ONCE UPON A TIME...

NANA DE LA NIÑA

Si en mis brazos te durmieras

con el sueño de los ángeles,

te cantaría, amor mío,

más canciones que tú sabes.

Porque acabas de nacerme

como el pájaro a la rama

y mi voz ha de llevarte

en el árbol de mi alma.

Si quisieras despertar

besaría en tu frente

los arrollos que resbala

el cielo, hasta el poniente.

Déjame que te contenga

como el agua de las fuentes

que rezuman desde el barro

estos soles tan ardientes.

Duérmete sin que te alcancen

los corales de la vida,

que eres tú lo que yo velo

mientras te encuentras dormida.

Poema seleccionado de la obra Despertares de Carmen Conde (1907-1996). Miembro de la Real Academia de la Lengua y Premio Nacional de Literatura Infantil y Juvenil.

MARTIN LUTHER KING

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PbUtL_0vAJk

I HAVE A DREAM

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity.One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of colour are concerned. Instead of honouring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquillising drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick-sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquillity in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvellous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave-owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character.I have a dream today.I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.I have a dream today.I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado!Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California!But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

UN BESO DE SUEÑO (porque sólo fue eso y nunca más que eso). Por OLGA POZA

Entre juegos revoltosos sin intenciones premeditadas te atreviste a tocar mi entrepierna como si tal cosa no pasara. Mis ojos se cerraron y una mueca de sonrisa disimulada dejó ver que mi cuerpo y tus manos se fundieron en uno y que el placer era mío. Me dejé llevar, y tanto fue así que quisiste hacerme volver. Tus labios besaron los míos, con una sutileza que no habías utilizado antes conmigo, con una sutileza que no habías demostrado ni siquiera para tocarme la entrepierna. ¡Y volví! ¡Dios si volví! Regresé a por más besos como ese, en el que nuestros labios no tienen tiempo de conocerse y juguetean inexpertos y asustados al juego de conocerse, poco a poco, roce a roce, sin atreverse ni los tuyos ni los míos a interrumpir la inocencia de tus besos. ¡Y qué beso!, nuestro primer beso.

ARTESANOS DE AMOR. POR OLGA POZA Y MONTSE SÁNCHEZ

Trazando sueños con las manos,

tejidos con el oro del deseo.

Esperanza, hilaste mis palabras.

Creaste un abanico de amaneceres,

iluminando mis noches y mis albas.

Despejando la niebla espesa,

henchida de soles,

de frutos maduros,

sauces llorones,

plácidas sombras en las que la libertad para tenderse nos llene los ojos de lágrimas dulces.

Como aquel día en que hicimos un pastel.

Tú amasabas, yo miraba.

Tu la harina y yo el agua.

Contemplando el océano infinito en unos ojos repletos de amor y gloria como único narcótico,

bostezando risas,

desperezando alientos,

despedazando el aire con mordiscos construidos de carne.

Y el aire se volvió imposible,

mi pecho se contrajo,

tus ojos me aliviaron y tu beso me trajo de nuevo la brisa que necesitaba.

Pude volver a respirar.

Aire,

barriendo a su paso la esencia de las fieras,

estremeciéndose tan sólo con el tacto de la arena bajo nuestros pies cansados.

¿ERES REAL?

Algún día en un parque, cuando volvamos a tener seis años, me volveré a enamorar de tí.

POEMA EN TWIN PEAKS...(MORADOS)

¿Has sentido alguna vez un silencio desnudo?

Has existido y existirás,

todo está en un momento,

puedes ser mi recuerdo o una foto,

la marca,

eres el reflejo en el semblante de tus pupilas,

reflejando el abismo de los peces muertos,

hinchados de lodo eterno

desflorando el cáliz de mi vientre,

que desetrañando deseos muere por el deseo.

En una de nuestras células está todo,

y ella se ama a sí misma como si fueran dos,

ese es el deseo,

mi motor,

te deseo.

¿Has sentido alguna vez el mosaico de un alma desdibujada,

henchida tras el tacto de tus besos?

¿Alguna vez estuve enamorado?

Ahora puedo decir que sí, pero...

¿cuándo es ahora?

La Estigia,

repleta de lodo asolado es ahora,

las monedas sobre los ojos,

el barquero honesto,

un cadáver hecho de amor,

muerto ya,

intrépido de aliento y luces de colores,

de crines multiformes.

Tú,

y como todos los tús de los yos somos una pieza,

encajamos como uno,

nuestro uno como todos,

un puzzle de gotas de agua.

Fundidos,

alienados,

dignos,

conscientes de nosotros y de uno mismo,

¿cómo?

si perderme en un todo significa perdernos a nosotros mismos,

¿podemos seguir existiendo?

¿Acaso el ocaso podría satisfacer este ansia de amor que te ofrezco?

Por primera vez, TÚ, luces por encima del sol.

POR JAVIER MARTÍN-CALERO

En un mundo de cielo vacío y largas llanuras, un grupo de jóvenes decidieron ser valientes y mirarse a sí mismos.

Esta historia trata de un ángel delicado, sensible, frágil. Era tan hermoso que decidió ser mujer.

En aquella llanura, la cual es irrelevante, empezó una gran alegoría de la realización. Esa criatura se despertó del sueño, corrió el velo, la única diferencia es que esta vez lo traspasó.

Estaba sola, rodeada. Se extrañó de su situación ya que todos los que la rodeaban le resultaban familiares, pero ninguno era nadie que no fuese ella.

Se vio muy asustada, dio un paso al frente, habló con uno de ellos, sólo hablaba ella. Las dos voces se contradecían y de la rabia y la frustración ella empuñó su Katana. Su reflejo, que no se parecía en nada a ella torció su boca y empuñó la misma Katana; ANDROS. En poco tiempo empezó la deseada perdición de una misma para ser Amor.

Ella, tan grácil y hermosa, como inexperta e indecisa, que no cobarde, se abalanzó sobre aquel al cual no reconocía como ella misma. Él, que lo tenía todo claro y tenía tanta seguridad como terror, demostró la destreza que alberga la claridad.

Durante todo el combate, ella, para no perderse y recordar lo que cada segundo te haces olvidar, trajo consigo a alguien que con sus ojos de amor incondicional infundaba en ella todo el valor necesario para recordar.

En los ojos de él había lágrimas, ya que como todos aquellos que se miran a sí mismos sin miedo, sabía que aquel ángel iba a sufrir una de las mil muertes, todas ellas llenas de falso dolor y sufrimiento. Esas lágrimas no eran por su inminente muerte ni por lo salvaje de los golpes ni por la promesa que la hizo de no interveir, sino de suma alegría por ver a alguien madurar y enfrentarse a sus demonios antes vistos como ángeles.