Tras haber creado mi anterior blog cecilmundo varias personas, muchos de ellos mis alumnos, me sugirieron que creara una secciòn dentro de cecilmundo para publicar mis obras de docencia de idiomas. Dado que la cantidad de documentos de explicaciones, ejercicios y exàmenes de inglès son muy numerosos porque tengo màs de 30 años del ejercicio de la docencia, preferì estrenar blog con mis alumnos a como ellos realmente merecen. En este blog planetcecil no solo iràn mis documentos didàcticos de inglès, sino tambièn la producciòn literaria de varios alumnos que se destacan en las letras. Tambièn darè oportunidad a aquellos que tienen excelentes obras pero que no han logrado publicarlas ya que en mi paìs Nicaragua todo se mueve por la marrana polìtica, y si una no pertenece a determinado partido no verà jamàs publicado su opus. Tambièn tenemos la desgracia de contar con seudoeditores quienes al no conocer verdaderamente de literatura se convierten en mercenarios de la imprenta solo para llenarse ellos mismo de dinero y fama a costillas de los escritores. Todos aquellos que deseen participar en este blog, denlo de antemano por suyo. Aunque lleve mi nombre en un arranque de egolatrìa, yo soy sencillamente vuestra servidora.Cecilia

Las alas de la educación

Las alas de la educación
La educación es un viaje sin final.

La lección de física

La lección de física
Casi aprendida

jueves, 24 de enero de 2008

Poesìa dariana



For René Pérez

Bliss for the tree that is barely sensitive,
And more for hard stone for it no longer feels,
for there is no greater pain than the ache of being alive,
Nor greater gloom than in conscious life.

To be, and to know nothing, and to be without a certain path aled,
And fear of having been and a future terror
And the sure fright of being tomorrow dead,
And to suffer for life and for shadow and for

What we know not and barely suspect,
And flesh that tempts with its fresh bouquet
And the tomb that awaits with its funereal branch aglow
And not to know where we go,
Nor where we come from!


Margarita, behold the beauteous sea,
The wind
Brings orange blossom´s scent,
I feel
In my soul a lark singing
Your accent.
Margarita I am going to tell
You a tale.

This was a king who had
A palace made of diamonds,
a tent of sunlight made
and a herd of elephants,
a kiosk of malachite true,
a great veil made of tissue,
and a gentle little princess,
as pretty,
Margarita, as pretty as you.

One afternoon the princess
Saw a star appear,
The princess was mischievous
And she wanted to bring it here.

She wanted it to make
A stickpin decorate,
With a verse and a pearl,
with a feather and a flower.

Alluring princesses as I know
All are just like you,
they pluck lilies, they pluck roses.
They pluck stars, they are just so.

So the beautiful girl went afar
Under heavens and o´er the sea,
To pluck the white star
Which caused her sigh to be.

And up her path she followed
O´er the moon and so beyond,
But the bad thing was that she had
No permission from her dad.

When she came back down
And onto the Lord´s parks fore,
She looked all wrapped in a haze
Of the sweetest splendor.

And the king thus inquired,”Where were you?
I have sought for you and found you not, no!.
And what do you have upon your bosom
That it so bright looks so!”

The princess never lied
And hence she told the truth,
“I went to pluck this star of mine
From the huge blue sky.”

Now the king booms,”Have not I
Told you that the blue sky can´t be touched?
What a lunacy! What a whim!
The Lord will be annoyed at such!”

And she replied,”There was no try,
I went ahead I know not why,
O´er the waves and in the wind
I went to the star and plucked it.”

And father angrily says,
“Your punishment must you have,
Go to heaven and what was stolen away
You must give back at once.”

The princess grows sad
Over her sweet flower of light,
When at once appears
Good Jesus smiling alight.

And He says,” From my meadows
This rose I offered her , you see,
These are flowers for the little girls
Who when dreaming think of me.”

The king dresses up in bright attire.
And then he parades around
400 elephants
Along the seashore round.

The princess looks beautiful,
For she has her brooch with her
In which are together, along the star,
A verse, a pearl and a blossom.

Margarita, behold the beauteous sea,
And the wind
Brings orange blossoms´ scent:
Your accent.

Since so far from me
You are going to be,
Keep, my child, a gentle thought
For that one who one day
Wished to tell you a tale.


´Tis with voice from the Bible, or verse by Walt Whitman,
That I shall come to you, Hunter!
Primitive and modern, simple and complicated,
With a bit of Washington and four of Nimrod!

You are the United States,
You are the future invader
Of the naïve America that has indigenous blood,
Who still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks Spanish.

You are an overbearing and strong sample from your race,
You are well-read, you are able, you oppose Tolstoy.
And breaking horses o slaughtering tigers,
You are an Alexander Nebuchadnezzar.
(You are an energy professor,
As the current lunatics say).

You believe that life is a fire,
And that progress is an eruption.
Where you put the bullet
The future shall be put.


The United States is powerful and great,
When it shakes there is a deep tremor
Running down the enormous vertebrae of the Andes.
If you holler, a lion´s roar is heard.

Thus Hugo said to Grant.”Stars are yours,”
(Barely does it shine, rising the Argentine sun
and the Chilean star climbs) You are rich.
You gather the cult to Hercules along Mammon´s cult,
Shining along the path of easy conquest,
Liberty raises its torch in New York.

But our America, who had poets since
The old times of Netzahualcoyotl,
The same that has guarded the footprints of great Bacchus´feet
Who once upon a time had learned the great alphabet of Pan,
Who consulted the stars, who knew Atlantis,
Whose name resounds through Plato,
Who from the remotest moments of her life
Lives on light, on fire, on perfume, on love,
The America of the great Moctezuma, of the Inca,
The fragrant America of Christopher Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
The America in which the noble Cuahtemoc said,
“I am not in a bed of roses”, that America
That trembles of hurricanes and lives on Love.
Men of Saxon eyes and barbaric soul, lives.
And dreams. And loves, and vibrates, and she is the daughter of the Sun.
Beware! The Spanish America lives!
There are one thousand cubs roaming free from the Spanish Lion.
It would be necessary, Roosevelt, to be by God himself,
The Terrible Gunman and strong Hunter ,
In order to be able to have us in your iron talons.

And, you have everything going for you, except one thing you lack: God.


For Enrique Hernández Mayorga

T´was a formidable feat seen by the old race,
A robust tree trunk on the shoulder of a champion
As savage and valiant, whose burly mace
Could defeat the arm of Hercules, or the arm of Samson.

For helmet his hair, for shield only his chest,
Could such a warrior, from the Arauco region,
Lancer of the woods, Nimrod that hunts for best,
Tear apart a bull or strangle a mighty lion.

He walked and walked and walked. He was seen by daylight,
Was gazed upon by pale afternoon, and sighted by the cold night,
And still the tree trunk was carried by the titan.

“The Toqui! The Toqui!” cheers the exhilarated caste.
He walked, walked and walked. The Dawn said ,”Stop!” in haste,
And so rose up the high brow of the great Caupolicán.

1 comentario:

Marcelo Novaes dijo...

Olá, Cecília!

Gostas de gatos..., e eles se fazem presentes em meu blog ( para isso vc precisa ir às primeiras postagens).

Parabéns pelo seu trabalho de docência e incentivo aos alunos.