritos #frases escritos #frases #frasi #poesia #frasi poesie #frasi tumblr #poem #poema

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vprki · 1 year ago

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Да правиш изкуство, означава да те боли и да пламтиш

“Ще започна с произведенията, които представят следите от личните, вътрешни пожари на авторите, като скок в хаоса, като стремеж за духовно пречистване. Творбите им са обединени от проявлението на огъня и от много силна обща идея – съзерцанието върху живописта.“ Каза Яна Братанова, куратор при откриването на изложбата „Телесен ум: Магдалена Разточилова и Любен Петров“ в САМСИ.

И продължи: „Те се ра��личават, но сякаш, свързани в една невидима нервна струна между тях, въпреки различните изразни средства. С Любен Петров работихме заедно през 2021 година за изложбата BOHEMIAE ROSA /изключителна изложба, за която тогава подробно писахме във „въпреки.com, може да прочетете тук/ с чешко съвременно изкуство в Квадрат 500, с Магдалена работим за първи път, благодарение на Любен Петров, който направи връзката с Надежда Джакова, завеждаща Софийски арсенал – Музей за съвременно изкуство (САМСИ) и самата Национална галерия.“

Яна Братанова /л/, Надежда Джакова /ц/ и Любен Петров

Експозицията е реализирана в партньорство с Чешкия център с куратор Яна Братанова.

Произведенията представят следите от личните вътрешни пожари на авторите. Път, напомнящ скок над хаоса, в стремеж към духовна организираност и пречистване. Наименованието на изложбата произлиза от заглавието на книгата на съвременния чешки художник Алеш Заплетал – „Oбрази на философията и телесния ум“ (Navu Publishing House, Прага, 2022).

От изложбата

Работите на Магдалена Разточилова и Любен Петров са обединени от проявленията на огъня, сродени преди всичко от трептенето на изобразените състояния и усещания. Те се различават на съставно ниво, но са сякаш близко свързани от невидима нервна струна, улавяща пресъздадения резонанс между тях въпреки различните изразни средства и творчески енергии.

Магдалена Разточилова "Автопортрет"

Вдлъбнатите и изпъкналите пламъкообразни участъци в скулптурите на Магдалена Разточилова сa проявления на духовна субстанция, с директна препратка към Светия дух. Формите носят витално излъчване, произтичащо от мощен вътрешен източник и изразяват присъствието и влиянието на Божествения дух върху човешкото съществуване. Според авторката, пламъците са символ на трансформацията на душата, на промените на нейните емоционални, умствени и психологически аспекти, водещи до дълбоко разбиране, себереализация, просветление и високо ниво на съзнание. Тази метаморфоза е свързана със себеоткриване, прошка, самоприемане, освобождаване от негативни мисловни модели, поведение в съответствие с висши ценности и натрупани знания. Индивидуалното пътуване е продиктувано от различни преживявания – медитация, учения и духовни практики, личностно израстване.

Магдалена Разточилова "Черната Марѝ"

Идеята за скулптурите е повлияна от героичната житейска история на Милада Хоракова (1901–1950) – чехословашки политик, юрист и обществен деец, срещу която и хората от опозиционния кръг около нея Чехословашката комунистическа партия организира показен процес.

Творби на Любен Петров

Връзката между творбите на двамата автори се открива и в силната споделена идея – съзерцанието върху любовта. Живописната серия „Огън, следвай ме“ на Любен Петров е търсене на равновесие чрез съзнание за пречистване. Символ на това е огънят, който е метафора и за любовта. Изобразените персонажи са в абсолютна симбиоза, но могат да бъдат възприети погрешно като изпитващи болка и тъга. Художникът се наслаждава на така създаденото напрежение, подсилено от острия колоритен контраст, работата с текстурата и с пластичността на боята. Обхванатите от пламъци фигури пресъздават степента на емоцията и градуса на мига на „своя ден“, докато светът наоколо остава непокътнат – като изобразения пейзаж, незасегнат от тяхното вътрешно преживяване. Пишат в анонс към изложбата от галерията.

Радка Рубилина, директор на Чешкия център в София и Любен Петров на изложбата

Любен Петров, който от години живее и работи в Чехия благодари на САМСИ за поканата и професионализма и отбеляза за себе си, че едната му родина е България, а другата е Чехия, където е и семейството му.

Любен Петров "Пламъкът на..."

Творбите на Любен Петров, поне за нас, са неговото вълнение какво сме ние и какво изобщо е човекът не само днес и сега, а винаги, изправен пред огъня извън него и вътре в него. Може ли да се справи, едва ли. Няма как да си човешко същество и да не съпреживяваш света, случващото с него, а и самия себе си. И все пак продължаваш, накъде като личен избор или невъзможност. Дълга, необхватна тема, но Любен Петров и Магдалена Разточилова ни дават ключ с творбите си, но само, ако сме в състояние да отворим душите си и да приемем огъня, хаоса и несъвършенството си…

Любен Петров "Влюбената ръка"

Днес, да си жив и да правиш изкуство, означава да те боли и да „гориш“. Така стигаме до активната, чувствителна рефлексия на двамата автори. Изложбата ни предлага фрагменти от разпиляна цялост, от разкъсана психична и духовна плът, фрагменти от невротична романтика. Фрагменти от разпиляно съзнание, готово да отдаде – продаде своята природна, човешка интуиция на външни средства и технологии. Да се отдаде или да се съпротивлява на контролирана воля за избор, свобода, безсмъртие.

В колаж, пуснат на фейсбук страницата си, Любен Петров е ситуирал мъж и жена на фона изложбата, но вместо лица там е пламъкът, все пак виждаме лицето на човека, а не душата му, макар че и това е възможно. И тази много въздействаща изложба, може би, е именно за това – какво виждаме в човека и в себе си, но ако имаме сетива в този наш свят…

Изложбата продължава до 27 август. Заслужава си, може би, ще разберете нещо за себе си, което не подозирате. ≈

Текст: „въпреки.com”

Снимки: Стефан Марков и архив на САМСИ

#САМСИ #Любен Петров #Яна Братанова #Магдалена Разточилова

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