CELAYA
not want to miss that today, March 18, marks the birth of Gabriel Celaya , born Rafael Gabriel Juan Mugica lacet, the poet of Hernani who came to Madrid to become an engineer, who went through the Student Residence and hobnobbed with the cream of the culture and intelligentsia of the time: Unamuno, Ortega, Juan Ramón, Lorca, Dalí, Moreno Villa, Pablo Neruda ...
belonged to the Generation of 36 and was, along with Blas de Otero, a prominent representative of the so-called social poetry of the 50's, although his poetic career was varied. Celaya The engineer, left work in family businesses, suffered the jails, founded magazines, loved life and Amparo Gaston, who was the lover, companion and, above all, he wrote verses .
To Gabriel Celaya, as stated Vicente Tusón, "a poet is, suddenly, a man" and "no man can be neutral." Poetry is a tool to transform the world, is "a weapon loaded with future . We will remind some of his poems. The first I want to dedicate it to Josefina Aldecoa , writer, teacher, companion of Ignacio, who died two days ago. The second-one of my favorites, such as that of Carabanchel Manolito say, the whole world.
Education is the same
to put a motor or a boat ...;
be measured, thinking, balance ...;
and get up and running.
But for that,
one has to carry the soul
some marine ...
a little pirate ...
a bit of a poet, ...
and a kilo and a half of patience
concentrated.
But it is comforting dream
while you work,
that boat, that child,
go far for water.
dream that this ship
words carry our burden of
to distant ports, to remote islands.
Soñar que cuando un día
esté durmiendo nuestra propia barca,
en barcos nuevos seguirá
nuestra bandera enarbolada.
Momentos felices
Cuando llueve, y reviso mis papeles, y acabo
tirando todo al fuego: poemas incompletos,
pagarés no pagados, cartas de amigos dead
photos, kisses kept in a book,
waive my stubborn dead weight of past,
'm shining, extol just as I refuse,
and thus fanning the flames, and jump the fire,
and barely understand what I'm doing,
is not happiness that exalts me?
When I go whistling along the street
- the cigarette on his lips, soul available -
and speak to children or I go with the clouds,
May
points and the breeze is going all widening,
girls premiere their necks, arms
naked and brown, her eyes wide,
and laugh and they know why overabundant,
splashes of joy and trembling recent
happiness is not what you feel?
When a friend arrives, the house is empty,
out but my beloved ham, anchovies, cheese,
olives , barnacles, two bottles of white
and I attend the miracle - I know that everything is on credit -
and I do not think if we can afford;
and when we drink and talk without action,
and the friend is happy, thinks we're happy,
and we are teasing and perhaps death,
is not happiness that transcends?
When I woke up, remain lying
with open balcony. And dawns: birds
whistle their pagan gibberish nicely:
and I get up, but I get up;
and see, face up, as reflected in the roof
sea ripple and the iris of his mother-
and I lay there, and nothing matters at all,
and do not annihilate the time? Do not save me from fear?
Is not happiness what dawns?
When I go to the market, look at the starters
and pressing teeth, round cherry
oozing figs, plums fall
tree of life, to sin no doubt
for me so enticing. And I ask the price,
haggling, finally get a rebate,
more finished the game, pay twice and there is little,
and opens his eyes wide selling ,
is not happiness that springs there?
When I can say the day is over.
And tell your hectic day, trade,
the pursuit of money, the struggle of the dead.
And when they tired, stained, come home,
I'm in the dark and plug in the turntable,
Kachaturian and go, or Mozart, or Vivaldi,
and music queen, I again feel clean,
simply clean and, despite everything, free,
is not happiness that surrounds me?
When, after cruising around to my concerns,
I remember a friend, I'll see, I said:
"I was just thinking about going to see you."
And we talked at length, not of my troubles,
for him, even if I wanted, I could not help me,
but how are things in Jordan,
a book of Neruda, his tailor, wind,
and leave me feel comforted and quiet,
happiness is not what beats me?
our windows open, feel the fresh air;
pass through a road that smells of honeysuckle;
drink with a friend, chat or very quiet;
feel the feelings of others is ours
looking into eyes that stare at us without blemish,
is not that to be happy despite the death?
Beaten and betrayed, almost cynical view
that they can not take no more and I still live,
is not happiness that does not sell?
not miss ...
grub2 
Beini-1.2.2 - Update Aircrack-ng 1.1r1859 
