* *

Partly Fiction : Harry Dean Stanton (2013) David Lynch, Wim Wenders, and more

Full movie: https://fawesome.tv/movies/10575538/harry-dean-stanton-partly-fiction

1	Blue Bayou Written-By – Joe Melson, Roy Orbison	3:35
2	Everybody's Talkin' Written-By – Fred Neil	2:48
3	She Thinks I Still Care Written-By – Dickey Lee, Steve Duffy	3:12
4	Cancion Mixteca (New Version) Written-By – José López Alavez*	2:42
5	When I Get My Rewards Written-By – Paul Kennerley	4:53
6	Promised Land Written-By – Chuck Berry	4:36
7	He'll Have To Go Written-By – Joe Allison/Audrey Allison*	3:36
8	Help Me Make It Through The Night Written-By – Kris Kristofferson	1:47
9	Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain Written-By – Fred Rose	2:28
10	Tennessee Whiskey Written-By – Dean Dillan*, Linda Hargrove	2:20
11	Hands On The Wheel Written-By – Billy Callery*	3:21
12	Danny Boy Written-By – Frederic E. Weatherly*

Que sea música

"Si la música es el alimento del amor,

que siga sonando..." ya lo dijo Shakespeare.

Y que todos los días haya música.

En todas las vidas.

La música se comparte, es libre

como el aire.

Que haya más músicos/as

y menos soldados.

"Todo el que ha participado en conversaciones sobre poesía, lo poético, habrá tenido la experiencia de que tales conversaciones normalmente no tienen fin. En ese no querer terminar se manifiesta, así lo creo, un rasgo esencial de lo poético: su pretensión de infinitud. Una pretensión que aparte de su imposibilidad de realización, repetidamente experimentada y tenida en cuenta, siempre se abriga de nuevo."

Paul Celan

"La poesía es lo absolutamente real. Esta es la esencia de la nueva filosofía. Cuanto más poético, más verdadero."

Novalis

David Foster Wallace on Reading, Consumerism and American Politics

My Back Pages - Bob Dylan (1964)

Crimson flames tied through my ears
Rollin' high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
"We'll meet on edges, soon," said I
Proud 'neath heated brow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth
"Rip down all hate," I screamed
Lies that life is black and white
Spoke from my skull. I dreamed
Romantic facts of musketeers
Foundationed deep, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

Girls' faces formed the forward path
From phony jealousy
To memorizing politics
Of ancient history
Flung down by corpse evangelists
Unthought of, though, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

A self-ordained professor's tongue
Too serious to fool
Spouted out that liberty
Is just equality in school
"Equality," I spoke the word
As if a wedding vow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

In a soldier's stance, I aimed my hand
At the mongrel dogs who teach
Fearing not that I'd become my enemy
In the instant that I preach
My pathway led by confusion boats
Mutiny from stern to bow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.

Retrospectrum: Bob Dylan’s America (2022) | Art Loft

She Belongs to Me - Bob Dylan (1965)

She's got everything she needs
She's an artist, she don't look back.
She's got everything she needs
She's an artist, she don't look back.
She can take the dark out of the nighttime
And paint the daytime black.

You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees.

She never stumbles
She's got no place to fall.
She never stumbles
She's got no place to fall.
She's nobody's child
The Law can't touch her at all.

She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks.
She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks.
She's a hypnotist collector
You are a walking antique.

Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes.
Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes.
For Halloween buy her a trumpet
And for Christmas, give her a drum.

Love Minus Zero, No Limit (Live at Nippon Budokan Hall, Tokyo, Japan - February/March 1978)

My love she speaks like silence,
Without ideals or violence,
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
People carry roses,
Make promises by the hours,
My love she laughs like the flowers,
Valentines can't buy her.

In the dime stores and bus stations,
People talk of situations,
Read books, repeat quotations,
Draw conclusions on the wall.
Some speak of the future,
My love she speaks softly,
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all.

The cloak and dagger dangles,
Madams light the candles.
In ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
Statues made of match sticks,
Crumble into one another,
My love winks, she does not bother,
She knows too much to argue or to judge.

The bridge at midnight trembles,
The country doctor rambles,
Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows cold and rainy,
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing.

De Profundis - Georg Trakl

There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls. 
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here. 
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts -  
How sad this evening.  

Past the village pond 
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn. 
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the dusk 
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.  

Returning home 
Shepherds found the sweet body 
Decayed in the bramble bush.  

A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets. 
The silence of God 
I drank from the woodland well.  

On my forehead cold metal forms. 
Spiders look for my heart. 
There is a light that fails in my mouth.  

At night I found myself upon a heath, 
Thick with garbage and the dust of stars. 
In the hazel copse 
Crystal angels have sounded once more.

Hey, that's no way to say goodbye - Leonard Cohen

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you
But now it's come to distances and both of us must try
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye

I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time
Walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me
It's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea
But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you
But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye

una mochila llena de dios - patricio foglia (Paisanita Editora, 2025)

(esto es solo una parte del poema)

en una mochila llena de dios, patricio foglia (Paisanita Editora, 2025)

libro que se presenta este sábado 11 de diciembre a las 18hs en la @libreriadelfondoycc Costa Rica 4568.

Charlas y lecturas con la participación de Esther Cross, Walter Lezcano, Nuria Suaya, Eduardo Mileo, Marina Arias y patricio foglia

Para quienes quieran leerlo: se puede encontrar en la Carriego

Casa de Carriego / Casa de la Poesía / Biblioteca Evaristo Carriego

instagram.com/poesiadesdelacarriego
Honduras 3784. Palermo, CABA, Argentina
Atención al público: Lunes a viernes, de 10 a 20hs.
Contacto: carriego.dgplbc@gmail.com

Why we need a spiritual revolt - Holy is what we make it | Rainn Wilson

Clown In The Moon - Dylan Thomas

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

El aguaribay florecido - Juan L. Ortiz (1951) / Música: Edgardo Cardozo (2012)

Muchachas de ojos de flores y de labios de flores.
En la sombra exhalada —¿de qué su dulce hálito?—
los vestidos ligeros, muy ligeros, con pintas.

Arde de abejas el aguaribay, arde.

Ríen los ojos, los labios, hacia las islas azules
a través de la cortina
de los racimos
pálidos.

Ríen los ojos, los labios. ¿Veis las muchachas o es
la tenue sombra ebria
y bordoneada
que se alucina de muselinas claras
y de otras flores vivas —extrañas flores vivas—
riendo, riendo, riendo hacia las islas?

Muchachas de ojos de flores y de labios de flores.

Arde de abejas el aguaribay, arde.

No era necesario (Juan L. Ortiz) - Música: Edgardo Cardozo

No era necesario mirar el cielo ni las ramas.
Aquí te vi, en la tierra pura, en la tierra desnuda.
Aquí te vi, espíritu primaveral, danzar o arder serenamente como la alegría sin nombre,
transparencia imposible de una dicha flotante sobre el polvo.

Aquí te vi, niña fantasmal de velos diáfanos, en el mediodía inexistente.
No era necesario mirar el cielo ni las ramas.

For the New House - Ursula Le Guin / Para la casa nueva (Traducción de Diana Bellessi)

May this house be full of kitchen smells

and shadows and toys and nests of mice

and roars of rage and waterfalls of tears

and deep sexual silences and sounds

of mysterious origin never explained

and troves and keepsakes and a lot of junk

and a ﬂowing like a warm wind only slower

blowing the leaves of trees and books and the ﬁsh-years

of a child’s life silvery ﬂickering

quick, quick in the slow incessant gust

that billows out the curtains a moment

all those years from now ago.

May the sills and doort'rames

be in blessing blest at every passing.

May the roof but not the rooms know rain.

May the windows know clearly

the branch and ﬂower of the apple tree.

And may you be in this house

as the music is in the instrument.

en Wild Oats and Fireweed, 1988

Que esta casa se llene con olores de la cocina
y con sombras y juguetes y nidos de ratones
y rugidos de furia y cascadas de lágrimas
y hondos silencios sexuales y sonidos
de origen misterioso nunca explicados
y tesoros y regalos y miles de deshechos
y un flujo como un viento cálido pero más lento
soplando las hojas de los árboles y libros y años
de pez de la vida de un niño revoloteando plateados
rápido, rápido en la lenta ráfaga incesante
que ondula las cortinas un momento
todos esos años desde ahora, hacia atrás.
Que puedan los umbrales y los marcos bendecidos
bendecir a cada paso.
Que puedan los techos pero no los cuartos conocer la lluvia.
Que las ventanas conozcan claramente
la rama y la flor del manzano.
Y que podáis estar en esta casa
como la música está en el instrumento.

En Gemelas del sueño / The Twins, the Dream (Grupo editorial Norma, impreso en Colombia, Bogotá, primera edición impresa para América Latina y España, 1998)

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