*NUESTRA BIBLIOTECA*: El monje que vendió su ferrari

Gabriel Celaya

Poeta español nacido en Hernani (Guipúzcoa). Se trasladó a Madrid para estudiar la carrera de ingeniero industrial; allí se vinculó a la Residencia de Estudiantes y el contacto con los alumnos de la misma estimuló su interés por la poesía. Durante mucho tiempo Celaya compaginó sus tareas de ingeniero en una empresa familiar en Guipúzcoa y escritor, hasta que en 1956 se instaló definitivamente en Madrid para dedicarse por completo a la poesía. Su primer libro, Marea de silencio (1935), reflejaba influencias surrealistas. Con Amparo Gastón, Amparitxu, su fiel compañera de toda la vida, fundó la colección -Norte- de poesía en 1947. En los años cincuenta se incorporó de lleno a la poesía social y se situó en una línea ideológica muy cercana a la del Partido Comunista. Sus libros más importantes son: Las cartas boca arriba (1951), Cantos iberos (1955), Canto en lo mío (1968) y en 1969 publicó sus Poesías completas. A muchos de sus poemas les han puesto música cantautores como Paco Ibáñez. Fue traductor de Rilke, William Blake, Rimbaud y Paul Eluard. Murió en Madrid y sus cenizas fueron esparcidas en su Hernani natal. © eMe

LEONARD COHEN;un apasionado de Federico Garcia Lorca.

Little Viennese Waltz
In Vienna there are ten little girls
a shoulder for death to cry on
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!

Take this close-mouthed waltz.
Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz,
of itself, of death, and of brandy
that dips its tail in the sea.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
with the armchair and the book of death
down the melancholy hallway,
in the iris's dark garret,
in our bed that was once the moon's bed,
and in that dance the turtle dreamed of.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!

Take this broken-waisted waltz
In Vienna there are four mirrors
in which your mouth and the echoes play.
There is a death for piano
that paints the little boys blue.
There are beggars on the roof.
There are fresh garlands of tears.

Aye, ay, ay, ay!

Take this waltz that dies in my arms(...)
Federico Garcia Lorca,"Poeta en Nueva York"
---este es el poema de Lorca que sirve de inspiración a Cohen para su canción "Take this Watlz"---

No podemos negar la realidad......¡es epoca de FUTBOL!

"Todo cuanto sé con mayor certeza sobre la moral y las obligaciones de los hombres, se lo debo al fútbol."

-Albert Camus ( novelista, ensayista, dramaturgo y filósofo francés nacido en Argelia.)

"¿En qué se parece el fútbol a Dios? En la devoción que le tienen muchos creyentes y en la desconfianza que le tienen muchos intelectuales."
-Anónimo

"Un país habrá llegado al máximo de su civismo cuando en él se puedan celebrar los partidos de fútbol sin árbitros."

-José Luis Coll (humorista y escritor español)

"LEARN ENGLISH WITH THE AMERICAN SONGWRITER DON McLEAN"

Starry, starry night.Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.
Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry, starry night.Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.
Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now. For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.
Starry,starry night.Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...

El monje que vendió su ferrari - Audiolibro