Esta es parte de mi creación artística donde uso pequeños formatos en papel para dibujar con tinta negra, lápiz y carboncillo. También
he agregado algunas poesías para realzar el intento creativo con otros objetos tridimensionales en este caso máscaras hechas en papel mâché.
This is part of my artistic creation where I use small formats of paper with black ink, pencil and charcoal. Also, I have added some poems.
Rodrigo Rojas de Negri Carmen Gloria Quintana
Fue un Julio cuando la razón se trastorno… volviéndose
esquizoide, desde ahí la herida sangra poderosa en el entorno
de los recuerdos, sangra con el color del odio de los sátrapas valientes
soldados de la patria disfrazados de guerreros hollywoodenses
saltan a la palestra los remordimientos de la muerte sin sentido
los hijos del infierno caminan sonrientes por los pasillos de los mall
comprando bisuterías, probándose zapatos,
displicentes, olvidados en sus remembranzas, mirando a los paseantes,
gallardos en su andar recordando los pasos marciales de antaño
pero escudados en el silencio de sus pactos en los círculos de la muerte.
La herida sangra poderosa en la memoria de mi gente
los cancerberos se protegen entre sectas y clanes siniestros
se ríen de un pueblo sumido en las agonías de su dolor
beben a diario en las capsulas del tiempo la sangre de sus ejecutados
los dejaron que se extinguieran en una hoguera abandonada
con los quejidos de la noche,
se deberán usar llaves artesanas para abrir las puertas
que nos dejaran ver el paso de las verdades desperezándose
en la alborada de todos.
Burned.
Rodrigo Rojas de Negri Carmen Gloria Quintana
It was July when reason is becoming obsessive ...
schizoid, from there the wound bleeds powerful around
the memories, bleeds with the color of hatred of the mighty satraps
homeland soldiers disguised as warriors from Hollywood
come to the fore the regrets of the senseless death
the smiling men of hell walk through the halls of the mall
buying costume jewelry, trying on shoes,
complacent, forgotten in his memories, looking at the passersby,
gallant in his walk remembering the old martial steps
but shielded in the silence of their covenants in the circles of death.
The wound bleeds powerful in the memory of my people
the guardians protected by sinister sect and clan
They laugh to their country men immersed in the anguish of their pain
they drink daily in capsules of time the blood of his execution
they let it die out in a blaze abandoned
with the groans of the night,
we must use artisan keys to open the doors
that we let us see the step of the awaken truth
at the dawn of all.
There are forty-three bodies bullet-riddled by neglect, lies, greed The wind has been taking the bad news to all the corner the corners of the earth hading the reflection of the ethereal light ... in the chest of many a bitter breach was made, the trigger of my blood shoot a burst of fear to the cowardly jailers. Every tear is a dart of anger that trembles the asphalt, the skin
the bones, the knuckles, the arteries Predicting the arrival of truths. There are forty-three spikes swaying with the hurricane of cries there are eighty-six prying eyes crawling dull buildings of mayors and venal rulers, call for the answers of replies to truths lost in the sewers and carried by the drains to the dens of murderers and assassins. The roots of the earth prepare the ropes from where will swing the bodies of the satrap that will feed the birds of hell. The whole world runs landfills, wastelands in search of a truth, take between his fingers scorched earth and try to smell the soft skin sieve. They raise irretrievably four hundred thirty thousand voices demanding justice.
los titánicos cimientos de una patria de hermanos.
Hugo Chavez.
What a paradox Commander you're gone to stay between the folds of this beautiful and battered geography the tears shed we'll take in individual clay pots to clean the bloodshed. Your heart bore a star deposited with the great Bolivarian banner where other stars gleam Bolivar, Che Guevara, Villa, Zapata, Sandino, Martí, Allende. You dream of the great motherland already entangled in the dawn of our America to forge on the anvil of destiny steel of hopes. Since birds the blue from the south the red from the north the green from the west the black from the east have begun to braid with your hair the swift sails that will make this great ship arrives at the solidarity port of dreams, where the stocky arms of their inhabitants built the foundations of a titanic mother land of brothers.
The ill-fated destiny of the fingers took your bleeding heart lacerated by forty spitting, forty insults, forty lies, forty missiles fired by bad called brave soldiers from a torn homeland. From the infinite space forty nightingales hover touching the edges of time, their flight is a fireball searching the erratic forty responses that cover our wounds in the long night of hatreds.
Death was at a meeting of prodigal executioners and murderers, call their host to keep open the wound where bleeds the fairest of the country. Death was to enact the oath of hatred and torture with an audience of aberrant beings that project the poison of their voices between the soft yarns of the wind.
Death ruled Total persecution to the hopes, to the filial love and make way for a new beginning of horrors.
sus apariencias con el rostro disímil de los dictadores
transformando el rostro de sus cíclopes
en hacedores de la tortura,
el nuevo Zeus lleva en sus manos, el sarcófago
que encierra el futuro y la suerte
de los mortales.
Son los nuevos ángeles de la guarda
cabalgando las ancas del apocalipsis.
los rayos que porta se llaman
Predators
Reapers
Ravens.
Is the new Olympus.
Or the myth of a new beginning
Is the new Olympus governing heaven earth and sea managing our lives with their gods with clay feet, carrying death in the infinite space, leading the instruments of destruction, handled for impersonal beings that tired in days of slaughter stay put on the couch to see the reality show in vogue. Fulfilled, and smiling with a beer in hand rejoices, -did not feel the noise, -no tears, -not the mantle of dust of death, -not blood amalgamated with the residues of dirt.
Is the new Olympus, metamorphosing their dissimilar appearances with the face of dictators transforming the face of the Cyclops doers of torture, the new Zeus holds in his hands, the sarcophagus that holds the future and luck of mortals. Are the new guardian angels riding the haunches of the apocalypse,
Entre todos los que amamos los sueños llenaremos el vacio de sus corazones con las esperanzas de los mártires.
The emptiness in the heart.
We will take the heartless to the dark chair of oblivion, and the worms of shame was cornered in the vaults banks, we will see the lie enclosed for life in the labyrinth of truths, those who have sullied death will take away the tongue so you can wallpaper the government buildings, we will bury the makers of war in the hollow of Erebus, the torturers will wear their hearts to other dimensions to crash them in the wall of hatred. We will take the heartless to watch the sunset and the magnificent flight of doves, we will take them to see children attentive sitting at their desks learning about things of life. Among all that love dreams we will fill the void in their hearts with the hopes of the martyrs.
Veo las palomas cubiertas por la mira telescópica,
desde sus ojos la tierra se disuelve entre los odios,
caminarás llevando en la frente una bala inscrustada
¿Qué pasa?
Es el mismo dolor transparente atravezando las
amuralladas almenas de las esperanzas anidadas
en el corazón valiente de los que empuñando
las banderas envueltas en la sangre decimos
¡basta! ¡basta! ¡basta! ¡basta!
Desde los pies de la montaña negra las balas
llenas de odio callaron seis corazones
fueron seis palomas que podrían haber tejido
con los palillos del tiempo la seda qu hubiese
envuelto las heridas de los caidos en la guerra,
los ojos entristecidos de nuestro pueblo ven
caer una vez más las torres de carne y sueños,
mientras los helados corazones de la jauría
aplauden en los resquicios frígidos de la noche.
(El nombre de Tucson viene de la lengua O'odham,
el nombre de O'odham para la ciudad, es Chuk Shon,
que significa "primavera en la base de la montaña negro".
El "cerro negro" se refiere a la cumbre de lo que hoy se
conoce como centinela de pico, o "A Mountain",
justo al oeste del centro de la ciudad de Tucson. )
I see the pigeons ... in Tucson.
I see the birds covered by the telescopic sight, from his eyes the land is dissolves in hatred, you walk wearing in the forehead a bullet inlays what up? Is the same transparent pain going through the fortify walled of the nested hopes in the brave heart of those that grasp the flags wrapped in blood we say enough! Enough! Enough! Enough! From the foot of Black Mountain the bullets full with hate silence six hearts were six pigeons that may have weave with the long sticks of time the silk that had wrapped the wounds of the fallen in war the sad eyes of our people see once again fall the towers of flesh and dreams, meanwhile the ice hearts of the pack applaud in the frigid crack of the night.
Among the differences of the hanging figures in the abandoned room finally I elucidate these truths hidden in the projection of shadows. One day I was able to find the symbols with which the door dodge the attempts to open it.... hide the mysteries drawn within its walls, of painful truths omens of a distant tomorrow requesting pardons rinsed between baptismal fonts and bloody swords. Among the differences that expound the certainties of the opening the pain of the land, of a slap in the face, of the scurrilous insult fill of hateful fed at the time of death, of the rails embedded in the body dropped from the air to our calm sea that bathe you . Among the differences in the figures that come down, slowly let leak exclamations of surprise, as it passes between the air and nothingness remember the horrors of endless nights, lost in the madness of insanity.
entre sus brazos el silencio de la muerte, dejando
a mi pueblo triturado en un grito inmenso de agonia
depositando en los dedos necesitados las migajas,
muchos te señalan acusándote de los males
te vuelven a perseguir entre las sombras del mar
con uniformes camuflados en la desverguenza.
Sola, tu sangre mancha los escombros esparcidos
y la bandera húmeda en los sudores de los miedos
ondea esperando la organización de su pueblo,
mientras, las maderas apiladas anuncian la venida
de fogatas marcando los socavones por donde
lentamente la vida se escapa entre gritos desesperados,
entretanto el mar con inmensos manotazos arrebataba
los hogares, los amores, las esperanzas, los sueños.
Todos han cogido tu mano herida para sanarla
con el pálpito de millones de corazones que anonadados,
y ojos estupefactos se preguntan hasta cuando tu largo
cuerpo moldeado entre la montaña y el mar debe
sufrir los horrores de nuevos desaparecidos que
caminarán las calles vacias señalando las mentiras.
The wounds of Chile.
Only the pain drag between the divestment of a land ravaged by the powerful machinery of earth’ crust waking up the granite with his powerful and sleepy throat, bringing in his arms the silence of death, leaving my people crushed in a huge cry of agony depositing on the in need fingers the crumbs, many point out accusing you of the malaise they turn to chase you among the shadows of the sea in camouflage in shamelessness. Alone, your blood stain the scattered debris and the wet flag sweats in the fears waves hoping the organization of its people, while, the wood stacked announce the coming of bonfire marking the hollows through which life slowly escapes among desperate cries, Meanwhile the sea with huge slap snatched households, the loves, hopes, dreams. All have taken your wound hand to heal with the throb of million of hearts overwhelmed, and astonished eyes to wonder until when your long molded body between the mountains and the sea must suffer the horrors of new missing persons that will walk the empty streets pointing out the lies.
Patria mia, tierra de sueños y de esperanzas engarzadas entre el océano y la cordillera, una vez más tu fuerza y templanza es puesta a prueba, esta vez la naturaleza te quiere ver postrada en tus rodillas. Pero, lo único que vera serán lágrimas por el dolor de los seres muertos, y la desesperación por la destrucción, pero que el tiempo se encargará que se transformen en esa luz de fuerza que cada uno de sus habitantes lleva encendido en el corazón.
No es la primera ni la útima vez que tu pueblo ha de sufrir los designios del dolor, en este caso de la naturaleza y en otras, dolores producidas por otras fuerza ajenas a la idiosincracia de su pueblo. lo único que te puedo decir desde la distancia que vencerás esta contingencia para sacar adelante toda tu imaginación creativa de la cual siempre has sido señera.
Chile
Motherland, land of dreams and hopes, strung between the ocean and the mountains, once again your strength and temperance is tested, this time the nature wants to see you on your knees. But the only thing that will see will be tears from the pain of dead, and despair over the destruction, but that time will be transformed in the light of strength that each of its inhabitants has been turn on in their heart. It is not the first nor do the latter that your people suffer the designs of pain, in this case from nature, but in another circumstance pains caused by other forces outside the idiosyncrasy of its people. The only thing I can tell from afar that you will win to take forward all of your creative imagination which has always been your landmark.
Weichafe Jaime Mendoza Collio
I did not know About you,
until a bullet, swift,
clatter
cut
yours eyes looking at others eyes,
were the eyes of your child,
maybe yours,
or mines detached
to the pain
of an earth stained
in sob,
I do not why
I said you these things,
is because
the heart is and able to put up with,
the soil is dry,
the snake encircle your waist,
their wings will cover
and in cry for relief
you will stay with us,
our time and space
will met
in your transcendence
you are the mighty condor
riding our hopes.
Thepeople who produce it as notable,
so gorgeous, gallant and bellicose,
that no king has ever been governed,
"La Araucana" Ercilla and Alonso Zuñiga
from distant lands I’m witness
of the horror created for some that forgot the history,
the outraging of the Araucania
bringing the insanity on their backs,
sowing death, imprisonment,
trampling on despair,
ravage homes, delivering
the feudal lords of lies full.
The Araucanian state used
to make laws, to order and be feared,
seeing of their throne demolished,
Forgetting the mercy things
of land, yanaconas phalanges
with the stutter of weapons
silenced the clamor of a people
drowned by the dispossession.
and mortal men oppressed;
freedom to acquire certain
failing grant-suffering
From the distant many look
with imprudence how land
is covered with blood and gunpowder
that becomes lethal clouds
resting between the eyes
of the little ones that wonder
when they see the fallacies and deceit.
comes to the exercise of the sword
idle for peace and unusual.
from the palace of the Pharisees
sold my people to the highest bidder,
sending emissaries to the death
dresses with names of the worst
to poison the path of life
must give the clear answer
a simple song of solidarity.
Chile, fertile province, and outstanding
famous in the Antarctic region,
from remote nations of respected
From the dark shadows depart
the murderers of yesterday and today
executioners and commands with
frock coat drawing of the brothers,
think in the terrified
brother who decant the illusion
to receive the embrace of solidarity
that will protect the daring
gravediggers of lies.
by strong primary and powerful
people who produce is so notable,
o gorgeous, gallant and bellicose ....
From the depths of the bowels a beast opens its decomposed fauces hateful, revives the pain, do not let rest the hearts frozen by the cold of the ill will, From his mouth comes to spreading the stinking smell of lies, tries to revive the slow cadence of death in hours endless in their dens of torture this malign thing do not want staunch the blood that flows from the hearts of mothers, daughters, they want to shoot again those who shot a hundred times, they want to launch from the immense blue space bodies mutilated, it's time to leave them alone, they are our skin sealed in the song of hopes, their names will carve the trails of all dreams.
Among the cries and shelling some birds were able to uplift their flight bringing between their peak the metal flavor from the blood spilled, insects wake up with the roar of the voracious war machines, sowing the embrace terror of death leaving on the horizon only the lethal pain of the cries, the messages bathed in the heartbreak traveled the world dauntless without surprises in the eyes just to say Why? Why? Why? Birds of extermination cut the air with his onomatopoeia crime leaving its shadow projected in the eyes confused of the children, while on the floor, the dust still alive from the ruins cloud tears of these mothers beaten for the scythe that calm killed biased the neck of the children. Among the cries and shelling I tried to decipher perverse evil that dialogue among screens, black robes, and mature spirits in the agonies of the ideas.
otra vez nuestra tierra escucha el galope de la muerte esa que golpea artera esa que se revuelca con los vendedores de la patria, esa que asolapada culebrea entre niños y mujeres.
El Tahuantinsuyo siente el olor a nuevas sangres derramadas, sangre vertida en la traición, el aguila sagaz trata de proyectar su sombra volátil, mortífera, asquerosa en los valles y terrazas.
Una vez más debemos llorar a esos inocentes que en su majestuosidad decidieron decir ¡basta! pero el asesino artero que en su mira los puso feliz apretó el percutor de su arma asesina. ¿me pregunto? no podemos recrear nuestra historia con la suma de los sueños, y la exuberancia de nuestra geografía dadivosa en su abundancia.
Otra vez nuestra tierra escucha el galope de la muerte en las anca de la bestia, desintegrando los surcos de labranza, el mapa de los regadios y nuestra piel dibujada en los umbrales de los templos.
1 Se llevaron a los muertos quizás donde, arrastrados inmunementes, los entregaron a las montañas, otros lo ocultaron en la seda rasgada del mar.
2 Se llevaron a los muertos quizás donde, a muchos los encerraron en vetustos escritorios desde donde claman con sus gritos ahogados a una justicia ahorcada entre sables y medianoche.
3 Se llevaron a los muertos quizaás donde, los que hacen el trabajo sucio los llevan clavados en sus pechos, y de cuando en cuando un ahogo les nubla el corazón.
4 Se llevaron a los muertos quizás donde, a lo insondable de los árboles, los enterraron en los capullos del copihue los llevaron a los hornos simples del pan.
5 Se llevaron a los muertos quizás donde, los enterraron en las murallas los ahogaron en orines, los abrieron con sutiles bayonetas.
6 Se llevaron a los muertos quizás donde, los hicieron desaparecer en las gotas de los primeros rocios, desaparecieron con bandos escritos sobre pieles nauseabundas.
7 Se llevaron a los muertos quizás donde, los cubrieron con la impudicia, la mentira disfrazada con la esperanza de acallar la pasión y el amor a la vida queriendo cubrir el sol con lamentos y desaparecidos.
8 Se llevaron a los muertos quizás donde, a los oscuros socavones desde donde la muerte vestida de nereida los recoge y los lleva quizás donde.
