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VETTI, Adela: Man

.

mathematical Man Who Played his algebra in the courtyard of children and blotted

formulas on the back of the love letters, correspondence
he met
the trappings of summer and spring, which used
books of poetry as a paperweight

and deleted the names of Bach and Beethoven with the rumor
computers,
warned him from Houston who actually designed the probe

he emitted signals from Mars.
In a foolish gesture of joy
left the laboratory without much caution
and looked at the sky. A collapse of stars


fell on his shoulders and then he saw the supreme splendor
stars turning in his eternal wandering. And heard the music

infinite sky with angels in hot summers

their lost memories returned.
A hot tear
opened his eyes and said, "It's Bach
" he said.
. ADELA
VETTI

.

so pleasantly surprised year to have heard from Adela Vettier, mostly because it was she who contacted us and gave us their brief bio-bibliography that we could not add time. Share it with you along with your poem.

. Biographical
Adela Vettier Joan Cabrero, which he used as the pen name of Adela Vettier . (Born in Buenos Aires on 01/29/1931)
Although his literary vocation awoke early, only began publicly through a children's song contest was won along with Nela Grisolia, for the song entitled "Pepe sailor. "
Thereafter, -1971 - no longer publish short stories and novels such as child / youth: Hand-
Editorial Plus Ultra-Collection "El Campanario" Father Wolf
Year 1981 - Editorial Plus Ultra "" Year 1996
If you see a white bird Col.Tejados Editorial Plus Ultra Red - 1991
Winds Adventure-1990-Editorial Huemul
Irene was flying-part children's theater-Col.El Edit.Plus Ultra 1987 Stage-Gate
The Strange Lady (Gaza Honor of SADE) "Secret
1983 edition of the author castaway-Hun-1998-Distributors
Footsteps in the Jungle - Editorial HRL 1997
Nolan Editorial invisible Teen South
HLR 1996 - 1995 HRL Editorial
Adolescents in South-Editorial-1992 Ocruxaves
Mary's hat Editorial Plus Ultra Violet-Collection-1981
the cock pencil What do you prefer? Editorial Actilibre-C Paper Barquito olección
The Lost Triton-Teacher-Year 1992 Editorial
signals to other worlds, "Editorial Collection Braga-1993 Falcon Wings Inland
childhoods. Editorial of the Four-Year 2004 V ents
Phone: 4983-2444
Address: Av Díaz Vélez 3762-6 º "A"
His love for literature goes far beyond his commitment but to encourage reading of the children permanently bent to write for them, a company that still has not given up despite the current difficulties in editing.

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Orgambide, Peter: The parachutist

Ambition a man can be infinite. The Tailor of of my people was shaped like a parachute.
Every year during the celebrations patriotic, was presented to the municipal committee offering their services paratrooper. I heard as who listens to the rain, with that mock sadness mixed with the good people try to fools and madmen. The tailor returned home, with the parachute silk under his arm, and waited another chance.
Finally, when the town celebrated its centennial, the tailor was reintroduced to the commission of festivities. For tired joke by the committee accepted his request. A young airman Aeroclub offered to accompany him on an adventure. During the week prior the launch, the village boys had fun reason: to visit the tailor, call Jorge Newbery, or at nicknamed the youngest: The Astronaut. My tailor stoically endured the jokes and continued sewing his parachute.
So came a day of celebration. All the people gathered at the Aeroclub. For the first time in many years, looked at Taylor with a little respect. Until then, of course, had thought that a tailor is a tailor, and a paratrooper paratrooper. The tailor (the parachutist, I mean) got on the plane. The apparatus cleanly off. Then he climbed into the clouds. Gone are the seconds, minutes, as long as the tailor's tailor longer for us and transformed, now in a paratrooper. Because it down, first quickly, then slow and majestic, over the field. Ran youth, scooters, cars, sulkies, women, children, me, everybody, we all ran to meet the hero. Most enthusiasts have raised in litters .
the plane went down. The young man who was driving approached our hero. "Moron! "He shouted Coward! I had to push for that long! ". All were silent because the jumper (I mean the tailor) was one of ours. No answer him that , with the parachute under his arm, left the party.
That night, as fireworks lit up the square, another fire was built in the edge of town. When we arrived, it was late. They burned the old costumes and parachutes that floated in the flames, like ghosts, like white flowers.

.

.

.
Pedro Orgambide
From "Stories with tangos and corridos" (1976)

..

Pedro Orgambide born August 9, 1929 in the city of Buenos Aires. He is the author of the novel "Memoirs of a good man," "The wilderness" "The Scribe" and "A jacket to die." Wrote the story book "History and calendar to tango", and plays "Eve" and "Discepolín." And published a test "Being Argentine" and "Diary of the crisis." Among other honors, was awarded the Casa de las Americas (1976), the Premio Nacional de Novela (Mexico, 1977), the Municipal Prize Laferrere Gregorio (1995) and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Endowment for the Arts (1997 .) He died in Buenos Aires on January 19, 2003.

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Larralde, Jose: My old mate

"Taking mates"

(Carlos Ferreyra, Santa Fe, Argentina, 1937)

.

.

.

My old mate cookie,

too bad I did miss,

which hand cut short your luck,

perhaps the hand of time,

if even I thought it was eternal ,

never imagined your death.

.
in your tummy green landscapes

how I looked,

many verses tacked

while enjoying your bitter,

how many times did you

long and you know why.

.
In those

harsh winters when the frost whitened

your warm little body

my hands with hot

pa 'qu'el friend singer

latches on to the guitar.

.
And there is not more gun spree,

you and me in a head to head,

mate and guitar in the shade,

mate and guitar in the clear,

in leagues around

no jagüel orejano.

.
My old friend and brother,

what Sotret destination,

never gave the Limet,

in you I found the quiet,

this goodbye I lay my soul ...

Oh, my old mate cookie.

.

José Larralde (Argentina, 1937)

.

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Fasolis cookie, Rosita: The Journey of Rita

Veronica Ledesma: "Soledad"

"Get up, son," said mother gently shook the girl's arm, who slept on a cojinillos. Dawn had not broken and to the side of high mountains, the night was a long yawn. As the girl. But soon to follow the order of the mother stood up to it, because it would be the day of the trip to town. Seven, maybe eight years, thin but strong enough to go to get water to the stream, lifting the bucket with the rope of the depleted reservoir, herding the goats. An active and willing girl, despite the lean foods. Rufino Cuevas preparing the cart: a drawer would be used to carry vegetables, perhaps, with two wheels that he had cut and fitted into a shaft in the same timber. They travel the girl, because the journey was long and could get tired. And then the cart would serve to bring some things, perhaps flour, oil, some sausage. That, hopefully. While preparing, Rufino was recalling how, as a boy, the river roared. Therefore, once the settlement was, and not drowned or plague were sleepwalking never to return, never again. The ranch Rufino's father was at the top and was the furthest from the river to fetch water uncomfortable but safe. And there had been, with a few goats and a few chickens, too, a cow and a horse that finally died of starvation. A Rufino had been on the nose the smell of death land when, down the stream, only survived the filth. But then had come the dry season, and lasted for years, many years. Now we just had, in addition to the goats, some hens that survived on the little corn that could be harvested. And two of the seven children who had been with the Dauphine. Four women and three men. Two of the boys are twins, Francis and Peter, the elderly, had been without direction, would then thirteen years, with a harness that had happened by chance, because no one was passing by except at election time, and did not know Rufino although most of them down to the people and asked everyone who crossed his if he had seen his boys, and begged him crying Mansilla dotor who found them, but the boys did not return for years and nobody knew that I had seen, the other, but to justify Rufino named as the father, had drowned in the dam, many, many miles to the north. That they were told, the boy was sullen and disobedient, and had gone right in the truck that came to fetch the documents Rufino and women, and then (always a Sunday) they were taken to them, with or without breeding put them in a shed at the edge of town, and were taking from a few to upload to the truck and take them to vote (they were given the ballot, course), then back at them and long documents with a few pesos and a bag of food. The elections were good for them. For the kids had not documented. The eldest daughter, assumed, must have now sixteen years or less. And that was, Rosarito, fourteen or fifteen. Long ago, for one reason or another, not seen. They had made the trip together, a large amount of years ago. They were now Rita, and two years, because no name was called Chiquita. At that nobody had baptized, the other self, a young priest who was aging with the glare as he passed from time to time by mule, and not married parents because they had civil papers.
not yet clear when the trip began with a fried cake the day before the mother had settled in the bag with two plastic bottles (one of the prized possessions) with the clearest water that Delfina was able to achieve. The trip would be a lonely and silent running, tired feet Rufino it would not issue a complaint, then blazing sun, the odd comment made almost monosyllabic, Rita desire to know the people, the dry brush and uprooted by the wind swirling over hills Rufino numb and something that was what he had been in the Dauphine, a reluctance of the soul that did not reach to be sad because even that long ago that they had been.
arrived in the late morning. Rita put her eyes looking at the huge settlements first, then paved streets and well-painted houses and trees that provided shade and the windows of business and did not know letters, large and of all colors, from advertisements, and the man who was with a machine called Rufino bike and sold something that was frozen, as the winters in the mountains, but some guy was coming, gave something to the vendor and go from there taking the paper color thing licked and licked then. Rita said "I can?" Noting the ice cream maker and wealth. Rufino said yes, but then, when they came to the dotor. There were, what the dotor Mansilla. Would have to call up the side, not the front door of the office. I wish I were, I thought Rufino, but had agreed two weeks ago that this day would find. Rufino had asked a calendar, and was crossing every day, in the mountains did not matter the day, but in this case yes. And since he could read little something I could recognize what day was Monday, and what Thursday, for example. A dazzling Rita still neat houses, summer in the hut so hot and so nice there, the flowers than ever before had seen the dogs, all different, they barked and made him agree to Hardy, who was the pooch that Rufino had ever been to the house and had died as everything in that place, because up there is dying plants , flowers, dreams, words, and small, that despite the famine was intelligent, perceived these trips, slow and persistent, to nowhere. Luckily for
Rufino, the Doctor Mansfield was, and I was going to receive, as he said the employee of the garage, which was the place where Rufino should go. As before, the Doctor would receive in a small room there, near the car. And it was. The man was treated as usual distant, cold, wrinkling his nose because -. Rufino was no fool, "he bother the smell of sweat and old clothes and washed only with water from the stream. But I would not be much there. He remembered the order of Rita and asked the owner of the tobacco if you could buy an ice cream. "Just so, Doctor," he said with a choked voice that he alone in his throat. The lord of the manor sent to the employee that if I passed a seller, will buy the ice cream to the child. Encouraged by the gesture, Rufino were encouraged to ask Asunta and Rosarito. "They're fine. They are good workers, "was the terse response. "Can you see?" Said Rufino with a voice. "No, man, you say, they are on the farm." Of course, there, far from town, on the plantation would be. "He is very skinny," Mansilla said, pointing to Rita. "But it is strong, and will see" Rufino said, fearing to be sent home with Rita in tow. "Well, I'll feed you. Hold on here, they're going to bring some things. " Sure, he thought Rufino, as before with both Gurises. At least Rita was going to eat well, and Delfina and he would have for several days. "And stay tuned, soon there are elections," said the Doctor as he disappeared through a side door. Then, go without looking ago, the cart loaded with food and without Rita, the uphill, the sun hot and merciless, the dry brush, the night would come mounted on a beautiful sunset.
. ROSITA

Fasolis

(Argentina, 1946)

.
Fasolis ROSA was born in Rosario (Santa Fe), Argentina, in 1946. Teacher and writer of poetry, fiction and essays. He won numerous awards at local, provincial, national and international. Coordinated writing workshops (including the Casa de la Cultura, UNR). Has numerous publications in newspapers (The Capital and The Coast), magazines and anthologies, two books edited by the award: "After" stories, and "Patterns and Construction", of poetry. In 1994 the book "Sacramento and ashes" of poetry, won honorable mention in contest triennial José Pedroni, Province of Santa Fe's story "The Journey of Rita" was published in http://gacetaliterariavirtual . blogspot.com. He currently lives in Rosario.

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DOLINA AND THE DEVIL

ASMODEUS DIALOGUE AND THE RUSSIAN Salzman

.

Asmodeus: I Asmodeus, who inspired gamblers and owner of all the chips in the world. Know by heart all the hands have been dealt in the history of the cards, I also know that will be distributed in the future. The dice and roulette wheels obey me. My face is on all the cards. And I have the secret number to be fatal to add your generals when it comes to your life. Salzman
: Do not want to play chinchón?
Asmodeus: No, Salzman, I come to bring the perpetual triumph. With only worship, always win any game. Salzman
I do not know if I want to win.
Asmodeus: ... Moron! Do you want to lose? Salzman
: No, no I lose.
Asmodeus: What do you want then?
Salzman: Play. I played teacher ... Let us anise.
.

,
asking TOO MAN
.

Satan: What do you want in exchange for your soul?
Man: I demand riches, possessions, honors and awards ... And youth, power, strength and health ... Calls for wisdom, genius, prudence ... And popularity, fame, glory and good luck ... And love, pleasure, feelings ... You give me all that?
Satan Do not give anything.
Man: Then you will not have my soul.
Satan: Your soul is already mine. (Disappears)

.
.
THE MAN WHO WAS, BUT KNOW, THE DEVIL
.

A gentleman of the street decided to negotiate his soul Caracas. Following the rites reached to convene Astaroth, a member of the nobility hell.
"I want to sell my soul to the devil," he said.
"Not possible," said Astaroth.
- Why?

"Because you're the devil.
.

.

ALEJANDRO DOLINA (Argentina, 1949)

.

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Muñiz, Juan Carlos: I do not know if he was happy

Eva Vera (Log captain)

(Buenos Aires, Argentina )

.

.
I do not know if she was happy,
but knew that the world ended on the next block,
every corner of the siesta
I gave her shelter and its ghosts.

My father was so wise like a book, my mother was
the help of my hands, my pillow
was my lover and my enemy, confusing
in summer nights.

I do not know if she was happy, because he feared
,
the shadows of my room, I fenced, had a great villain
eleven years old
and the bag round, but there was a
January 6,
the attic in my grandmother's house,
had a yard full of treasures and a vacant
way to school.

I do not know if she was happy, but enough
a piece of blue in the morning,
a promise in exchange for a note
or escape through the window. Someday

I started having memories
and gave me the keys to my house,
a love letter
closed the door and I was out of childhood.

I do not know if she was happy, but how far
...
do not know if she was happy, but what a pity
.

Juan Carlos Muñiz

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Hernandez, Miguel: Elegy

(In Orihuela, your people and mine, I have been dead
as
Ramon Ray Sijé, who both wanted)
.

.

.
I want to be crying the gardener
land you occupy and fertilize,
soul mate so early. Feeding

rain shells and bodies
my useless grief, the discouraged


poppies give your heart for food.
Grief bunches in my side that hurt
hurts to breath.

A hard smack, blow, ice cream,
invisible ax murderer, a brutal shove
has cut you down. No extension

bigger than my hurt, my sad and cry
spells
and feel your death more than my life. Ando

into stubble the dead, and no heat
anyone and without consolation
leave my heart to my business. Early death
up flight, earlier
up early in the morning, early
're rolling on the floor.

forgive not love death,
not forgive careless life,
not forgive the earth or nothing.

In my hands
raised a storm of stones, lightning and loud axes
disaster thirsty and hungry.

I dig the earth with my teeth, I set aside land
side to side with his teeth
dry and warm.

I look at the earth to find you and kiss your noble
skull and desamordazarte
and bring you back.

'll return to my garden and my fig tree by high scaffolding
flowers birding
your soul angelic beekeeper

of waxes and work.
'll return to the sound of the gates of lovers
farmers.

glad the shade of my eyebrows,
and your blood will go to each side contesting
your girlfriend and bees.

Your heart, and crumpled velvet,
a field called almond foam greedy
my lover's voice.

At winged souls of roses almond cream
requires you,
we need to talk of many things,
soul mate, partner.

..

.

MIGUEL HERNANDEZ

(Spain, 1910/1942)

.

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CARBAJAL, Joseph, Uruguay, 1943/2010

The Uruguayan popular music performer José Carbajal, "The Sabalero", author of songs like "kid," died of an apparent attack heart, it was reported Thursday. He was 66.

"It was a pain for the Uruguayans, is a very Uruguayan singer, most of the payments guys, much transmitter such things are fine poets, power simple words summed up the society, "said President Jose Mujica, when asked in the department of Flores, 100 miles north of Montevideo. Mujica said the memory of Carbajal continue the people. "You will live, will continue living in the songs." Because he could not immediately establish the cause of his death the remains of Carbajal were transferred to the city of Pando, 30 miles north where he held a autopsy, local media reported. On the website of the presidency, to give an account of his death, it was reported last Saturday that said goodbye to his audience with the interpretation of the song "Death." He had also performed "My People" and "Sencillito." In the 70 Carbajal became famous in Latin America with the theme "childish", which also will play the Argentine singer Leonardo Favio. Between 1970 and 1973 lived in Buenos Aires, and then spent by countries such as Mexico, France and Spain to settle in the Netherlands. "The Sabalero" returned to Uruguay in 1984 but in 1992 he returned to Holland, although it remained a band in Montevideo. Argentina In 1998 the singer recorded his candombe Soledad Pastorutti "My people" in what was an extraordinary success. His album "Haunted House" is the study material in schools Uruguay's primary. The death was met in the morning. Carbajal was alone in his house in Villa Argentina, near the resort of Atlantis, about 80 miles east. Spent years in exile in Holland, but was in Uruguay for a while. Today came to play a music series in the Café Bar Tabaré, his show "Wanted", including tangos, milongas littoral and cumbias. The representative of "The Sabalero" Fernando Mino, told the daily El Pais on Thursday morning still "nothing is known of the wake, because we are waiting for contact with his wife in Holland, to see how we keep this up." "I came to look for a test we had in Montevideo and then I found it, "he said. He added that according to a neighbor yesterday," Joseph told him that I had a pain in the chest and arm, but I know nothing more now. "The singer Cristina Fernández Carbajal described the death as "something terrible". "We can not believe yet. The scariest thing is that I was only there in Atlantis, "he said." Joseph was an amazing guy to me, was divine gestures, partner and very supportive. "A big plus goes. (Source: TARINGA )

DEATH

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Gironde, Oliver: Point Street

On the terrace of a cafe is a family gray. Spend some breasts looking for a smile crossed the tables. The noise of the motor car for the leaves of the trees. On the fifth floor, someone is crucified to open wide keep a ventana.Pienso where kiosks, street lights, pedestrians, which I enter through the pupil. I feel so full that I have fear of exploding ... Need to leave some garbage on the sidewalk ...
When you reach a corner, my shadow away from me, and suddenly, he throws himself between the wheels of a streetcar.
.

Girondo
Oliverio ("20 poems to be read on the tram)

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Galeano, Eduardo: Five centuries of prohibition in the rainbow LINK

THE OTROCIDIO

The Discovery: 12 October 1942, America discovered capitalism. Christopher Columbus, financed by the kings of Spain and the bankers of Genoa, brought the news to the islands of the Caribbean. In his diary of Discovery, the admiral wrote the word 139 times gold and 51 times the word God or Our Lord. He could not tire the eyes of so much loveliness in those beaches, and prophesized November 27: Will all Christendom business in them. And that was not wrong. Columbus believed that Haiti was Japan and Cuba was China, and believed that the people of China and Japan were Indians from India, but it was not wrong.
After five centuries of Christianity the whole business has been wiped out one third of the American forests, is very barren land that was fertile and more than half the population eats fried. The Indians, victims of the most gigantic theft of universal history, continue to suffer theft of the last remnants of their land, and are sentenced to a denial of their separate identity. They are still prohibits live in his own way, are still denied the right to be. At first, the looting and otrocidio were executed in the name of the God of heaven. Now they meet in the name of the god of Progress.
Yet in that identity prohibited and despised some keys gleam yet another possible America. America's blind racism, not see them.
.

. Eduardo Galeano

(from "be like them and other items", 1 st ed., Buenos Aires, Siglo XXI Editores, 2010)

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American sky, Daniel: October 12, 1976

Like many others, I realized later the coup. In March 1976 I was 16, began the fifth year of high school and was general secretary of the Student Center (whose president was José Luis López Ibáñez, current tourism official, I believe, in the loose or no national government) and believed that the coup was one of a long list of military uprisings that had accompanied my childhood ("I sleep with pointed-Illia-well, I wake up with Onganía" was a rhyme he had learned from my grandmother). That year we had to organize the event Race Day. I was appointed to write the script of the piece with which we fired from the school. Among the texts that were read, there were fragments of Canto general and I confess that I have lived by Pablo Neruda. Among the songs he played and sang my musician friends then, include that passage of the Cantata Sudamericana says: "Another emancipation, another emancipation / I say / I say you have to conquer / and then yes / yes and then my continent Acuña / a happiness, a happiness / with the little people like you and me. " The history teacher, Ms. Silveyra, and other wives of colonels and captains responsible for our education left the hall immediately (which, in our view, was an insult to the flag ceremonies.) The literature teacher, who secretly I spent my stupid poems then called me to say that all who had participated in the commemoration ran, among other risks, being expelled from school. We had become "red" that were "subversive propaganda", not by the text and songs we chose, but also by the use of the color of the curtain of the theater at my school. Then I realized that something more serious was happening Lanusse. I was a good student and my political contention until then had been channeled into the claim of more toilet paper in the bathrooms and the like. I did not understand what was happening. Did not understand what was happening in my family, distressed and divided by the disappearance of my cousin Fernando Rizzo, of whose books I bought years earlier at bargain prices, had put together my first library. That October 12, my friends and I started to understand what had happened, I began to understand what they meant the crazy aunt travel to the barracks and prisons throughout the country with no luck trying to find his son, and Slowly we were dominating the sadness of a pseudo-life lived in secret and the horror of reality, beginning to get through. Or rather, we who were leaving school, we began to move through a horrible reality a sad witness to something that may never speak with dignity.

.

DANIEL LINK

.
Daniel Link was born in Buenos Aires in 1959, is professor and writer. Teaches courses in Twentieth Century Literature at the University of Buenos Aires. He has edited the work of Rodolfo Walsh (The violent craft of writing, that man and other personal papers) and published, among others, the essay books sow chains, How to Read (Translated into Portuguese) classes. Literature and dissent and Legend. Literature Argentina: four courts, the novels The nineties, Anxiety and Montserrat, the poetry collections The February closure and other bad poems and intellectual Country and Other Poems, and full theater. He is a member of the Brazilian Association of Comparative Literature (Abralic) and the Latin American Studies Association (LASA). In 2004 he received a Guggenheim Fellowship.
In 2007 he premiered his first play, Love in the Time of dengue.
His work has been partially translated into Portuguese, English, German and Italian.

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Fernandez Retamar, Roberto: Happy

Happy normal, these strange beings,

those who do not have a crazy mother, a drunken father, a child offender,

a house anywhere, an unknown disease,

those who have not been burned by a devouring love,

who lived seventeen of smiling faces and a little more,

's full of shoes, hats archangels,

the satisfied , fat, cute,

the rintintín and his minions, which of course, here,

earners, those who are dear to the hilt,

mice accompanied by flute players,

sellers and buyers,

slightly superhuman knights,

the men dressed as women thunder and lightning,

the delicate, wise, fine,

the kind, candy, groceries and beverages. Happy

birds, manure, stones.

.

But give way those who do the worlds and dreams,

illusions, the symphonies, the words that tear us down

and rebuild us, crazier than their mothers, the most drunken

their parents and their children more criminals

and more consumed by scorching love.

Let them leave their room in hell, and enough.
Roberto Fernandez Retamar

Cuban poet born in Havana in 1930.
He graduated in Philosophy and then a doctorate at the Sorbonne and the University of London. He was invited by Yale University to offer a course on Latin American Literature and lectured on Latin American Literature at the Universities of Prague and Bratislava.
addition to having held some political office has led the 1959-60 Cuban publications and Nueva Revista Casa de las Americas since 1965.
obtained the National Prize for Poetry for his book "Independence" in 1951, the Latin American Prize for Poetry Rubén Darío, the International Poetry Prize Vaptsarov Nikola of Bulgaria, the International Poetry Prize Bonalde Perez of Argentina Award for Literary Criticism "Here" in 1996 and the official Medal of Arts and Letters, awarded in France in 1998.
of his poetry is also worth mentioning: "Around the ancient hope," "With the same hands", "Good luck living" and "What we will burn."

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normal FROST, George Loring: A believer

the evening, two strangers are in the dark corridors a picture gallery. With a slight chill, one of them said
"This place is ominous. Do you believe in ghosts?

"I do not," replied the other. And you?

"I do," said the first and disappeared.

.

George Loring Frost

(England, 1887 /?)

.

Some facts about the author say he was born, supposedly, in Brentford, England, in 1887, and this story belongs to his book Memorabilia (1923). Was included in the Anthology of Fantastic Literature, by Jorge Luis Borges, Adolfo Bioy Casares and Silvina Ocampo (Bogota, Editorial Sudamericana, 1994).

But they say that Frost did not exist and was itself an invention of Jorge Luis Borges. Frost does not appear in English literature and writing vocabulary is typical of Borges. Nor do we know the date of the death of Frost and Borges know that played a lot with the "imprecise." Who can bring something more about this suspect Frost, do so. Welcome.

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Saer, Juan José: Sheltered

A furniture dealer had just bought a second hand chair once discovered a hole in the back of their former owners had hidden his diary. For some reason, death, oblivion, hurried flight, however, the paper had been there, and the trader, an expert in furniture construction, had chanced to touch the back to test its strength. That day he stayed until late in the crowded business of beds, chairs, tables and wardrobes, behind the scenes by reading the diary in the light of the lamp, bent over the desk. The newspaper revealed day by day, the emotional problems of the author and Furniture, that was a wise and discreet man, he understood immediately that the woman had lived to hide his true personality and who by chance inconceivable, he knew better than people who had lived with her and that was mentioned in the diary. The Upholstery was thoughtful. For a while, the idea that someone might have in your house, sheltered from the world, something hidden, a journal, or whatever, "it seemed strange, almost impossible, until a few minutes later, at the time he got up and began to tidy up your desk before you leave home, realized, not without amazement, that he had, somewhere, hidden things of the world knew the existence. At home, for example, in the attic, in a tin box hidden from old magazines and clutter the Upholstery had kept a roll of bills, which got bigger from time to time, and whose existence until his wife and children unknown, the Upholstery could not say precisely how an object kept those notes, but it was gradually gaining the unpleasant certainty that his entire life is defined not by their daily activities exercised in the light of day, but by that roll of bills that are eating away in the attic. And all the acts, was fundamental, no doubt, adding occasionally a ticket to roll eaten.
While the sign lit up brighter than violet light filled the black air above the sidewalk, the Upholstery was assaulted by another memory looking for a sharpener in the room of his eldest son, had come across a series of pornographic photographs his son hid in the dresser drawer. The Upholstery had iced to leave quickly in place, less modesty than by the fear that your child will think that he used to rummage through his things. During dinner, Upholstery began to watch his wife for the first time after thirty years came into his head the idea of she also had to keep something hidden, something peculiar and so deeply sunk that although she herself wanted, even torture could make him confess. The Upholstery felt a kind of vertigo. It was banal fear to be betrayed or cheated that made him the head spinning like a wine that goes, but the certainty that, just when I was in um argument against the elderly, would perhaps be required to change the most fundamental notions that were his life. Or what he called his life because his life, his real life, according to new insight, passed somewhere in the black, sheltered from the events, and seemed more elusive than the outskirts of the universe.

Juan José Saer

Getting Kosove Invitation

CASAS, Fabian:

walked with my father, by the parking lot.

is a sweltering hot day

and heated asphalt

see the shadow of a black bird

flying in circles,

as a satellite of our misfortune.

A crowd victorious behind us,

still rages on the field.

just lost the championship.

The car's cabin is a wood oven;

seats and the sun burning sticks

in glass blinds.

But no matter, as two monks

willing to blow themselves up,

we sit down and turn on the engine:

Fabián Casas and his father

Van car to die.

.

FABIAN PROPERTIES (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1965)

Dana Lighting Company

Cancharayada Fontanarrosa, Roberto: All

- Ricardo!
-Ah ...
"Come over here.
"I'm coming.
- Come here, I say!
-Why ...
- Come over here I tell you, immediately! Ricardo
appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, shirt that had been taken yet in hand. Clara was leaning against neroLite table, arms crossed, the amarillito plush robe closed around his neck.
- What? Asked Ricardo, threatening to go to his room.
- What? Clara repeated. Do you still wonder what happens? Still you have the nerve to ask what happens?
Ricardo's eyes stared at her, questioning, the plaid shirt around his index finger as a perch.
- Do you know what time it is? Asked Clara, tense neck muscles. Ricardo shrugged.
- Do you know what time it is? Clara repeated. Do you have any idea what time it is?
I do not know ... I do not know ... Ricardo ventured. One. The one and a half.
- "The one, the one and a half"! Clara-imitated as it catapulted from the counter of the sink, and crossed in two quick steps the space that separated her from Ricardo, who was startled. "The one and a half", brat of crap! -Discovered in the eyes of Richard, putting an inch of the tabs at his watch. Four! The four shit brat! The four o'clock are!
-Nooo ... -Ricardo seemed to ignore, almost stunned.
- Do not be stupid! Unhappy! -Clara and could not hold up and threw down a couple of slaps on the face pompous Richard.
- makin 'that you do not know what time it is, you get the stupid, stupid! Ricardo
dropped the shirt, he dropped back to support the lean bare back against the kitchen door, hit, score, against the wall.
- Pará! Para! "He managed to say, covering himself with his forearms. What! ...
- Impregnate crap! "Continued punishing disorderly Clara. Still want me to believe that you have no idea what time! Trash!
- wait a sec! -Ricardo, stooping, reaching to sneak into the dark dining room running. What's wrong?
- What's Up? What's Up? "Clara had given up chasing after the latest air Claymore, and now was leaning with one of his hands against the doorway, agitated, taking a tragic gesture. I still wonder what happens to me? That I'll kill you, that happens to me, you and your sister will kill me, That's what you're looking for! What you are looking for is that, give me a syncope and drop me round the floor! When you get it going to be happy, only then will you be happy, only then, Chinaman of shit!
slowly, closing with a gesture careful baton neck, fitting a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead, Clara, still breathing hard, wishing for the distance he had traveled to his son and turned to lean against the kitchen counter . He lowered his head and took his forehead with his right hand.
"That's what you're looking for this brat," he said to himself, but aloud. Give me a heart attack and I die. . .
Ricardo had become slowly and silently to look out the kitchen door. He had picked up, even his shirt from the floor.
"There are going to be happy, there are going to be happy," continued Clara, cautioning its reappearance. That yes. There is no longer going to have to control you poor old fool, you gonna be happy. That's what you want. That.
"No, look ... She tried to Ricardo.
"But I'll give you a taste-Clara resumed its violent tone, shaking his head. I will not give the taste. I swear that until the day he burst like a beast for the inconvenience I give you and the other for your sister, I swear that as there is a God, I'm going to have shortie and I will put in track, I swear, if it costs me ... , Was slowly injected energy into herself ... if it costs me, I know, years of health, life, years of life that cost me you and your sister with the dirty tricks they do. But I tell you eh? I say, until that day the head metete your mother you're going to respect, because you are going to comply and if there is anything that annoys me and pisses me off is that these stories give me with these lies ...
- What lies ...? "Complained Ricardo. What happens is you get mad ... "That was a slap to Clara.
- What lies, you say? What lies, you say? Sarnoso! It appears very breezed four in the morning and the man says he does not know what time it is, says it's half past one and I go out with no lies, yet you come with me that!
Ricardo stepped back, foresight, into the darkness of the room.
"If I were your father would not do it well. Well you would not, "lamented Clara, even threatening, however. Your father crossed the face of a slap, you little shit. Because if there was anything she could not stand was a lie, was all he tried to instill. Why? To let a wretch like you who just want to fuck me life, that, fuck life. Clara
one minute remained silent, as taking a deep breath, staring at Ricardo who supported the shoulder on the doorway, pretending to be interested in a shirt button, unexpectedly weak.
- Want to tell me where you been? He asked, at last, Clara.
-Ehh ...
- can you tell me where you were to come back at four o'clock?
-Piece Pouch and went with a. ..
"Oh, when not to! When no! -Clara joined a slap hands against his chest, look, this time, to the refrigerator across the kitchen. When not going to be with those two ... with those two ... vagrants, loafers ...
-East ... went with them ...
- but is it possible? "Clara looked at him now, without removing the hands that ranged from front to back as one mixture given within them. Is it possible that you always have to be with those useless, those two unhappy? What you get ... ? Do you ...?
- If you do not know ...! -Dared to offend Ricardo.
- And do you think you need to know, do you think you need to know or speak half a word with these loafers to know that they are useless, vans, rude! Do you believe that? Ricardo scratched his head.
"If just standing on the corner to see them to realize what they are, m'hijito. Dirty hoodlums ... -Clara loafers spit-words ...
-Pouch workers said Ricardo.
- What's going to work on that bum! Will it works! Ricardo
again picking on the button of his shirt. Clara turned his hands into the pockets of large baton. A twitch tugged upper lip.
- I do not know why you have these two so that you have so enthralled that you like a dog behind them! "He mocked Clara.
- Who is like a puppy, who? -Was angry, now, touched his pride, Ricardo.
- You'll like a puppy! You, the living! I use it, you grab the pimp, you have your nose like a ...
- But why do not you ...! -Ricardo stepped forward, angry and defiant.
- Shut your mouth! Shut your mouth! -Contragolpeó Clara, advancing a step in turn to Ricardo. The only thing missing is that I come to cry, you little dirtbag! The only thing I needed!
Ricardo returned to his former position under the door frame. Clara decided not to leave the fury recovered.
- Where did you go, tell me "challenge", where did you go with those other two, your friends, see, where did you go?
"I told you we were ... -Ricardo restarted.
"But ... Beware! Clara-threatened in the top right hand index. Think well, think well what you say because not leave me with a lie. That we do not leave me with a lie because I swear I'll be sorry, you swear that you will regret. If you come with me one of your classic lies I assure you I will not be your father but to draw strength from somewhere to get into line, you know well that I seem tame but I am meek until they come to life and then fuck me assure you that I am capable of breaking something in the head, eh? Think it well, think well what you say ...
"Yes ... "Richard shrugged. What's wrong? Clara
crossed his arms in the middle of the kitchen and stared, waiting.
"We went with the Suitcase and the pool of Esteban Cacho ... "Began Richard.
Clara's eyes narrowed.
- What pool? He asked, in apparent calm.
"There, that of Stephen ... that of ...
- who is next to the copy shop? Clara asked again contained.
"Yes ... yes ... "Ricardo looked doubtful.
- who has painted some things, in gold, in the glass?
"Yes ... what I ... yes, I think so ...
Clara did not hesitate this time, suddenly leaving his position waiting pounced on her son and gave him a pair of shorts and accurate kick on the shins. Ricardo, surprised, only managed to shrink, torn between protecting his legs or lift his arms over the head where they fell, disorganized, the Trompis Clara.
- Garbage, rubbish, rubbish! Shouted This, finally opting to grasp the hair of Richard and shaking me, but could not, however, that he fell almost slip away under the table. Trash!
"But ... but ... Why? -Ricardo almost begged an explanation, on his knees.
- I told you, I told you! Clara repeated striking a two-handed sword on the table as if they could reach the head of Ricardo. I told you not lied, crap! ... But ... Why, why, why I had to have a son like this? "Now, Clara had left the front of attack. He turned on his heels, covered her face with one hand, left arm your belly, as if for a moment of respite to prevent cardiac collapse. Why? "Almost sobbed. What have I done to deserve such a monster? I must have done something for God to punish me like that, something I have done! Angela told me and I did not believe him. She said she knew what she was saying. We were very soft, very soft ... Ricardo
soliloquy had taken his mother to leave the shelter under the table. Taking a look of pain came laboriously right ankle to a chair and sat down.
- Why is not your father? "Lamented Clara, turning to look at Ricardo, with red eyes. Why is not your father to get into line? Ricardo
without looking at her massaging her ankle persisted in complaining.
- and shut up! Huh? Shut up! Clara, "he warned.
- Look, look how I left ankle! "Cried Ricardo, on the verge of tears, stretching out his leg to his mother. This, or dull or lazy launched a new kick to the knee of Ricardo, which was not white.
- Kill boomed, that is what I should have done, unhappy, kill! How did your father, you synthase tame! Be thankful that I have not the strength of your father, God rest in the holy glory! I told you not lie to me, I told you before you begin to speak not lie to me, unhappy!
Ricardo stopped rubbing his ankle and sat on the back of the chair, had brought his right hand to his chin, preventing a new attack.
- Why ... Why? "He stammered.
- Why, why? Clara-imitated, standing in front of him, and stooping down to almost make your eyes are at the same height as your child. Because you know even lie, about it. Because the man is so alive, so live it the man, who even gives head to invent a lie. So. The man is so intelligent, that intelligence that gives to steal money from the wallet, or to sneak into the dance club, because it gives you for anything else, because it gives you to the studio or for the good things, so . For even gives you the head, unhappy to think that poor donkey load your mother, also a walk down the street. You know? Go down the street doing the shopping, so you and your sister the other everything and have to eat something once in a while, and today I passed the pool that you're saying, that pool of shit that you say, and was closed you know? It was closed!
-Nooo ... -Managed to say, Ricardo.
- was closed for mourning! "Clara had stood in front of his son by the forcefulness of the argument though.
"It can not be articulated Ricardo, confused. Was it in the afternoon ... Clara
immediately raised his right fist to download it.
- Shut up! "She screamed. Shut up! Do not keep lying, shit, stop lying, yet you have the nerve to want to keep lying! If even went through the pool, or did not pass on the sidewalk in front of the pool, Chinaman of crap, and you want to continue to deceive your mother! Clara
stopped, seeking to recover their normal breathing for two or three very long minutes was all that was heard in the kitchen, further highlighting the silence outside, street and night. Ricardo
pale, was almost lying on the chair, his neck resting on the top edge of support, eyes and hands busy in the belt buckle, as if the newly discovered at that instante.Clara retreated to the counter of the kitchen, rubbed the thigh of the right leg as if he were to cramping and shakily but as slow and said:
"Well, now you tell me, once and for all, from whence come . Where were. But I'll tell the truth. I'll tell the truth because if you tell me the truth guarantor going to meet me, you're going guarantor to know them as he spoke his tone recovering sharp edges, stress-threatening and angry ... if I say the truth, Richard, I assure you that this house will change many things and especially you are going to end the spree. You will end up partying, Ricardo, because I'm good, I endured many things, I like many things, but there comes a moment when I say enough and I swear it's enough. So tell me the truth because you know, you know, I swear to God, Richard, that if I got to lie back you will regret, you'll be sorry because you will regret, Ricardo.
"Hey ... -Ricardo seemed to focus.
- Where were you, Richard, where were you?
"We went to the pharmacy ...
- Does the pharmacy? Were you alone or with who? Clara-drained.
-With Pouch and Ricardo Cacho-be darkened, looking at his mother. I told you right?
"It no longer believe you, see? We no longer believe you. Do not believe anything. How do you want to believe you? Why should I believe you? Go with Pouch and Cacho. Followed.
-bag and went to the pharmacy Cacho ...
Clara's face was wrinkled with surprise.
- Do the pharmacy? He asked. And why the pharmacy? Why pharmacy?
"Here, the Don Flores.
of Don-A-Clara Flores placed his hands on her waist. A pharmacy Don Flores. Be careful what you say, Ricardo, tené very carefully with what I describe, Ricardo. Look that I can grab the newspaper and look for on the night chemists, Ricardo, look I can ... "He warned.
-Y fijate, fijate ... -Challenged Ricardo.
"No, I went on Clara sit back again. What I want to say what they were doing there, I want to say?
-The Bag was looking for I do not know what. Pills. Some amphetamines. What shall I, is given with it. Ricardo
"Look, look, Clara raised his right index finger in the air. I think you're making this up, I know you and I think we're inventing. That I am not aware that ...!
- No, no, I tell you no! It is true, indeed! Clara
strongly pointed out.
- Look who I can talk to Don Flores-threatened-to see if they're telling the truth! I do not give a damn grab the phone right now and talk to Don Flores and ask if it is true that you were there with the other two! Look for those things that I am commanded to do!
"If you want to call" Ricardo shrugged. If you want to call ... Don Flores but difficult because you attend Pouch hit with an iron head and did mucus.
- Do not believe me, for the night, I am not able to grab the phone and talk to anybody so to find out if you're lying as I always lie, shit brat!
"I'll only tell you," stated Ricardo sitting more erect in his chair and, now, daring to look into the eyes of his mother-is that he beat Don Pouch Flowers with an iron head and think "Richard swung his right hand horizontally, palm down, illustrating that something was over-... to me that killed him, because he fell to the ground as dead. It fit snug in the bearing, here in the middle of the forehead. The old man fell to the ground and when I looked had a lot of blood in the head and did not move or anything. To make matters worse, they fell down and gave her head against the tile, you saw that the floor is tile, and did not move. For me ...
"But I can call to Lujan, the wife Clara dogged. You know I'm pretty good friends with Lujan and that she will not have any but no problem in telling me things as they are. We are good friends with Lujan, Ricardo, very friendly, sabelo! I can call. So do not take me an idiot because ...
- Who grabs you idiot?
-... I grabbed the phone, call Luján and she'll say ...
- but name it, name it, extended his arm, pointing, Ricardo, more reinforced in its position. Go on, call her if you want!
- Of course I will call, of course, will not you come to tell you what I have to do!
- Go on, name it!
"I'm going to call, and I'll call ... She
itself around you will be able to answer, "continued Richard. If you're at home, so it came to cracking outside to the street and I caught a hit with the chain. But it did not fall. I managed to hit around here, head to the side of the head and neck, shoulder, gave him no good. But it fell and ran outside. I did blood, though.
She will tell me, you do not worry, she will say. You'll see that I'm going to tell.
Clara stared at his son, tapping in time with the sole of her right slipper on the floor, slightly quieter. Ricardo looked into her eyes.
- What? He asked. "Nor do I believe now?
I do not know, do not know, "Clara calculated. I do not know.
-Ufa ... Ricardo grumbled. Also you, too ...
"But I told you a thousand times," Clara began as a dissertation recently picking up ... I suffer not lie to me. It makes me frantic to lie to me, you and the other sister. It's the first thing we tried to instill I and your father. The first things first, the first thing we tried to instill. Strongly
He got his hands in the pockets of his robe and turned on his heels a few times, lost in thought.
"Well ... Said finally. Go to sleep. Ricardo
stood up, scratching his head.
- Have you got hungry? Clara asked. Want to warm you something?
Ricardo shook his head, yawning, as he was going to his room.
Clara shrugged. He opened the fridge, poured a little fresh water. Then turned off the light and went well.

.

.

.

Roberto Fontanarrosa

(Argentina, 1944/2007)

What Kills Strep Throat

truth Costantini, Humberto: The future

How nice was future

future

the board of the fourth degree,

all done with colored chalk

and a good confidence,

of old,

of those that are no longer available

or paying cash.

.

was really cute, cute

that future

the board in the fourth, had

decent guys holding hands

guys with clean ears

and right middle

surely and teeth brushed.

.

swear it was very pretty

future

the board of fourth grade. There

bulls, dragonflies and rivers

had trains, pigeons and elevators and airplanes

were fields and schools and tall buildings

had cows and sheep grazing

beautifully.

.

was a church and a cornfield

and a marina with many boats.

the background, of course,

wide yellow rising sun,

with her eyes, her mouth, her smile

actually quite similar

to the top of the notebook 'Sun of May'

but anyway it was a wonder that

future

the board of fourth grade.

.

Ah, if I could enter in the future!

In the future one in six colors

the board of fourth grade. How

walk straight into the fat yellow smiley

cozy, human.

How would walk among bulls, dragonflies and rivers

and doves and trains and airplanes.

.

Maybe hand iríatomado

of a decent guy, goodie, well groomed. We would walk

happy and full of hope

because it is clear ... the road would be beautiful and easy

as were the roads of the future

in the future nice

the board of fourth grade.

.

without barriers, rocks,

no wells, no traffic lights

nobody ask

documents or requisitioned us

bearings

subversive or we suspect thieves

or extremist or infiltrates.

.

Nobody would get, of course,

in a vicious ghostly Ford Falcon,

far we would go to appear the next day

next to a pile of capsules served,

not say newspapers

chiquititas with his lyrics and his ugly syntax

things like "we proceeded to identify them."

.

No, no,

simply not

because it did not appear at all in the future, because

Miss it had not drawn

with erasers, and chalk and hope

neat and clear in the future

as the board of grade.

Which as we know it was all done

with colored chalk

with a round sun Sol de Mayo

and confidence good, old,

of those that are no longer available

or paying cash.
.

Humberto Costantini
(Argentina, 1924/1987)