Free delivery worldwide. Bestselling Series. Harry Potter. Popular Features. New Releases. Description In , Octavio Ortiz and his family, along with a group of amateur radio enthusiasts, made contact with a strange community of individuals in Chile's wild, southernmost reaches.
These individuals purported to be a group religious scientists from another planet living on what they called the Isle of Friendship, and passed on secret knowledge and revealed future events to their listeners. This chronicle and the accompanying CD gather portions of these conversations, and the secret truths and knowledge they contain are capable of shaking readers to their cores and make them question the wisdom of earthly science and religion. Other books in this series.
Kebra Nagast Lorenzo Mazzoni. Add to basket. Friendship Octavio Ortiz S. El Despertar de la Humanidad Xavier Musquera. Tell us what you like, so we can send you books you'll love. Join our mailing list! With Lisa Pulitzer. Part of Atria Espanol. Trade Paperback.
Price may vary by retailer. Add to Cart Add to Cart. About The Book. Era su forma de vida. Estaban arriesgando la vida de todos los miembros de su familia en las implacables corrientes. La vida nocturna de la ciudad no se vio afectada. El Bar La Rueda siempre fue un destino especialmente popular.
Un pollo es una persona que busca ingresar ilegalmente a Estados Unidos. Muchos en Estados Unidos se refieren a ellos despectivamente como los wetbacks espaldas mojadas. Se los denominaba pollos por la forma en que siguen al contrabandista como pollos asustados a punto de perder la cabeza. El dinero cambiaba de manos en la calle sin que nadie se preocupara por ser arrestado. Alguien tiene que hacerlo. Desde la acera la vi alejarse Mis ojos se adaptaron lentamente a la penumbra.
Busco a alguien que me lleve a Chicago —le dije. Claro, si quieres ir Para mi alivio, nunca abandonamos la ciudad. Algunas veces realizaban batidas en los hoteles para sobornar a los migrantes, pero lo normal era que los traficantes les pagaran por mantenerse alejados.
Nos acomodamos como pudimos, pasando por encima de las personas que estaban en el suelo. Dormir periodos largos era imposible debido a la incomodidad y el ruido. Los agentes de fronteras estadounidenses patrullaban agresivamente su orilla en las noches, arrestando a tantos contrabandistas y sus cargas como les era posible. La temperatura del desierto estaba cerca de los 32 grados. Metimos nuestras ropas en las mochilas y las sostuvimos sobre la cabeza. Mi pistola estaba a salvo, enrollada en mis jeans. La diminuta casa de la granja estaba justo al lado de la autopista, separada de ella tan solo por una alambrada.
Ingresamos al de Flower Street por un porche iluminado en la parte trasera. Consuelo viajaba con sus cinco hijos. Esos eran sus trajes para reunirse con los parientes que los esperaban en Chicago. El rumor era cierto. Los contrabandistas estaban tan ansiosos por partir como nosotros. But it will happen, as usual, The next time we see each other.
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Lola Koundakjian enjoys her verse diplomacy, touring the world to read at poetry festivals while maintaining deep roots in New York City and her Armenian community. In she began the Armenian Poetry Project — a resource for poetry and translations. Her poems have appeared in print anthologies on four continents, online and in Armenian diaspora publications. They were killed, father, mother and children And the neighbors witnessed it But how many others were killed Alone.
They were burned, sister and brother And the parents saw it But how many sisters and brothers Were burnt, alone. They were buried, Armenians, Kurds Arabs, other peoples But how many others were buried Without a witness. Keiselim A. The shittiest apples in the world, which are pretty darn great! Those who have apples would know that I have the shittiest apples in the world; but for those who have none, my apples might look pretty good. And since I never had apples before, for I grew up amongst guava, mango and avocado trees, these apples I have now are not bad at all.
This morning around 10, the grass was wet, the leaves were falling, the trees were yellowish, some even red. Between a fine rain and a light mist, bucket in hand, in my mud boots up to the knees, I walked around and under my apple trees. The leaves were wet and poured on me. I have picked them. I have washed them, and I keep them for their smell: on my desk, at the office; on my writing table, at home; on the night stand, by my bed; and all over my book, between shelves.
My apples, I keep them all over the place. I know, I have been told: I have the shittiest apples in the world. But, this morning I picked my own apples, and for one who never had any before, my apples are pretty darn great! October 3, Lebanon, NH. Kary Cerda is a Mexican poet and photographer. More than 40 books have been illustrated with her photographs.
She has appeared in Mexican and International poetry anthologies. Her poems have been translated into French, English, Italian and Mayan. The Earth has names I love Eyes of a perpetual look Brave Ruckus celebrating the heart of the volcanoes. The names of the Earth are states of the inner sunlight Some concrete yet inexpressible like the voyage of the monarch butterfly or the trunk of the millennial ceiba.
It also has horrendous names like the wrath of God -as Vallejo would say- that repel life and darken the luminous center of soul. Dark names of barbarian empires, filled with stubborn cowardice ill-fated marking with their tarred fingerprints the silent green of the vegetables the lifeless seagull the defenseless wheat. His work has been included in magazines and anthologies. Navidad has been invited to events, fairs and meetings in Spain, Republic.
Dominican, United States and Mexico. By merging texts and images Jacqueline explores process of fictionalization of memory. He did his undergraduate and graduate studies in New York, Colorado and Cincinnati. Some of his work and translations of poets like Walt Whitman and Wallace Stevens have been published in different magazines in Mexico and the United States.
In , Elitro Editorial published his first book of poems, En sus pupilas una luna a punto de madurar. In was awarded with the Antonio Machado poetry prize in Madrid Spain. Her poems have been translated to Arabic, English and Italian. She lives in Washington DC. Your eyes full of surprise will see snow sculptures of women in their glacial wait sleeping without dreaming or resting. You too will feel like a waterfall tumbling through your four seasons your body going back and forth you will travel through your summer. You too will cascade down but without repeating monotonously forever you will fall in this tempestuous infinity.
You will become smoother, with no shelter, limitless and one day you will surely evaporate like the gray mist that rises above the parade of vintages carried on your breath. The Texas Observer recognized him as being one of the top five writers in Christos Tsiamis was born and raised in Patras, Greece. He is founding member of the Circle of Poets of Greece. He lives in New York. Outside it was raining. Loads of stuff! In vain K waited in bed To look them deep in the eye When they came to take him to trial Even if he was unaware of the charge.
Only in the sea you find depths. Outside it was raining, raining incessantly. And the beetles entered the house. Madly he trod on them, crushed them. The floor was covered with bodies. Till one day he suddenly got bored. He quietly closed the door and left. Tantas cosas! Alexandra Botto. Monterrey, N. Poet, anthologist. Director of Homo Scriptum Editions.
Her poems have also been translated to Rumanian, French, and English in a variety of art magazines. She received an honorable mention in poetry from the Foundation for the Arts, Tepic, Nayarit Second place in the tales contest organized for the cultural newspaper La Rocka, Monterrey, N. Botto has participated in poetry festivals around the world. En medio de la gente tu silueta se propaga de ojo en ojo y ya nadie puede distinguirte del bien y el mal.
Death will be that sister on your empty dates, with the door open and the window staring at you. Farther away perhaps a pleiad, a galaxy tinted red that you will call God, until you smell your own blood.
The Americas Poetry Festival of New York – Page 3
In the crowd your silhouette spreads from eye to eye and no one can tell you apart from good or evil. He has also published two books of essays: Habitada ausencia , La diminuta flecha envenenada Gracias, cuerpo ausente, huesos pelados, carne reseca, postreros nutrientes del gusano, por la libertad de no tener esperanza y por ello no deber al misterio el sentido de mi vida. I remember that being the only moment that the King, our bloody father, did not forgive you for having been born stubborn, an idiot, for having been born much more beautiful than he.
That night of revelry, dear Yorick, was your final function in the Danish court. The following day, your body hung lifeless and swollen from the barbed wire outside the Tower of Hopelessness. Do you know how many of its seven hundred eighty-three thousand one hundred thirty-seven words are about death, and how many of them console us with resurrection? Could it be that the lost poets from all of the distant seas are the same way?
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Small perverts who teach virgins to laugh at themselves and to find, in between their legs or their breasts, the degrading condition of passing on death to those who are loved most, to those who are furthest from illness, to children? Let those who write for the common people and for the illiterate who will never read condemn us. Let those who write for the bourgeois, those for whom poetry is pungent, also condemn us. Let us keep writing, skull, for the rest of the skeletons in this beautiful cemetery.
From now on, I will care much less about the amount of just bailiffs that will prosecute me for evading their questions with my words. Keep on, as dead as you are now, Yorick. Since she lives in Madrid. Her latest book GenES was published only in Spanish. Her poems have been included in anthologies of contemporary Bulgarian, European and Universal poetry. He has participated in Latin American poetry festivals in Colombia and Ecuador. Go and leam more about its ghosts!
Ask it to give its cornelian voice, implore its cheek and its kiss! Prime its pathways of masks, of jugglers, dances and laughter, of perfumes too! Do not forget its face, limpid, shimmering with tenderness. I am entitled to love it, mercilessly, in pure silence. My hands as well, known to clay. And the stone moves forward in the flood of its nuggets, amid the cheers of tempests!
Atlases of time, red cloth of jasper… I watch and listen… How they smell of pepper and basil! Translated by Roger Little. Not only has her own work appeared in several languages, she has also translated contemporary poetry from Portugal, Brazil, France and Nepal into Spanish. Her professional efforts extend from creative and critical journal contributions to participation in international literary events around the world.
Ciento un haikus , La mirada de Ulises, Inside the shell of the tortoise, a bilingual anthology Spanish-English. Por su pelo aceitado caen acordes de sitar. Se puede confundir el tintineo de ajorcas con el de la llovizna. A woman is roasting sweet potatoes in the embers of the fire. Sounds of the sitar fall through her oiled hair. Each fold of the sari covering her belly announces her womb, her confinement. How easy to confuse a tinkling anklet with the dripping rain. With every note she sings serenity, an echo to the apricot smells of the bakery.
She sings and cracks vertex and boundary. The night is a gnawed gash from a monkey maw, and it festers. Translated by Claudia Routon. How lonely the child acrobats who buckled their body the instant they buckled their childhood, no shoes on those dusty roads with the puppeteers and the dealers, from fair to fair; vertigo, trapeze, fragile malnourished limbs twisted in impossible positions; suspending in the air, between pulleys, a hostile future ready to break the magic of the circus.
In her first poetry collection in English, One is None , was published. In she won the annual Friedebert Tuglas short story award. She is currently working on her fifth collection of poetry and on her second novel. You dip your foot into darkness like water, you take it out, no foot to be seen, your foot is black to the brink of darkness.
You dip your hand into light like water, you take it out, no hand to be seen, your hand is white to the limits of light. My Bosnian lover is of the blue wolf brotherhood. At birth he bore a blue mark on his back, a gemstone ingrown on his spine; his mother ate moonstone mash to make her child human.
And it did. My Bosnian lover longs for his kin and is always up at night.
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When he walks his footfalls fit into those of his forerunners. My Bosnian lover has outlived his siblings. His brother burnt in his home. His sister fled from looters and outlaws to be snared in the forest by soldiers. She served as their war wife, one for all. In a year she was ousted from the gloom: too ugly and too combustible.
My Bosnian lover has a bullet hole in his forearm. My Bosnian lover has a history of love. My Bosnian lover has a history of war. Every day at dark he returns to the past to search for his people. My Bosnian lover is good with his hands.
He carved his own bed where sleep never comes, only love, whispers and blood. He takes me with a howl and with force and I, lacking moonstone in my spine, at every full moon turn werewolf. My Bosnian lover offers me bread from a knife tip. He vowed that for me he would always keep a knife and bread.
I believe him. Tu idioma es la casa de tu alma. En esa casa milenaria, hogar de tus recuerdos, permanece tu palabra. Por eso, no llores la muerte de tu cuerpo, ni llores la muerte de tu alma; tu cuerpo, permanece en el rostro de tus hijos, tu alma, eternece en el fulgor de las estrellas. Your language is the house of your soul. Your parents and grandparents live there. In that ancient house, home of your memories, your words remain. Therefore, do not mourn the death of your body, nor the death of your soul; your body, remains in the faces of your children, your soul, is immortalized in the glow of the stars.
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The vegetable serpent. The song of the birds belongs to us all; no one, no one, other than a cage, is its owner. Isabel Espinal was born in New York City in , two years after her parents immigrated from the Cibao countryside in the Dominican Republic. She also gave birth to a raised three children, now 21, 19 and 17 years old. In , inspired by feelings of life and mortality inherent in being the mother, Isabel started writing down poetry.
Isabel currently works fulltime as a librarian while pursuing a PhD in American Studies with a dissertation on contemporary Dominican women writers in the United States. Her father had worked as a busboy at Windows on The World, decades before it came down on September Isabel had worked at the Statue of Liberty when she was in high school, taking the ferry from Battery Park.
So when she first came to the Americas Poetry Festival in , she reconnected with the spirits that she and her family members had left behind over the years. For that I have to go back inside back inside of time. She writes her poems in English, Farsi, and Spanish and sometimes with a mixture of words in Turkish, Kurdish, and Arabic which are her passive languages.
My poems do not promise anything I only compose my world as it happens. Kiss me word by word Touch me line by line I do not need to mean, but to be, like a poem. Read me in every context that melts on your tongue. I speak the language of the moment.
Kebra Nagast : La Biblia Secreta Rastafari
Track me; I have no past. Trust me, there is no future. Do not disturb my imagery of the universe. My red planet is a rolling stone That does not revolve around any sun. It crosses your system once in a blue moon And does not obey the laws of your physic— Not denying the chemistry between us! Join me in my oval orbit Ovulating stars that have no gravity Galaxies that have no memories of big bang. Do not try to swallow me like a black hole Or you will always remain dark. We can destroy the old world in six days Take a rest on the seventh day Then order a new genesis for two infinite gods Absolutely guilt free.
My cosmology has no chronology It just happens at this moment. JP Howard aka Juliet P. Howard is a NY-based poet and Cave Canem graduate fellow.
Often I paint portraits of self. I am the person I paint. I am self portrait because I know best. I paint often because I know self best. I paint alone. I know I paint, because I am alone. Alone, I am often best. Navego en un vaso de estrellas hasta la penumbra enverdecida y herrumbrosa. She is a poet, an actress and vocational and autodidactic painter.
Her works of literatura have been published in different magazines, local newspapers, and social networks. No te vayas sin que la noche quiebre la oculta liviandad reflejada en el temblor de tus pupilas quiero mojarme, ahogarme bogando a la orilla de tu ombligo. He was a member of the literary group Pensum.
For the past ten years he has been a volunteer teacher of creative writing at maximum security prisons in New York State. He is also Managing Editor of Yuganta Press in Stamford and president of Grace Works International, a charitable foundation involved in outreach in the developing world. Pure is as pure does. As for the rest there is blending in ports at the forks of rivers. Confusion in the synapses. Enzymes mix as saliva is exchanged between races. Sperm and egg conjoin colorblind in the amniotic dream. Pure is as death does as it lies in state beyond division. Even sworn enemies show up to lay down a wreathe though some of the blooms may drip the blood of your clan.
La pureza es lo que la pureza hace. Hasta los enemigos jurados vienen a traer coronas de flores aunque algunos de los capullos dejen escapar la sangre de tu clan. Es con cierta dificultad que digo estas palabras: Soy indio y deseo ser visto como tal compuesto y descompuesto en el encuentro y la partida de los mundos. Seamus Scanlon is a writer from Galway, Ireland where Columbus stayed over night before sailing to America!
The resonance of tires against the wet road is a mantra strong and steady. The wipers slough rain away in slow rhythmic arcs into the surrounding blackness.
The rain falls slow and steady, then gusting, reminding me of Galway when I was a child where Atlantic winds flung broken fronds of seaweed onto the Prom during high tide. Before the death harmony of Belfast seduced me. The wind keeps trying to tailgate us. But we keep sailing.
The slick-black asphalt sings on beneath us. We slow and turn onto a dirt road, the clean rhythm now broken, high beams tracing tall reeds edging against the road moving rhythmically back and forth with the wind. No lights now from oncoming cars. We stop at a clearing. I open the door. The driver looks back at me. The rain on my face is soothing.
The pungent petrol fumes comfort me. The moon lies hidden behind black heavy clouds. I unlock the trunk. You can barely stand after lying curled up for hours.