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The very & non-limited site of/ El verdadero y no-limitado sitio web de: Herr Alexis (aZAZEL) von Wolff

Mis otros espacios:
Mi blog: mediocre literatura de lo banal, siempre satírica, irónica, crítica e irreverente Un monumento de mi egolatría. Por si quieres ver algo tan fútil como mi perfil

Arte, Arte, Arte: algo de música, poesía y pintura

¡EN ESTE SITIO HAY NUEVAS CANCIONES PARA DESCARGAR! Seleccionadas cuidadosamente por mí, una para cada uno de mis estados de ánimo.

¿Qué opinas? ¿Cuáles son las suyas?

Romanticism. There's also beauty in the world!
Con obras como éstas es imposible no pensar en las cosas bellas y majestuosas del mundo real... y del imaginario.

Algunas pinturas claves de la época romántica:

Gustave Doré: La caída de Lucifer, 1866. Ilustración para El paraíso perdido de John Milton
Gustave Doré: The Fall of Lucifer, 1866. Illustration to Milton’s “Paradise Lost.“

Joseph Mallord William Turner: Interior de la abadía de Tintern, 1794
J.M.W. Turner: Interior of Tintern Abbey, 1794.

John Constable: El valle de Dedham, 1802
John Constable: Dedham Vale, 1802.

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libro de visitas

©2006, a design of Alexis Ramírez V.

Algunos de ustedes ya han de conocer este famoso y buen poema. Aquí lo pueden leer y también escuchar la particular versión musicalizada del grupo italiano Ataraxia.
Descargar la canción (comprimida en zip).

Lady Lazarus
By: Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it—

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?—

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart—
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash —
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

Ahora algo de Jorge Luis Borges:



The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have
          outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all
          hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things
          half given away, half, withheld, of joys with a dark
          hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd
          ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams,
          and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry
          heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly
          beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name,
          the lilt of your laughter: these are illustrious toys
          you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell
          them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars
          of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys
          you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile
          —that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.


What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of ragged
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long
          at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men
          have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the
          frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
          bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide
of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twenty four-
          heading a charged of three hundred men in Peru, now
ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever man-
          liness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow –the
          central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with
dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of yellow rose seen at sunset, years
          before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself,
          theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my
          heart; I am trying to bribe you with
          uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.


¿Qué tal algo de mi parienta Juana Ramírez de Asbaje?

En perseguirme, Mundo, ¿qué interesas?
¿En qué te ofendo, cuando sólo intento
poner bellezas en mi entendimiento
y no mi entendimiento en las bellezas?

Yo no estimo tesoros ni riquezas;
y así, siempre me causa más contento
poner riquezas en mi pensamiento
que no mi pensamiento en las riquezas.

Y no estimo hermosura que, vencida,
es despojo civil de las edades,
ni riqueza me agrada fementida,

teniendo por mejor, en mis verdades,
consumir vanidades de la vida
que consumir la vida en vanidades.

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

©2006, a design of Alexis Ramírez V.
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