July 4, 2009
May 3, 2009
During the Encuentro Hispanoamericano de Poesía 2008 http://floricanto.blogspot.com/, at La casa del Poeta (the poet's house), we had a guided visit of the house of Ramón López Velarde, a very important mexican poet, and we went through a kind of labirinth with a multitude of objects which are a metaphor of his life. It looks like a dream. I took some photographs that evoque such labirinth-dream. Thinking on heightening that perception I choose a photo and did some digital effects. The result was around 80 different images, all comming from the same. To the last one, I added verses from the poets that can be seen in the picture. Clockwise starting from the left: María Paz Moreno (Spain), Rei Berroa (Dominican Republic), Antonio Barbagallo (Italy-Spain), César Rodríguez Diez (Mexico), & Obediah Smith (Bahamas) http://www.periodicodepoesia.unam.mx/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=966&Itemid=80. 10/08 EHP, Sueño-Laberinto serie H R, D E
Long time no publish. I was busy. Unemployed now.
This photos feature Obediah Smith, a poet friend from Bahamas whom I met last year at an international poetry festival http://floricanto.blogspot.com/. He is such a character. Everybody liked him. In the pictures where he holds the coffee, it looks like he is drinking many cups, as if afraid to loose his blackness...! The other pictures are related to the poem , and they tell a story. 10/08 EHP series. H R
Obediah and I we have the same skin.
He has gone,
and I remain with a knot in the heart,
tears in the eyes.
His huge monkey smile.
His black women from the Hilton,
one on each hand,
on his notebook, with no order,
from right to left, up down,
in the restroom, on the hand paper.
I don´t want him to leave,
and is already gone.
I miss him competing with me for Maria,
writing her verses, driving her nuts,
writing to everything,
while he listens to others reading,
not understanding: feeling,
writes and writes, inexhaustible,
poet all day and night,
everything inspires him,
me, me inspired by him.
>It’s that there’s a very thin skin between myself
and life<, he told me.
The last on everything,
enjoys each moment, wrapped on the present.
I never met someone who was more out of
this world than myself,
exchanging books with everyone, and,
even though he doesn’t speak Spanish,
writing the hour, minutes and seconds when
he finishes a poem.
I miss Obediah,
I miss my poets with the heart on their skin!