Aanpassingen Toen koffie voor het eerst in Europa arriveerde, Werd er naar verwezen als 'Arabische wijn.' In het San Francisco van de eeuwwisseling, Begon de bank van Amerika als de Bank van Italië. Toen Cortès in Tenochtilàn aankwam op 8 november, 1519, Groette Moctezuma II hem hartelijk en kuste zijn hand. Dat allemaal. We zijn verbaasd bij de kleinste gebeurtenissen Die we meemaken, de feiten die ons nu zo vreemd lijken. Zoals we leven in hun kamers aan de overkant. In 1935, zegt een bericht, toen Isaac Bashevis Singer In New York aankwam, hij was toen dertig jaar oud En kon slechts drie woorden in het Engels spreken: "Take a chair." Maar dan leerde hij nog andere woorden. Het hielp. Isaac Bashevis Singer (Jiddisch: יצחק באַשעוויס זינגער) (Leoncin bij Warschau, 21 november 1904 - Miami, Florida, 24 juli 1991) was een Pools schrijver die in 1943 Amerikaans staatsburger werd. Hij schreef in het Jiddisch. In 1978 werd hij onderscheiden met de Nobelprijs voor Literatuur.
Dmitry Evgenievich Ikonnikov.
"Adjustments” When coffee first arrived in Europe, It was referred to as “Arabian wine.” In turn-of-the-century San Francisco, The Bank of America began as the Bank of Italy. When Cortés arrived at Tenochtitlán on November 8, 1519, Moctezuma II greeted him warmly, and kissed his hand. All of that. We are amazed by the smallest of things Coming before us, the facts that seem so strange to us now As we live in their opposite rooms. In 1935, reports say, when Isaac Bashevis Singer Arrived in New York, he was thirty years old And could speak only three words in English: “Take a chair.” But then he learned other words. It helped. From Not Go Away is My Name by Alberto Ríos. Copper Canyons Press
The Morning News Seasons will not be still, Filled with the migrations of birds Making their black script on the open sky, Those hasty notes of centuries-old goodbye. The clouds and the heavens make a memo book, A diary of it all, if only for a day. The birds write much, but then rewrite all the time, News continuous, these small pencil tips in flight. They are not alone in the day’s story. Jets, too, make their writing on the blue paper — Jets, and at night, satellites and space stations. Like it or not, we are all subscribers to the world’s newspaper Written big in the frame of the window in front of us. Today, we wave to neighborhood riders on horses. We hear the woodpecker at work on the chimney. There is news everywhere. All this small courage, So that we might turn the page.
Alberto Ríos has won acclaim as a writer who uses language in lyrical and unexpected ways in both his poems and short stories, which reflect his Chicano heritage and contain elements of magical realism. “Ríos’s poetry is a kind of magical storytelling, and his stories are a kind of magical poetry,” commented Jose David Saldivar in the Dictionary of Literary Biography. Ríos grew up in a Spanish-speaking family but was forced to speak English in school, leading him to develop a third language, “one that was all our own,” as he described it. Ríos once commented, “I have been around other languages all my life, particularly Spanish, and have too often thought of the act of translation as simply giving something two names. But it is not so, not at all. Rather than filling out, a second name for something pushes it forward, forward and backward, and gives it another life.”
We are a tribe We plant seeds in the ground And dreams in the sky, Hoping that, someday, the roots of one Will meet the upstretched limbs of the other. It has not happened yet. We share the sky, all of us, the whole world: Together, we are a tribe of eyes that look upward, Even as we stand on uncertain ground. The earth beneath us moves, quiet and wild, Its boundaries shifting, its muscles wavering. The dream of sky is indifferent to all this, Impervious to borders, fences, reservations. The sky is our common home, the place we all live. There we are in the world together. The dream of sky requires no passport. Blue will not be fenced. Blue will not be a crime. Look up. Stay awhile. Let your breathing slow. Know that you always have a home here.
Resistance and persistence collide in Alberto Rios’s sixteenth book, Not Go Away Is My Name, a book about past and present, changing and unchanging, letting go and holding on. The borderline between Mexico and the U.S. looms large, and Ríos sheds light on and challenges our sensory experiences of everyday objects. At the same time, family memories and stories of the Sonoron desert weave throughout as Ríos travels in duality: between places, between times, and between lives. In searching for and treasuring what ought to be remembered, Ríos creates an ode to family life, love and community, and realizes “All I can do is not go away. / Not go away is my name.”
I Do Not Go Away You have terror and I have tears. In this cruel way, we are for each other. We are at war. You always win. But I do not go away. You shoot me again. Again, I do not go away. You shoot with bullets, but you have nothing else.
‘As if we know’ is van Fernando Martinez. Fernando Martinez was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina and studied bio-engineering at Polytechnic Institute of Technology and furniture design and fine arts at S.U.N.Y., Purchase, NY. His work has been shown in solo shows at the P-Cafe in New Rochelle, NY, the Solar Gallery in East Hampton, NY and the Bison Legacy Gallery in Cody, Wyoming. Group shows include the Miranda Fine Arts Gallery and Art-Miami Solar Gallery in East Hampton, NY, as well as the Mobile Show Galleria in Boston, among other East Coast venues.
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