tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-293003692234386812024-03-13T13:53:43.897+01:00O CURRUNCHO DE ANXOSUn lugar onde pasar un bo rato.A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-76380294796361649972010-05-05T21:37:00.001+02:002010-05-05T21:40:43.996+02:00NON PRECISA COMENTARIOS<object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=11294612&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=11294612&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/11294612">El mismo amor, los mismos derechos</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user3694330">Inadi</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-58972882588389024232010-04-26T18:40:00.005+02:002010-04-26T18:43:19.428+02:00NON PRECISA CONEXIÓN<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/iwPj0qgvfIs&hl=es_ES&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/iwPj0qgvfIs&hl=es_ES&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="440" height="285"></embed></object>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-69309361423232644082010-04-14T19:36:00.005+02:002010-04-14T19:42:26.733+02:00ENCONTROS<p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S8X9u0zCJSI/AAAAAAAAAUw/tKyi_o9t5LA/s1600/Y.+Zomerdijk.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460049104145098018" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S8X9u0zCJSI/AAAAAAAAAUw/tKyi_o9t5LA/s400/Y.+Zomerdijk.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">El ruiseñor conoció a la ruiseñora</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">en un bar de alterne donde ella</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">cantaba noche a noche viejos tangos</span><br /></p><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000099;"><em>M. Benedetti</em></span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-22337440019411608412010-04-04T19:22:00.003+02:002010-04-04T19:58:42.761+02:00RE/CREACIONES<p align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S7jSrSbBC-I/AAAAAAAAAUo/vDZLN_Xi83I/s1600/adan+y+eve.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456342589680716770" style="WIDTH: 338px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S7jSrSbBC-I/AAAAAAAAAUo/vDZLN_Xi83I/s400/adan+y+eve.bmp" border="0" /></a></p><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">F.Botero<br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">Cuando adán el primero</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">agobiado por eva y por la soledad</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">inventó cautelosamente a dios</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">no tenía la menor idea</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">de en que túnel de niebla había metido</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">a su desvalido corazón</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">pero cuando su invento lo obligó a hacer ofrendas</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">a rezar y a borrarse del placer</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">o a cambiar los placeres por el tedio</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">adán/ a instancias de eva la primera/</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">de un soplido creó el agnosticismo.</span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000099;"><em>M. Benedetti</em></span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-63128891962940048772010-03-06T19:39:00.006+01:002010-03-06T21:57:45.354+01:00MULLER<div align="center"><object height="364" width="445"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VBQBtn8wYPg&hl=es_ES&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VBQBtn8wYPg&hl=es_ES&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">Tengo sed. Me has quitado las praderas del norte,</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">regadas por arroyos de respeto y cariño.</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">Tengo frío. Te has ido con el sur de mi alcoba,</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">dejándome las huellas de tu hielo en mi cuerpo.</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">No sé qué hacer. La vida me parece una tumba</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">donde me has enterrado viva, una oscuridad</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">irrespirable, un túnel sin salida, una muerte</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">prolongada, el vacío, la ausencia, el desamparo.</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">Me siento tan vencida por tu odio, tan débil,</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">tan aterrorizada y tan inexistente,</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">que no puedo llorar, ni llamar por teléfono</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">a mis padres (que acaso me dirían: “Aguanta,</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">que por algo naciste mujer”), ni hacerle señas</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">a la vecina desde la ventana. Me quedo</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">acurrucada en un rincón del dormitorio</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">esperando que vuelvas y sigas arrasando</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">con gestos de desprecio, con golpes y con gritos</span><br /><span style="color:#000099;">aquel campo de amor que cultivamos juntos.</span><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000099;">L.A.de Cuenca</span></em></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-85475574487053004442010-02-20T20:34:00.003+01:002010-02-20T21:01:59.830+01:00UNHA MEDIA HORA DE RETRASO<div align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S4A5d2B67NI/AAAAAAAAAUg/z0YF1ZclU6Y/s1600-h/s.hanks3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440411534746119378" style="WIDTH: 261px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S4A5d2B67NI/AAAAAAAAAUg/z0YF1ZclU6Y/s400/s.hanks3.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">S. Hanks</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000099;">Avisaron pola megafonía que o tren traía unha media hora de retraso. Estaba xa cansa das conversas dos homes que miraban o partido na tele así que, pagou o café que tiña na mesa e non dera acabado, colleu o seu paraugas de deseño ( agasallo dunha amiga, ela non gastaba tantos cartos nun paraugas) e botouse ao andén como se a levara o diaño. As estacións , eran lugares de tránsito, non de quedarse, e iso as facía especialmente atractivas para ela. Gustáballe fantasear coas vidas que levaban as xentes que subian e baixaban do tren. Miraba os amantes furtivos que se atopaban nun encontro fuxidío, homes e mulleres que se apeaban do tren e , a toda présa, ían cara ó aparcadoiro esquecendo as conversas intrascendentes que momentos antes mantiveran, mulleres cos ollos cansos de mirar a vida sempre do mesmo lado, rapazas novas coas orellas transformadas en auriculares e mirándose só o embigo...</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000099;">....................................................................................</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000099;">Ela mirábase no espello do chan pensando o que dá de si unha media hora de retraso.</span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-16654086054237978662010-02-03T18:18:00.003+01:002010-02-03T19:10:25.033+01:00Á NOITE<div align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S2m7k9tVB6I/AAAAAAAAAUY/8Ghw9sYnhgQ/s1600-h/c.+Warner.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434080669113583522" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S2m7k9tVB6I/AAAAAAAAAUY/8Ghw9sYnhgQ/s400/c.+Warner.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">C Warner</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">Asomando á noite</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">na terraza dun rañaceos altísimo e amargo</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">puiden tocar a bóveda nocturna </span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">e nun acto de amor extraordinario</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">apodereime dunha celeste estrela.</span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000099;"><em>P. Neruda</em></span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-26285274038221411392010-01-24T19:16:00.005+01:002010-01-24T19:25:20.939+01:00A FELICIDADE II<div align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S1yPiPA-FFI/AAAAAAAAAUM/u4vmmmw-LoQ/s1600-h/falls.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430373069010900050" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 263px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S1yPiPA-FFI/AAAAAAAAAUM/u4vmmmw-LoQ/s400/falls.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">K. Ruane</span><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">....Cuando tras dar mil vueltas a mis preocupaciones,<br />me acuerdo de un amigo, voy a verle, me dice:<br />"Estaba justamente pensando en ir a verte.<br />" Y hablamos largamente, no de mis sinsabores,<br />pues él, aunque quisiera, no podría ayudarme,<br />sino de cómo van las cosas en Jordania,<br />de un libro de Neruda, de su sastre, del viento,<br />y al marcharme me siento consolado y tranquilo,<br />¿no es la felicidad lo que me vence?<br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">........<br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000099;"><em>G. Celaya</em></span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-86550232540086168372010-01-15T13:47:00.006+01:002010-01-17T19:25:50.907+01:00A FELICIDADE<p align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S1BlGdrM6qI/AAAAAAAAAUE/JxKBhMHlwRA/s1600-h/Holsoe_carlvilhelm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426948712700897954" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 339px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S1BlGdrM6qI/AAAAAAAAAUE/JxKBhMHlwRA/s400/Holsoe_carlvilhelm.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;"><em>Holsoe</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">¿Y la felicidad?<br />habitaba en los muros,<br />las ventanas, las mesas<br />a veces se escondía detrás de un mueble<br />y sonreía al ver mi afán ingenuo<br />siempre esquiva, siempre más allá.<br />A veces me acompañaba un rato<br />y se dejaba zarandear por el fuego.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#000099;">La felicidad estaba allí,<br />era un aroma mínimo<br />en el corazón de las cosas. </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000099;"><em>(C.C.Wolf)</em></span></div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"></a>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-84990400692365806442010-01-12T18:16:00.001+01:002010-01-12T18:25:19.678+01:00SEN COMENTARIOS<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S0ywdrLAJGI/AAAAAAAAAT0/Qn0apU4BpLo/s1600-h/CARTEL.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425905674926171234" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 361px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S0ywdrLAJGI/AAAAAAAAAT0/Qn0apU4BpLo/s400/CARTEL.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S0yuaVylY3I/AAAAAAAAATs/T0JMpbswgyc/s1600-h/CARTEL.jpg"></a><br /><br /><div></div></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-51986575340368295012010-01-10T20:00:00.004+01:002010-01-10T21:03:23.011+01:00NEVE<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S0opnjeO7YI/AAAAAAAAATk/-yzKxs8f928/s1600-h/santia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/S0opnjeO7YI/AAAAAAAAATk/-yzKxs8f928/s400/santia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425194460634869122" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:100%;" >As torres da catedral erguíanse rodeadas dun manto branco que as facían, aínda se cabe, máis maxestuosas que de costume. Na praza algúns cativos, facían bólas de neve esquecendo polo momento os agasallos que deixaran os Reis e os pais tentaban inmortalizar aquel instante </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:100%;" >nunha tarxeta duns cantos Megas que logo verían na casa dos avós nunha magnífica tele de plasma de tropecentas polegadas.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">.............................................................</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">A través da vidreira do café ela miraba cair as folerpas agarrando coas súas mans unha taza de café quentiño.</span><br /></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-35983762512681328822010-01-04T12:23:00.003+01:002010-03-06T21:58:25.893+01:00AGASALLO PARA O ANO NOVO<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Kqm7NJAk-V8&hl=es_ES&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Kqm7NJAk-V8&hl=es_ES&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-33419520630405122162009-12-31T13:28:00.003+01:002010-01-04T12:24:48.156+01:00POEMA PARA REMATAR O ANO<div align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SzyZBkpRGYI/AAAAAAAAATU/Tz5JIQ26RtU/s1600-h/Sierko_02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421376303742916994" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SzyZBkpRGYI/AAAAAAAAATU/Tz5JIQ26RtU/s400/Sierko_02.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">J. Sierko</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Sorpresounos a noite,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">xa ben escurecido,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">no barandal de pedra</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">que defende o camiño.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">(Dende entón ten un nome:</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">a Ponte dos Suspiros.)</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Non movía unha folla</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">o vento adormecido:</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">No ceo ni unha estrela,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">na arboreda ni un chío.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">As palabras non tiñan</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">nin rumor nin sentido.....</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#3333ff;"><em>R. Cabanillas</em></span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-92130297263240702392009-12-23T20:03:00.004+01:002009-12-27T20:51:52.259+01:00TARDES DE INVERNO<div align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SzJp2346LMI/AAAAAAAAATM/_bm0tXn7us0/s1600-h/e.+hodges.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418509693116624066" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 285px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SzJp2346LMI/AAAAAAAAATM/_bm0tXn7us0/s400/e.+hodges.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;"><em>E. Hodges</em></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Tardes de café quentiño con torradas, de conversas enfiadas e infindas arredor dunha mesa onde ninguén ten présa por se levantar; choiva e vento na rúa e paraugas con pernas tentando manter o rumo sen un leme que os guíe. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Tralos cristais unha cara pegada tenta adiviñar o que hai máis aló da ventá. </span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-54452059004880416792009-12-13T21:32:00.000+01:002009-12-13T21:34:17.181+01:00UNHA PINGA DE HUMOR<div align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SyVPeQMMFQI/AAAAAAAAATE/3N0pBLb7yDA/s1600-h/Autoestima-copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414821508143650050" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 303px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SyVPeQMMFQI/AAAAAAAAATE/3N0pBLb7yDA/s400/Autoestima-copy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#3333ff;"><em>A. Montt</em></span></div><div align="center"> </div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-20520627510329329702009-12-08T20:50:00.003+01:002010-01-04T12:25:32.422+01:00O RÍO<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Sx6ul-KLTxI/AAAAAAAAAS8/ypoI1Qyqz8k/s1600-h/DSC01751.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412955769509990162" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Sx6ul-KLTxI/AAAAAAAAAS8/ypoI1Qyqz8k/s400/DSC01751.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Mira como pasa o río.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Mira, como vai pasando.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Beixos de escuma debuxa</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">nas pedras que vai mollando</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#3333ff;"><em>A.G.Teijeiro</em></span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-74011957905926420672009-11-13T20:15:00.004+01:002010-01-04T12:27:09.899+01:00MANS<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Sv2xb-YsgBI/AAAAAAAAASs/HOnL4KUGk5k/s1600-h/manos%2520bn%2520nuevo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403670222075625490" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 339px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Sv2xb-YsgBI/AAAAAAAAASs/HOnL4KUGk5k/s400/manos%2520bn%2520nuevo.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">....Las manos pueden liberar</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">al mundo de su destino.</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Pero no pueden con la vida</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">en el último momento.</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">No pueden sujetar el mundo</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">que se mueve sin sentido.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Las manos sirven para casi todo.</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Menos para gritar.</span><br /></div><div align="center"><em><span style="color:#3333ff;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Kepa Murua</span></span></em></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-91518841765757928162009-11-12T19:59:00.007+01:002010-01-04T12:27:45.429+01:00..... E CHOVE<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Svxbdu5GjuI/AAAAAAAAASk/TJ4FeIea8aQ/s1600-h/lluvia.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403294219299622626" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 360px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Svxbdu5GjuI/AAAAAAAAASk/TJ4FeIea8aQ/s400/lluvia.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Chove en novembro</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">sobre as lembranzas.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Choiva que voa.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Choiva que danza.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:+0;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:+0;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Revoa a choiva</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">tinguindo alfombras,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">roubando orballos,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">cosendo ponlas.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;color:#3333ff;"><em>A. García Teijeiro</em></span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-21781729568839439082009-11-09T20:39:00.003+01:002010-01-04T12:29:19.746+01:00CHOVE MIUDIÑO<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SvhxsKtgNdI/AAAAAAAAASc/zfmzSeFFiEE/s1600-h/tejado111.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402192756634301906" style="WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SvhxsKtgNdI/AAAAAAAAASc/zfmzSeFFiEE/s400/tejado111.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">É noite pechada e chove miudiño.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Nas lousas de pedra,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">ó longo da rúa</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">escura e deserta</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">estoupan as pingas</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">que deitan as tellas.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Ó través dos ferrollos das portas</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">o vento salaia o dor dunha queixa</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#3333ff;"><em>Ramón Cabanillas</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></em></span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-44611703546271040422009-11-02T19:45:00.003+01:002010-01-04T13:33:26.820+01:00O OUTONO<div align="center"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Su8pAx0MW_I/AAAAAAAAASU/2upmYq0PMJ4/s1600-h/M.+Savad+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399579571589503986" style="WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Su8pAx0MW_I/AAAAAAAAASU/2upmYq0PMJ4/s400/M.+Savad+1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">M. Savad</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">El otoño se acerca con muy poco ruido:</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">apagadas cigarras, unos grillos apenas,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">defienden el reducto</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">de un verano obstinado en perpetuarse,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">cuya suntuosa cola aún brilla hacia el oeste.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Se diría que aquí no pasa nada,</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">pero un silencio súbito ilumina el prodigio:</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">ha pasado</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">un ángel</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">que se llamaba luz, o fuego, o vida.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Y lo perdimos para siempre</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Á</em></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>ngel González</em> </span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-79052342482146939132009-10-20T20:12:00.005+02:002010-01-04T13:34:19.443+01:00AS CABAZAS DO SAMAÍN<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/St39o7ROlMI/AAAAAAAAAR8/92s0yJ_WXpY/s1600-h/Harvest+K.G.McElroy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394746808206267586" style="WIDTH: 295px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/St39o7ROlMI/AAAAAAAAAR8/92s0yJ_WXpY/s400/Harvest+K.G.McElroy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0);font-size:85%;" >K.G.McElroy</span><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)"><span style="font-size:100%;">Non entende por que chegada esta época do ano os nenos, na compaña dos seus maiores, andan á procura da cabaza máis grande e bonita para lle facer uns buratos e deixala descabezada. O medo de que fagan o mesmo con el fai que desapareza trala cesta nun intento de pasar desapercibido.<br />.........................................................................<br />Á noitiña, e moi silandeiramente, cóase na cociña. Fóra chove que dá medo.</span><br /></span></div></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-23113619751481105552009-10-19T19:23:00.002+02:002009-10-19T19:48:07.349+02:00ANTÍPODAS<div align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/StyhXujTp9I/AAAAAAAAAR0/lugO27FmEm4/s1600-h/rain+Caillebotte.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394363882688194514" style="WIDTH: 291px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/StyhXujTp9I/AAAAAAAAAR0/lugO27FmEm4/s400/rain+Caillebotte.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/StyhCh3tXxI/AAAAAAAAARs/dtDemYglfac/s1600-h/piocosta0314%5B1%5D.jpg"></a><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">Caillebote</span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#3333ff;">As pingas rompen sistematicamente a simetría das árbores que, como toliñas, tentan acadar o máis profundo da rúa nun intento de chegar ata as súas semellantes nos antípodas. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#3333ff;">......................................................</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#3333ff;">El dixit- e ficou descansado.</span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-68400737956281993682009-10-08T20:10:00.003+02:002009-10-08T20:28:39.899+02:00NEBOAS<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Ss4sTPdn8VI/AAAAAAAAARk/KriCp-zacLc/s1600-h/neboa.bmp"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Ss4sTPdn8VI/AAAAAAAAARk/KriCp-zacLc/s400/neboa.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390294513088983378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-size:100%;" >Aquela árbore, emerxendo espida no medio da néboa, non auguraba nada bo. As pantasmas adoitan agacharse entre os farrapos nos que se desfai. Cerrou ben as ventaniñas do coche, subiu un pouco o volume da música, para non escoitar os cantos de serea que proviñan dalá abaixo, onde o mar rompía contra as rochas enfurecido, e sen deixar de mirar a liña branca da carretera, chegou ao seu destino.</span><br />.<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">...............................................................</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">A sirena do faro, na boca da noite, non conseguía espantar as pantasmas.</span><br /></div></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-73483042429208692822009-10-01T18:33:00.002+02:002009-10-01T18:52:30.085+02:00POR FIN !!!!<div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SsTZ67ktDlI/AAAAAAAAARE/MslRIQXJ2Pg/s1600-h/piocosta0305%5B2%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387670660689235538" style="WIDTH: 332px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/SsTZ67ktDlI/AAAAAAAAARE/MslRIQXJ2Pg/s400/piocosta0305%5B2%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#000000;">P. Costa</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Asomou a cabeza pola fiestra entrebaerta e confirmou o que xa sospeitaba: chovera de noite. O arrecendo que subía das pedras húmidas xunto ao de café dos bares circundantes acabou por espertala totalmente . Saíu á rúa sen paraugas; quería sentir no seu corpo as últimas pingas que aínda caían para sufocar a inmensa calor acumulada durante os días anteriores.Coma ela,outras xentes coas mesmas ansias de auga, botábanse fóra para , timidamente ao principio, e xa sen reparo algún despois, meter os pés nas pequenas fochancas que se tiñan formado na rúa.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#3333ff;">...................................................................</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Mañá estarei costipada, pensou, mentres miraba para os seus pés calzados con sandalias. Pero pagou a pena.</span></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29300369223438681.post-14860783806471832472009-09-25T20:03:00.003+02:002009-09-25T20:21:50.762+02:00MUDANZA<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Sr0GlazwMyI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/pTGDB3Quz_w/s1600-h/kennington_panel%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_r3bFooTokWw/Sr0GlazwMyI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/pTGDB3Quz_w/s400/kennington_panel%5B1%5D.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385467969326297890" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >Kennington</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-size:100%;" >T</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-size:100%;" >es que vir axiña- a mensaxe non dicía máis nada. Botoulle unha ollada ao reloxio , nunha hora escasa estou alí. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-size:100%;" >Meu dito, meu feito.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-size:100%;" >As caixas no chan , os armarios amosando impudicamente o seu baleiro e o sonriso dela querendo romperse nunha gargallada indicáronlle que volvía haber mudanza. Nesta ocasión, tanto tiñan as razóns, pero ela sempre atopaba algunha de peso, eran as tubaxes que facían ruído.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />........................................<br />Botáronse a rir as dúas mentres o can buscaba o seu espazo nun adosado de cartón do Eroski.<br /></span></div><br /></div></div>A Curruncheirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01311813249244195119noreply@blogger.com0