Yareah Issue 1. Yareah número 1

YAREAH MAGAZINE YEAR I ISSUE I AÑO I NÚMERO I

LOST WORDS PALABRAS PERDIDAS

E N G L I S H / E S PA Ñ O L

LITERATURE /LITERATURA

“Macs” terry

bisson

“El Comienzo de los tiempos” José María ortega

Lost Paradises/Paraísos Perdidods silvia cuevas Mostacero

José María ortega sanz

“Guía del Cementerio” Delfina acosta

“A New Ballad of the Man from Snowy River”

Mark o’connor

Delfina acosta

“El Rapto de Europa” Entrevista: Paula Yestera isabel Del rio A R T S / A R T E Magic Gardens: “Bomarzo”

R E V I E W S / C r i t i c aFiabilidad “Bomarzo” Martin ciD

roberto PiPerno

Melussia

noa Martín

myths/Mitos

PICTURES by j. nolan AND G. LABUDDA

John Nolan Rapunzel. 24x24. Acrylic on streched canvas

SUMMARY YAREAH MAGAZINE SUMARIO

LITERATURE LITERATURA A New Ballad Of The Man From Snow River

By Mark O’Connor Guía del Cementerio Romance del Pombero Por Delfina Acosta

Lost Paradises / Paraísos Perdidos: Madrid-Magerit Por Silvia Cuevas Mostacero El Comienzo de los Tiempos Por José María Ortega Sanz

arte

Rubens and “The Rape of Europe”

By Isabel del Río

forget.

Artists of the Month When I was writing my always unfinished novel called exactly like John Nolan Gabriela Labudda this magazine that now is beeing

born, I was thinking of those moons that we imagined tomorrow, those invisible moons that are Little Great Museums / Pewhispering us like silent ghosts… queños Grandes MuseosWe must remember that the word “Yareah” means Moon in Hebrew, I have forgotten it today. We would like to imagine Magic Gardens: Bomarzomoons and ghosts, meanings and beasts and, finally, lost

By Roberto Piperno words. We offer this magazine to dreamers, to the vanished fairies, to those delight phantoms we want to remember.

We hope you would like to dream with us.

One thousand moons with one thousand gods are waiting for us.

Yareah es ese viejo y nuevo sueño que olvidamos.

Mientras escribía esa eternamente inconclusa noThe Myth of Melusia vela llamada como la revista que ahora nace, pensaba en esas

By Thomas Keightley lunas que imaginamos mañana, en esas lunas invisibles que nos susurran como fantasmas dormidos.

Myths and Maths/Mitos yRecordemos que la palabra “Yareah” significa Luna en hebreo… creo que fue hoy mismo cuando lo olvidé. QuereMates mos imaginar lunas y fantasmas y significados y bestias y Por Noa Martín palabras perdidas. Ofrecemos esta publicación a los soñadores, a las etéreas hadas y a aquellos deliciosos espectros que tanto y tanto nos afanamos en recordar.

REVIEWS Esperamos que queráis soñar con nosotros.

Criticas Mil lunas y mil dioses nos esperan.

Bomarzo Por Martin Cid Moras y Cristianas Reconocer lo que es Visión Mágica

Entrevista: Paula Yesteros

A

Yareah is the old and new dream that we will

MYTHS AND LEGENDS MITOS Y LEYENDAS

Macs

By Terry Bisson

arts

THE EDITOR NOTE

The Yareah Magazine / Reviista Yareah

ll of the works included in the Yareah Magazine are propiety by the respective authors. Do not redistribute any of them without the permission of their respective owners.

The Yareah Magazine.

Todos los textos y sus respectivos derechos son propiedad de los autores. No redistribuir sin el consentimiento de los mismos.

La Revista Yareah.

YAREAH MAGAZINE 1

ISIS Y OSIRIS (I)

Osiris was a good and clever god who went down to Egypt to educate people in cultivating plants and trees.

He had the most beautiful wife, Isis “the magician”, and a brave son called Horus “the falcon”. So, he was living happily while taking care of his subjects.

But Osiris had a jealous and cruel brother too: Seth, King of Ethiopia, who is always represented as a furious jackal.

Osiris era un dios inteligente y bondadoso que bajó a la tierra de Egipto para enseñar a sus habitantes el cultivo de plantas y árboles.

Tenía la más bella de las esposas, Isis “la maga”, y un valiente hijo llamado Horus “el halcón”: podía vivir feliz mientras cuidaba de sus súbditos.

Sin embargo, Osiris tenía también un hermano celoso y cruel, Seth, rey de Etiopía, a quien siempre se ha representado con la forma de un chacal furioso.

YAREAH MAGAZINE

Lite rature/Literatur a

A New Ballad of the Man From Snowy River

By Mark O’Connor

I

t was hard times in the mountains, it was heartbreak on the plains Where folk were losing courage from ten years without good rains.

The land was dark with dying beasts, in one great western arc, Converging on the mountains' grass, as if on Noah's ark.

Old Harrison had highland grass, yet horse-flesh kept him poor — Lost a paddock at the races, and bounced back to lose three more; To him a steed was seething power, to be owned with fear and pride, And held love and joy and panic in the rhythm of its ride.

His Dad had murmured "Pardon", then his last word was "Regret" — His mind was on the highlands tribe and his own unpaid debt: How he promised blankets, horses to the last 'Ngarigo Then brought in guns and cattle, and suggested they should go.

The son who'd never heard his father speak of such remorse Assumed his theme was racing, and went out and bought a horse.

The Colt named Hope was mad for freedom, true son of old Regret, The cracks had vowed to break him, but he wasn't saddled yet, For horse sense is a funny thing, and it's been often said, The hardest thing's to get a thought out of a horse's head.

Some swore Hope had an inkling, that he dreaded as his life: Of a cold curving piece of steel they call a gelding knife; He'd seen the bawling bull-calf's veins get staunched with hissing steel, And it may have crossed his fancy that he might dislike the feel.

So he jumped the stockyard railing, in a mood of die or bust And vanished — to their horror — in a cloud of drumming dust.

Harrison fumed, "He's worth a thousand; well I'll give a hundred pound To the man who gets him haltered, and back alive and sound!

And with all the damned new stock that's pushing up here for the drought, I'll cheer if some bright bastard shoots the other brumbies out."

Soon a letter came, much quoted, it was Clancy's thumb that wrote it, (And in mansions and in stables some tut-tutted and some gloated) "I've brought my stock down here half dead, on spec from McIlroy; Can't leave my poor beasts starving to go chase a rich man's toy.

In three months send a bag of oats and I'll ride night and day I've half a dozen children, and very little pay."

A second script dropped in the mail-tin one week later and it said: "Am coming over anyway, since my last beast is dead."

The brumbies' leader was "The King", one who knew no laws, In horses (as in men, some say) it comes down to sperm wars; And sometimes of an evening you could hear the sickening smack Of the King's heels shoving in some brave colt's ribs and back.

He was a moonlight mare-thief that no stockman's art could pen; His black mane sparked like Furies, he was perilous for men.

Such power and such wildness neighed from eerie heights above; It was something to call out a girl's first silver-brumby love.

"Riders will come," said Harrison. "They'll be queuing at our gate; Great sportsmen need great quarry, the colt's a perfect bait; The land below is overtamed. Who's proud of catching roos?

A rogue stallion, a wild mustang's the best a man can choose — Besides, the way the drought is, it's got to cross their brains To catch the colt from old Regret may bring more cash than rains."

They came from Bright and Beauty, Tubbut Station and Turnback, From the Pinch and Suggan Buggan to the Bally Hooley Track; From Tuckerbox and Toombullup, the Great and Little Popong, And Hinnomunjie, Mellick Mungie, Toolong and Corryong; And trotting in from Tingi Ringi, Tidbinbilla, and Mibost (Stray syllables of fading tongues, and meanings almost lost) From Avalon and Bete Bolong, and Tambo, Deddick, Dargo,

YAREAH MAGAZINE

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Mark O'Connor (b. 1945) is one of Australia's handful of professional poets.

He regularly steals time from poetry for environmental activism. In 2000 he was funded by the Australia Council to write poetry about the Olympic Games..

He has published 16 books of verse, and is Mark O’Connor the editor of Oxford http://www.australianpoet.com/about.html University Press's Two Centuries of Australian Poetry. He was the Australian National University's H C Coombs Fellow in 1999, and thereafter a Visiting Scholar in Archaeology and Natural History. His verse play "Planting the Dunk Botanic Gardens" was performed last year at the 2007 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. He has also published books on environment and on literary criticism.

Mark O'Connor (1945) froma parte de ese puñado de poetas profesionales autralianos. Robando tiempo a la poesía, en el año 2000 es miembro fundador del Consejo Australiano de poetas de los Juegos Olímpicos (http://www.thylazine.org/thyla12/thyla12k.html).

Ha publicado 16 libros en verso y es editor del libro de Oxford University Press Two Centuries of Australian Poetry (Dos Siglos de Poesía Australiana).

Su obra en verso "Planting the Dunk Botanic Gardens" ha sido representada en el año 2007 en el Edinburgh Fringe Festival (http://www.bigtoeproductions.com.au/).

También ha publicado libros sobre medio ambiente y crítica literaria.

From Jagumba and Jagungal, Star of Hope and Mt Wombargo; From Crooked River, Copracambra, Cuppacumbalong, Gooroo, Grabbengullen and the Quidong, Swindlers Creek and Tongaroo; From Dederang and Dinner Plain, Byadbo, Maramingo; Wonnangatta, Wanniassa, and a dozen Creeks named Dingo; From Tanjil, Tilba, Tara, Bendoc, Brodribb, and Ensay, From Biddi, Bulga, Bull Town, Yass, and Merrijig and Yea; From Budgeree and Boolarong and Goomirk came an army, From Jeeralang, and Yarram, and Yan Yean and Upper Yalmy; From Wonyip, Bemm, and Bogong, Botheram and Monkey Bear, Mounts Buggery, Cope, Useful, Mugga Mugga and Despair; From Bacchus Marsh, Burrungubugge, Paddys Creek and Jackys Pass, And Talbingo, Towong, Matong, Tumut, Tonghi and Tear-Arse; And from Numbla Vale and Numbla Creek, Cooney and Coonhoonbula, And Haunted Stream and Hairy Man, and half way to Dimboola.

There were Macnamaras, Pendergasts, and Barrys and O'Rourkes, A Woodhouse and some Sheahans whose address was "Snowy Forks"; There were cracks like Owen Cummins, and the odd brave stableboy,

YAREAH MAGAZINE

Lite rature/Literatur a

A New Ballad of the Man From Snowy River

By Mark O’Connor

And Spencer, Clarke and Cochrane, and Jack Riley and Jim Troy; A Faithful and some Treasures, Haines and Crookes of Holey Plains And Crisps and Wroes and Roses from Euroa to Cobains.

They brought "Hemlock," high-strung "Horehound," and "Candlebark" beside, And "Goanna" who could wriggle up the steepest mountainside.

They'd a code — if it was patchy, they observed it in the main — Some would say as old as Adam and some bits as old as Cain.

"Horse-shooting's vile," cried Hanrahan, "Catch 'em alive's the game; You've got to war against this land, and love the thing you tame."

John the Turk heard him and laughed — he felt so much the same.

They poured in, bits a-jingling, stirrups clashed on railing logs, Whips were cracking, harness creaking, tribal cries of men and dogs; No oilskins for the stockmen, and for some a hessian sack Was all that kept the sleety hail from running down their back.

There was old McKell from Pambula, his young boy "Premier" Bill Who fought a war within a war to keep the peaks wild still; And John the Turk from Googong who rode 18 stone, with skill — A madman who while galloping at full stretch used to fling Himself from off his saddle to the brumby's neck and cling; And Cross-eye Jack from Crackenbak, who now seemed bent and old — He had dug up half a mountain to pan half an ounce of gold; Old Jackson and his saddle-boy whom gossips called his wife, Though wiser heads would mutter something gently about "life"; And Billy Cobyam, the full-blood, tall and lean as a roo hound, And when he rode, the jesters crowed, his feet trailed on the ground; He knew the things blackfellows lost, and white folks hadn't found, Like the "Stone Bridge" near Williams where the Snowy's underground; And Pat and Rob from Campbells Knob who blushed when others peered And whose chins beneath Akubras seemed fairly free of beard; And Red-Rag Tom from Cardiff, who wed a local, full-blood too — Something his grandsons to this day assure you is untrue.

"Who's left to join tomorrow's ride, come fight the brumby plague?"

"Just me — the man from Snowy River," piped Jim Craig, "I've rode for days after this prize ... I mean, to join the race."

He had his pride, but hunger's pinch was carved along his face.

"You got permission, Jim?" "Dad's dead, I try to run the mine ..."

"No use to tell the story, son. Mount up, and join the line."

"So, you're a Man from Snowy River?", Ferret Curl began a "mock", "Your pony looks three-cornered; five bob says he's a crock.

But then I've never seen a mountain horse that wasn't mainly cur, With matted mane and brumby feet and vermin in the fur.

The mares there breed too early, like the stockmen's womenfolk — Leaves them weedy, pallid creatures, all egg-white and no yolk; And who comes from Snowy river? It's a gorge without a track.

A torrent hurtling through a cleft or squirting from a crack."

Clancy drawled, "That creek's a brumby, it hides out in the hills, And if you go to trace it, Curl, you'll have some spills and chills, And need a boat, or ride a goat or yes, a mountain-horse — One light as his might suit you — if you carried it of course.

The land down there stands on its end, any nag from there is tough; And the lad or horse that holds his own can pass as good enough."

Cold dawn, hoof-crack on frosted mud, about a house so grand It had an ornamental gumtree — one the architect had planned.

The squatters' wives at shutters of their palace, prison, school, Were asking what can turn a man to such a horse-mad fool; And their daughters peeped and giggled at the tattered-trousered men And wished them on some Miss they knew back at "the boarding pen";

Gabriela Labudda Árbol Whispering how the stockmen's kids lived shivering in some shack On wages of four pounds a month, bulk rabbits and hard tack: "No underwear, no nothing, Heralds plastered on the wall, And mostly pasted wrong-way-up, 'cause they can't read at all."

But wild-willed Jessie ventured out, the squatter's spunky daughter With a squint that sort of hinted things dear daughters shouldn't oughter.

Did Jim leave her by the stockyard rail, alone to learn that song Of the hooves that sound so loud at first and then are gone so long?

Was she feverish and fervid, all pubertical intense?

Would she wed a sweaty stockman? Come now, show some sense!

And the sun came up like gunfire on a perfect mountain day; The cracks all scrubbed and saddled, champing for the fray.

"A bold peasantry," beamed Harrison at large, "their country's pride ..." " — Chased overseas," snapped Red Rag Tom, "have learned to shoot and ride."

And the gang-gangs clanged their clarion, as if to split the land, The cock crowed and the crow cawed, the light flowed, it was grand; And the riders rode out cheering; hooves flashing, long manes flying, They pounded past the humpies where a native "Duke" lay dying; They smashed through slopes of mint bush, where every broken leaf Released some mighty fragrance — it was half beyond belief How that humble herb-plant could possess the mountain air As sometimes a trace of gumleaf makes bush tea beyond compare.

Each rider's breath like private fog; dawn's slant light showing bold Each buttercup or boulder — like God's work in gold.

Their horses rose through endless groves of box and cypress-pine, Climbed frozen creeks to frosted heaths where sallees hold the line.

Up where fox-scats stud the byways with their freeze-dried scale and fur The cawing soaring ravens spoke of thoughts most folks defer; The slope was like a house-wall, and they walked up it like flies, Sneaking round behind the mob in hopes of a surprise; Vast flowerbeds that elsewhere would denote a stately home

YAREAH MAGAZINE

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Lite rature/Literatur a A New Ballad of the Man From Snowy River

By Mark O’Connor

Soon lay vibrantly before them, untended and unsown — Day lilies, gentian violets, eye-brights of deep-sea blue, Though there wasn't too much colour once the troops had trotted through.

At mid-morning out to a plain of plum-pine shrubs they broke, The last one dropped some matches, and the years went up in smoke.

(And that night from pigmy possums you might have heard the wails As fox and wildcat picked them off, defenceless as stunned quails.)

But the black horse from his look-out by a mighty pile of dung Had seen the circling horsemen long before their trap was sprung, He'd caught the hint of hoofbeats and the odd unwary shout And knew his lungs or theirs would crack before the day was out; So the stallion gave the "raspberry", turned with flying mane and tail, And just before the fire was lit had picked an upward trail; Then he stayed behind his hareem as he got them mountain-bound Bunching up so close you could have flung a net around.

Jim Craig cantered quietly and let Andy pick his stride, As the King fled ever higher, up towards Kosciusko's side; And to men who tried to stay with him the rhythm seemed as fine As if man and horse were grafted, calf to flank and arse to spine, They would tighten stride or loosen, leaping just as high as need, Picking shorter ways and swifter than the lead-mare dared to lead; Some whacked their hooves in hurdling, or got "yarded" among crags But the Man just kept on coming, with a hundred zigs and jags — Out-guessing and short-cutting, and arriving up ahead Of all but Curl and Clancy, where the brumbies had just fled.

At noon they raced beside the Snowy like a tribe of upland gods And their hooves flung up the divots till the air was raining clods, And the wildlife gazed in wonder as the sod was smashed asunder, And to distant Tumbarumba came the music and the thunder As they edged the wild ones sideways, out towards the Great Divide, Till they squeezed them West of Twynam, tried to pin them back beside The deathly drop at Watson's Crags, and get them roped and tied; Then as Clancy spurred to head them, they must pass him or succumb And the hillslope seemed to rumble like a giant muffled drum; The King came straight at the riders — some were glad to let him through; As he rose up on his hind legs like a monstrous fighting roo The Ferret cried, "Give way, back off, you'll never hold him here," — The main force of the riders was still furlongs to the rear.

The King's high-lashing foreleg caught Clancy's ribs a whack, Half daunting the tough skilful man who fought to hold him back.

And he was through — but wheeled and wounded Ferret neck and thigh As the mob poured round and past them, up towards the mountain sky.

Yet that last attack had trapped him, as the men came up apace, And boxed him back against the drop, with scarcely rearing space.

He gave the "death neigh" then, and while Clancy was drawing breath Like a defeated Rajput warrior the King had leapt to death — As if racing for his freedom, while his legs still seemed to go, Then he splattered, and his blood splashed on the boulders far below.

And Clancy damned the late arrivers; the terms he found were terse And even now, most probably, unusable in verse Yet it was grand to hear that outback horseman curse.

Then he spurred off up the cliffside where the mares had got away And, Hurrah!, the colt was with them, hanging on behind the play.

— Enter the Man from Snowy, who'd come round the other way!

No one man could have stopped them, but he slowed and steered their flight,

YAREAH MAGAZINE

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John Nolan Jazz Process 3. 200820x20.

Back towards the cliff-edge when ... What happened to the light?

The mountain mist, which Blacks had thought the souls of bygone men, Came closing in, with swirls of rain, relented, then again Dissolved precipice and fugitives in one thick milky white While the cracks chased far-off hoofbeats through a luminescent night.

And when the white-out lifted there were screams of "Stop!" and "Stand!", The few who'd come so far were trapped, out on a prow of land, While below them down a vast scree slope the brumby mob was stumbling To freedom and the Geehi, the Colt haunch-sliding, almost tumbling; Harrison bawled, "Dismount! He's lost! Gone down the Great Divide.

No force on earth can bring them back from on the other side; I don't want blood or widows! Hold the men back at the hill" — To plunge down there and live would take more luck than skill.

But Cross-eye Jack from Crackenbak had blindly spurred on down, Came off on a snowgum fork, and stuck, with a cracked crown — His horse in shock on three legs, with a front hoof dangling dead In agony until some man could lend an ounce of lead.

And as they stood distracted, up to the brink Craig swept And in that moment of pure madness and momentum down he leapt; He was young enough to think himself immortal, even so His insides knotted at the horror of the open air below.

That scree slope was a stone woodpile, steep and loose inside And could hold no weight beyond its own before it had to slide; Then it was landing, slipping, gathering, jumping, man and horse As they tried if they were equal to that monstrous log-strewn course; Like the old Kiandra skiers on their homemade fencing slats It was keep your feet or break a leg — till you reached the river flats.

And Craig's heartbeat mounted faster, louder, harder all the time As he thundered down the gully through the scent of crushed wild thyme With his stockwhip cracking double, like a poem in triple rhyme.

Now Jim Craig knew a hidden canyon on the Geehi Flats below

Lite rature/Literatur a A New Ballad of the Man From Snowy River

By Mark O’Connor

And guessed it was the refuge where the old lead-mare would go.

So he headed off directly, but his dream soon sank to doubt As the bush grew calm and lonely, distant hoof-beats faded out; And Andy trotted lamely, and heaved a desperate sigh; The Man's fierce spurs had savaged him, pink meat from hip to thigh.

But then an odd thing happened, that no one had thought to bet: You see, our famous runaway was full of fierce regret.

He'd found it hard in mountain gales to get his rightful ease, His "stable" shivering in sleet between two stunted trees.

He'd found the snowgrass wiry, and the pepper-bush quite fiery, And the paths around his billet much too slippery, iced and miry, He'd have gladly whinnied back to smell of hay and apple pips But that row of hooting devils, with their hissing cracking whips Made him flinch and flee before them, getting more and more upset — And such a race-horse without rider never lost a straight race yet.

But when the Man had halted in thick bush below the crags A gentle breeze stole onward, with oat-scent from saddle-bags.

Oh, a bewitching, a beguiling scent; drool-strings hung from the jaws Of a spoilt young thoroughbred, now three weeks out of doors; And with him were two ex-station mares who'd left the mob behind (The flanks of all were evidence the King was less than kind).

So Craig just slip-knotted his stockwhip, tossed the noose on Hope And led him unresisting — almost pushing — up the slope.

Harrison saw the mares emerging, their worn teeth and docile trot, Roared "Notch their ears and set 'em free. We can't use such rot."

(A waste, thought Jacques from Calais, who had eyed one for the pot).

But then his eyes grew wider, then he grinned a foolish grin, He kissed the Man, he kissed the Colt, all three had had a win — And all were now oblivious to a new distant din.

"Look boss, below!" — storms booming on the parched far plains with zest.

"It's rains!". "No, floods," said Craig, "The stock will turn back west."

They raised a ragged cheer, then stood, and watched, as the land renewed; Then took the long wet homeward trot, stonkered, and unsubdued.

Well the colt went up to Randwick, down to Mordialloc too, Won the Geldings Plate at Cargelligo, and once in far Barcoo ...

And the Man from Snowy River treated all comers down the pub, And you'll find his sons there to this day, or maybe at the Club.

And the Snowy, the great Snowy? — You might be ashamed to look; They went and chopped its head off, as if it was a chook.

And if you say you're "from the Snowy" no one thinks you mean downstream, Since the flow's been redirected for the Snowy Mountains Scheme; And to chart that hidden river? Since no boat can float its course, Where wheels and gears won't get you, it still takes a special horse.

John Nolan Magenta birds. 12x10. Acrylic on streched canvas

THEhttp://www.thevenetianmask.com VENETIAN MASK

Guia del cementerio

Lite rature/Literatur a

Por Delfina Acosta

Íbamos mis amigos y yo al cementerio, a menudo, durante la siesta.

En casa ya sabían que si estaba ausente, lo más seguro era que andaba de curiosidad por el camposanto, y se quedaban lo más tranquilos.

S

i pudiéramos profanar las tumbas, lo haríamos, pues se hallaba a gusto en nuestra naturaleza el hábito del saqueo.

El enojo de los gatos monteses, en vista de que crecimos apaleados, nos guardaba de la doctrina católica que se enseñaba cada domingo a los niños en la parroquia de la iglesia Virgen del Rosario. Éramos pues, diablos.

Pero los panteones estaban a salvo de nuestros propósitos. Las puertas eran no sólo de metal pesado; estaban además cubiertas por rejados de hierro y cortinas oscuras.

En el interior, los cajones oficiaban de tálamos, donde dormían los muertos, a los que deseábamos ver. ¿Quiénes eran ellos? ¿A qué cosas y costumbres se dedicaban cuando la salud los hacía conversar y reir animadamente? ¿Estaban, acaso, en paz?

- No han sido gentes muy amadas por sus parientes - comentaba yo.

- ¿Por qué dices eso ?- me preguntaba Felicita; siempre mostraba curiosidad, si no debilidad por mis preguntas, pues sospechaba que había en ellas mentiras que deseaba sacudir a la luz del sol.

- Pues está claro. ¿No te das cuenta? ¿No lo ves? - contestaba.

Entonces les recordaba a mis amigos que cuando había entierros, los parientes se desmayaban, se arrancaban mechones de cabellos, amenazaban con dispararse un tiro a la cabeza, bajaban a la fosa recién abierta mientras juraban contra Dios.

En cuántas lápidas preciosas en un tiempo y luego convertidas en nidos de comadrejas, los enlutados parientes habían hecho grabar inscripciones que inspiraban lágrimas de fuego: “¡Madre: No te olvidaremos nunca!”. “¡Amado esposo: Vivirás por siempre en el corazón de tu desconsolada esposa!”.

Les hacía pasear a mis amigos frente a esa literatura dramática escrita con letra gótica en las lápidas; yo era la guía de los sepulcros que hacía justicia a los olvidados.

YAREAH MAGAZINE

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“Pues bien. ¿Qué tenemos junto a estas tumbas sino costillas de gatos muertos, floreros vacíos y abandono...?” reflexionaba.

No hablaba en balde, por cierto.

Junto a la estatua de una mujer abandonada como un sauce al llanto, crecía en abundancia la hiedra, cual segunda cabellera de la obra artística.

Una caravana de hormigas entraba por un pequeño orificio de un tronco podrido y venía a salir por la parte trasera del panteón, donde crecían en abundancia los musgos blancos. ¡Qué espectáculo grosero!

La rama de una higuera golpeaba, cuando el viento empezaba a soplar, la fotografía enmarcada en bronce de una dama muy joven y bella.

- ¿Qué le hace ya a esta difunta su fotografía en la pared del panteón, y el marco precioso, y el lujo de su morada, si nadie la visita ni siquiera en el día de todos los muertos? - seguía razonando.

- Y eso, ¿cómo lo sabes? - quería saber Felicita.

- Pues basta con observar el estado de la construcción. Este sitio, a sola vista muestra que hace años nadie pone un pie aquí. Las paredes muestran los ladrillos. Cuando mueres te quedas solo. Tus parientes se divierten de lo más lindo sin ti. Ya no les molestas con tu respiración asmática.

Ya no les sobresaltas a la noche con la noticia de que la mierda viene en camino. Y si te descuidas no te recuerdan. Pero si se acuerdan de ti es para coincidir en que lo mejor que te pudo pasar es que hayas reventado - decía yo, satisfecha, y escupiendo, pues ésa era mi manera eficaz de poner fin a una oratoria.

Mis amigos me miraban felices. Aquella maldad que ellos tenían en algún lugar del pensamiento y que no sabían expresarla, salía muy bien pintada de mi boca.

Por lo demás, el escenario del cementerio se prestaba para conversaciones a propó-

Gabriela Labudda Paloma sito de olvidos y de un mundo infame.

Pero luego, cansada de mis maldades, me quedaba callaba. Era el tiempo de ellos. Y mientras les oía decir lo suyo, observaba cómo, lánguidamente, la siesta recorría los pasillos del cementerio. Y cómo los cuervos giraban alrededor de una vaca convertida en carroña, en la colina. Y cómo el viento movía el ramaje de los árboles del camposanto trayendo un ruido a alma que corre y se despeña...

romance del pombero L i t e r a t u r e / L i t e r a t u r a Biografía

DELFINA ACOSTA Nació en Asunción, pero su infancia y su juventud pertenecen a Villeta, donde cursó sus estudios primarios y secundarios.

Su primer poemario Todas las voces, mujer... obtuvo el Primer Premio ‘Amigos del Arte‘. En relación con este libro cabe mencionar que el mismo figura entre las obras más consultadas de la Biblioteca Virtual de Cervantes.

Integró durante mucho tiempo el Taller de Poesía "Manuel Ortiz Guerrero" y dio a conocer algunas obras poéticas en publicaciones colectivas del citado Taller.

Publicó el poemario La cruz del colibrí, que lleva prólogo de la poetisa Gladys Carmagnola.

Reunió sus cuentos que obtuvieron premios y menciones en concursos literarios en el libro El viaje.

Su obra Romancero de mi pueblo ganó el segundo premio ‘Federico García Lorca‘. Romancero de mi pueblo lleva prólogo del crítico y poeta Hugo Rodríguez-Alcalá.

Su último libro, que edita Portal de poesía, lleva el nombre de Querido mío: y es bestseller en Asunción, ha recibido el premio ‘Roque Gaona 2004‘.

Sus obras (cuentos y poesías ) están incluidas dentro de numerosas antologías nacionales y extranjeras.

Es columnista del diario ABC Color; hace comentarios literarios sobre los escritos de los poetas y narradores paraguayos en el Suplemento Cultural del mismo diario. Actualmente dirige el Taller de Poesía de la Universidad Iberoamericana.

El poemario Versos esenciales ( edición del autor ) de Delfina Acosta está dedicado a honrar íntegramente la memoria del poeta chileno Pablo Neruda.

Fue presentado al público paraguayo en 2001, en la embajada de Chile en Paraguay. Varios ejemplares del poemario se encuentran en exposición permanente en la casa museo Isla Negra. El PEN Club del Paraguay otorgó al libro el Primer Premio destacando su elevado vuelo lírico y su lenguaje universal.

Es poetisa, cuentista, y crítica literaria.

Actualmente hace reseñas sobre obras literarias nacionales y extranjeras para el diario ABC Color y dirige el Taller de Poesía de la Manzana de la Rivera. Su libro Todas las voces, mujer..., figura entre las obras más leídas del Portal de Cervantes (España).

Delfina Acosta agradece cualquier comentario sobre sus libros: delfina@abc.com.py

Por Delfina Acosta

Con cruz de hierro golpea catorce veces su pecho.

Las rosas le son esquivas, y toda la flor del huerto.

A media noche lamenta, girando sobre el pescuezo, su suerte con las estrellas, con los distantes luceros que ya querría obsequiar a Cándida Montenegro.

A sus aullidos se juntan ladridos de oscuros perros.

Los perros comen la carne. Él sólo lame los huesos.

La niña de su querer, que huele siempre a romero, ¿por qué de su sombra corre con susto de benteveo?

La niña de su querer, que lleva cinta en el pelo, será de un santo varón, de un señorito del pueblo. ¡Cómo son negras sus noches, cómo le queman los celos!

Redonda y roja la luna reluce en el cementerio.

ArribaAbajo Entre las sombras crujientes de nísperos y gomeros deambula, corre furtivo, su majestad, el pombero.

No hay santos que lo rediman, ni cruz que le dé sosiego.

El trasgo está enamorado de Cándida Montenegro.

Ella es mozuela morena con ojos que miran negros donde se empaña la luna y encuentran luz los espejos.

Quien la miró y no la amara no era cristiano del pueblo.

Al verla todos los santos, y San Antonio, el primero, piropos con sal le dicen, volviéndose zalameros.

Qué pena, qué soledad le roba el alma al pombero.

Si por amor se volviera señor, también caballero.

Cuando la luna está roja él llega hasta el cementerio; reniega allí de su sino.

Mejor estaría muerto.

ISIS Y OSIRIS (II) One day, the traitor jackal Seth invited his brother Osiris to his kingdom and gave him a gift: a marvelous ark of gold and precious stones.

-Come into, Osiris! You will fit perfectly inside it and you can rest there as you deserve.

But as son as Osiris entered into de ark, the traitor brother locked the lid and trapped him forever.

Un día, Seth “el chacal traidor” invitó a su hermano Osiris a ir a su reino. Allí le regaló una magnífica arca hecha de oro y piedras preciosas.

-¡Entra en ella, Osiris! Se ajusta al tamaño de tu cuerpo perfectamente y podrás descansar dentro como te mereces.

Pero tan pronto como Osiris se tumbó dentro del arca, el hermano cerró con llave la tapa y lo encerró allí para siempre.

YAREAH MAGAZINE

7

Macs

By Terry Bisson

Literatur e/Litera tura

What did I think? Same thing I think today. I thought it was slightly weird even if it was legal. But I guess I agreed with the families that there had to be Closure. Look out that window there. I can guarantee you, it's unusual to be so high in Oklahoma City. Ever since it happened, this town has had a thing about tall buildings. It's almost like that son of a bitch leveled this town.

H

ell, we wanted Closure too, but they had a court order all the way from the Supreme Court. I thought it was about politics at first, and I admit I was a little pissed. Don't use the word pissed.

What paper did you say you were with?

Never heard of it, but that's me. Anyway, I was miffed--is that a word? miffed?-until I understood it was about Victims' Rights. So we cancelled the execution, and built the vats, and you know the rest.

Well, if you want to know the details you should start with my assistant warden at the time, who handled the details. He's now the warden. Tell him I sent you. Give him my regards. * I thought it opened a Pandora's box, and I said so at the time. It turns out of course that there haven't been that many, and none on that scale. The ones that there are, we get them all. We're sort of the Sloan-Ketterings of the thing. See that scum on the vats? You're looking at eleven of the guy who abducted the little girls in Ohio, the genital mutilation thing, remember? Even eleven's unusual. We usually build four, maybe five tops. And never anything on the scale of the macs.

Build, grow, whatever. If you're interested in the technology, you'll have to talk with the vat vet himself. That's what we call him, he's a good old boy. He came in from the ag school for the macs and he's been here in Corrections ever since. He was an exchange student, but he met a girl from MacAlester and never went home. Isn't it funny how that stuff works?

She was my second cousin, so now I have a Hindu second cousin-in-law. Of course he's not actually a Hindu. * A Unitarian, actually. There are several of us here in MacAlester, but I'm the only one from the prison. I was fresh out of Ag and it was my first assignment. How would one describe such an assignment?

In my country, we had no such ... well, you

know. It was repellent and fascinating at the same time.

Everyone has the cloning technology. It's the growth rate that gives difficulty. Animals grow to maturity so much faster, BIOGRAPHY and we had done significant work. Sixweek cattle, ten-day ducks. Gene tweaking. Enzyme accelerators. They wanted full grown macs in two and a half years; we gave them 168 thirty year old men in Terry Ballantine Bisson (born February 12, 1942, Owensboro, eleven months! I used to come down Kentucky) is an American science fiction and fantasy author best here and watch them grow. Don't tell an- known for his short stories, including "Bears Discover Fire" yone, especially my wife, Jean, but I grew (1990), which won both the Hugo and Nebula awards.

A distinctive characteristic of many of Bisson's short stories is sort of fond of them. that they consist only of dialogue, with a total absence of bridHard? It was hard, I suppose, but far- ging text such as "he said". The reader is encouraged to visualize ming is hard too if you think about it. A the characters, the setting and situation without the aid of any farmer may love his hogs but he ships descriptive narration. A notable example of Bisson's "dialogue only" technique is his 1991 story "They're Made Out of Meat". them off, and we all know what for.

You should ask legal services about that. This story consists entirely of a discussion between two alien inThat wasn't part of my operation. We telligences discussing whether it would be wise to grant the had already grown 168 and I had to des- human race membership in some sort of galactic federation.

The aliens (whose physiologies are never disclosed) ultimately troy one before he was even big enough decide that humans, being entirely organic creatures, are simply to walk, just so they could include the too disgusting to be accepted. Shortly after its original publicareal one. Ask me if I appreciated that! tion, this story was reprinted in the "Readings" section of Har* per's magazine: an extremely rare honor for a science-fiction It was a second court order. It came story. through after the macs were in the vats. Bisson has also written several novels, including Fire on the Somebody's bright idea in Justice. I sup- Mountain (Avon, 1988), Voyage to the Red Planet (Morrow, pose they figured it would legitimize the 1990), Pirates of the Universe (Tor, 1996), and The Pickup Artist (Tor, 2001). In 1996, he wrote two three-part comic book adapwhole operation to include the real tations of Nine Princes in Amber and The Guns of Avalon, the McCoy, so to speak, but then somebody first two books in Roger Zelazny's " Amber" series. Bisson also has to decide who gets him. Justice did- finished the writing of Walter Miller's novel Saint Leibowitz and n't want any part of that and neither did the Wild Horse Woman, the sequel to the classic A Canticle for we, so we brought in one of those out- Leibowitz, which was left unfinished at Miller's death. fits that run lotteries, because that's In the 1960s, early in his career, Bisson collaborated on several what it was, a lottery, but kind of a comic book stories with Clark Dimond, and he edited Major Pustrange one, if you know what I mean. blications' black-and-white horror-comics magazine Web of Horror, leaving before the fourth issue. Artist Bernie Wrightson, Strange in that the winner wasn't suppo- with whom he worked, recalled [1], "That was done by a guy sed to know if he won or not. He or she. named Richard Sproul out in Long Island. His company ... put It's like the firing squad, where nobody out Cracked magazine.... A fellow named Terry Bisson tracked knows who has the live bullets. Nobody down me, Mike Kaluta and Jeff Jones and presented us with a is supposed to know who gets the real proposal to do this black-and-white horror magazine in comone. I'm sure it's in the records some- petition with Creepy... Bisson (who was writing blurb copy for where, but that stuff's all sealed. What romance magazines when I first met him) left after the third magazine did you say you were with? issue under very mysterious circumstances — and the running of the whole magazine, for some reason, fell into [writer-artist] * Bruce Jones' and my laps (and I can't remember if Terry said, Sealed? It's destroyed. That was part of 'Here, you guys take over the editorial', or if we volunteered)". the contract. I guess whoever numbered Bisson graduated from the University of Louisville in 1964. As

TERRY BISSON

of 2005, he lives in Oakland, California.

YAREAH MAGAZINE

8

Macs

By Terry Bisson the macs would know, but that was five years ago and it was done by lot anyway.

It could probably be figured out by talking to the drivers who did the deliveries, or the drivers who picked up the remains, or even the families themselves. But it would be illegal, wouldn't it? Unethical, too, if you ask me, since it would interfere with what the whole thing was about, which was Closure. Victims' Rights. That's why we were hired, to keep it secret, and that's what we did. End of story. * UPS was a natural because we had just acquired Con Tran and were about to go into the detainee delivery business under contract with the BOP. The macs were mostly local, of course, but not all. Several went out of state; two to California, for example.

It wasn't a security problem since the macs were all sort of docile. I figured they were engineered that way. Is engineered the word? Anyway, the problem was public relations. Appearances, to be frank. You can't drive around with a bus load of macs. And most families don't want the TV and papers at the door, like Publishers Clearing House.

(Though some do!) So we delivered them in vans, two and three at a time, mostly in the morning, sort of on the sly. We told the press we were still working out the details until it was all done. Some people videotaped their delivery. I suspect they're the ones that also videotaped their executions.

I'm not one of those who had a problem with the whole thing. No sirree. I went along with my drivers, at first especially, and met quite a few of the loved ones, and I wish you could have seen the grateful expressions on their faces. You get your own mac to kill any way you want to. That's Closure. It made me proud to be an American even though it came out of a terrible tragedy. An unspeakable tragedy.

Talk to the drivers all you want to. What channel did you say you were with? * You wouldn't have believed the publicity at the time. It was a big triumph for Victims' Rights, which is now in the Constitution, isn't it? Maybe I'm wrong. Anyway, it wasn't a particularly what you might call pleasant job, even though I was all for the families and Closure and stuff and still am.

Looked like anybody. Looked like you except for the beard. None of them were different. They were all the same. One of them was supposedly the real McCoy, but so what? Isn't the whole point of cloning

Lite rature/Literatur a

supposed to be that each one is the same as the first one? Nobody's ever brought this up before. You're not from one of those talk shows, are you?

They couldn't have talked to us if they had wanted to, and we weren't about to talk to them. They were all taped up except for the eyes, and you should have seen those eyes.

You tried to avoid it. I had one that threw up all over my truck even though theoretically you can't throw up through that tape. I told the dispatcher my truck needed a theoretical cleaning. * They all seemed the same to me.

John Nolan Sort of panicked and gloomy. I Big Fish.

12x12.

Acrylic on stretched canvas. had a hard time hating them, in spite of what they done, or their to me was the crucufixion. That sent the daddy done, or however you want to put wrong message, if you ask me. it. They say they could only live five years * anyway before their insides turned to There was no way we could tell which one mush. That was no problem of course. of them was the real McCoy, not from what Under the Victims' Rights settlement it had we picked up. You should talk to the loved to be done in thirty days, that was from ones. Nice people, maybe a little impatient date of delivery. sometimes. The third week was the hardest I delivered thirty four macs, of 168 altoge- in terms of scheduling. People had been ther. I met thirty four fine families, and they looking forward to Closure for so long, were a fine cross section of American life, they played with their macs for a week or black and white, Catholic and Protestant. so, but then it got old. Played is not the Not so many Jews. word, but you know what I mean. Then it's I've heard that rumor. You're going to have bang bang and honey call SaniMed. They rumors like that when one of them is sup- want them out of the house ASAP. posedly the real McCoy. There were other It's not that we were slow, but the schedule rumors too, like that one of the macs was was heavy. In terms of what we were picpardoned by its family and sent away to king up, none of it was that hard for me. school somewhere. That would have been These were not people. Some of them hard. I mean, if you got a mac you had to were pretty chewed up. Some of them return a body within thirty days. One story were chewed up pretty bad.

I heard was that they switched bodies after * a car wreck. Another was that they burned I'm not allowed to discuss individual famianother body at the stake and turned it in. lies. I can say this: the ceremony, the setBut that one's hard to believe too. Only one tlement, the execution, whatever you want of the macs was burned at the stake, and to call it, wasn't always exactly what everythey had to get a special clearance to do body had expected or wanted. One family that. Hell, you can't even burn leaves in even wanted to let their mac go. Since they Oklahoma any more. couldn't do that, they wanted a funeral. A SaniMed collected, they're a medical waste funeral for toxic waste! outfit, since we're not allowed to handle re- I can't give you their name or tell you their mains. They're not going to be able to tell number. you much. What did they pick up? Bones I guess I can tell you that. It was between and ashes. Meat.

103 and 105. * * Some of it was pretty gruesome but in this I'm not ashamed of it. We're Christians. business you get used to that. We weren't Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive supposed to have to bag them, but you those who trespass against us. We tried to know how it is. The only one that really got make it legal, but the state wouldn't hear

YAREAH MAGAZINE

9

Liter ature/Literatura Macs

By Terry Bisson

Gabriela Labudda Recordando of it, since the execution order had already been signed. We had thirty days, so we waited till the last week and then used one of those Kevorkian kits, the lethal objection thing. Injection, I mean. The doctor came with it but we had to push the plunger thing.

It seems to me like one of the rights of Victims' Rights should be--but I guess not.

There was a rumor that another family forgave and got away with it, but we never met them. They supposedly switched bodies in a car wreck and sent their mac to forestry school in Canada. Even if it was true, which I doubt, he would be almost five now, and that's half their life span. Supposedly their internal organs harden after ten years. What agency did you say you were with? * We dropped ours out of an airplane. My uncle has a big ranch out past Mayfield with his own airstrip and everything. Cessna 172.

It was illegal, but what are they going to do?

C'est la vie, or rather c'est la mort. Or whatever. * They made us kill him. Wasn't he ours to do

YAREAH MAGAZINE

10

with as we liked? Wasn't that the idea? He killed my daddy like a dog and if I wanted to tie up like a dog, isn't that my business?

Aren't you a little long in the tooth to be in college, boy?

An electric chair. It's out in the garage.

Want to see it? Still got the shit stain on the seat. * My daddy came home with a mac, and took my mother and me out back and made us watch while he shot him. Shot him all over, from the feet up. The whole thing took ten minutes. It didn't seem to do anybody any good, my aunt is still dead. They never found most of her, only the bottom of a leg. Would you like some chocolates? They're from England. * Era? It was only like five years ago. I never took delivery. I thought I was the only one but I found out later there were eight others.

I guess they just put them back in the vat.

They couldn't live more than five years anyway. Their insides turned hard. All their DNA switches were shut off or something.

I got my own Closure my own way. That's my daughter's picture there. As for the macs, they are all dead. Period. They lived a while, suffered and died. Is it any different for the rest of us? What church did you say you were with? * I don't mind telling you our real name, but you should call us 49 if you quote us. That's the number we had in the lottery. We got our mac on a Wednesday, kept him for a week, then set him in a kitchen chair and shot him in the head. We didn't have any idea how messy that would be. The state should have given some instructions or guidelines.

Nobody knew which one was the original, and that's the way it should be. Otherwise it would ruin the Closure for everybody else. I can tell you ours wasn't, though. It was just a feeling I had. That's why we just shot him and got it over with. I just couldn't get real excited about killing something that seemed barely alive, even though it supposedly had all his feelings and memories. But some people got into it and attended several executions. They had a kind of network.

Let me see your list. These two are the ones I would definitely talk to: 112 and 43. And maybe 13. * Is that what they call us, 112? So I'm just a number again. I thought I was through with that in the army. I figured we had the real one, the real McCoy, because he was so hard to kill. We cut him up with a chain saw, a little Homelite. No sir, I didn't mind the mess and yes, he hated every minute of it. All twenty some odd which is how long it took. I would have fed him to my dogs if we hadn't had to turn the body in. End of fucking story. * Oh, yeah. Double the pleasure, double the fun. Triple it, really. The only one I was against was this one, 61. The crucifixion. I think that sent the wrong message, but the neighbors loved it.

Drown in the toilet was big. Poison, fire, hanging, you name it. People got these old books from the library but that medieval stuff took special equipment. One guy had a

ISIS Y OSIRIS (III) When the golden ark became Osiris’ coffin, it was hurled into the river Nile and it vanished for years.

During that time, his wife Isis was looking for him and since she was unable to find Osiris, she decided to use her magic powers and to turn herself into a bird.

-From the sky, I can overlook all lands and hidings – she explained to her brave son, Horus “the falcon”.

However, she failed and turned herself into a beautiful magician again.

El arca de oro, convertida ahora en el ataúd de Osiris, fue arrojada al Nilo y desapareció durante años.

Durante ese tiempo, su esposa Isis lo estuvo buscando y como era incapaz de encontrarlo, decidió usar sus poderes de maga y transformarse en un pájaro.

-Desde el cielo, podré vigilar todas las tierras y escondites –explicó a su valiente hijo, Horus “el halcón”.

Sin embargo, fracasó en su empeñó y retornó a su forma de bella maga.

Macs

By Terry Bisson rack built but the neigbors objected to the screaming. I guess there are some limits, even to Victims' Rights. Ditto the stake stuff. * I'm sure our mac wasn't the real McCoy. You want to know why? He was so quiet and sad. he just closed his eyes and died. I'm sure the real one would have been harder to kill. My mac wasn't innocent, but he wasn't guilty either. Even though he looked like a thirty year old man he was only eighteen months old, and that sort of showed.

I killed him just to even things out. Not revenge, just Closure. After spending all the money on the court case and the settlement, not to mention the cloning and all, the deliveries, it would have been wasteful not to do it, don't you think?.

I've heard that surviving thing but it's just a rumor. Like Elvis. There were lots of rumors.

They say one family tried to pardon their mac and send him to Canada or somewhere.

I don't think so!

You might try this one, 43. They used to brag that they had the real one. I don't mind telling you I resented that and still do, since we were supposed to all share equally in the Closure. But some people have to be number one.

It's over now anyway. What law firm did you say you worked for? * I could tell he was the original by the mean look in his eye. He wasn't quite so mean after a week in that rat box.

Some people will always protest and write letters and such. But what about something that was born to be put to death? How can you protest that?

Closure, that's what it was all about. I went on to live my life. I've been married again and divorced already. What college did you say you were from? * The real McCoy? I think he just kept his mouth shut and died like the rest of them.

What's he goin to say, here I am, and make it worse? And as far as that rumor of him surviving, you can file it under Elvis.

There was also a story that somebody switched bodies after a car wreck and sent their mac to Canada. I wouldn't put too much stock in that one, either. Folks around here don't even think about Canada. Forgiveness either.

We used that state kit, the Kevorkian thing. I heard about twenty families did. We just sat him down and May pushed the plunger. Like flushing a toilet. May and myself--she's gone now, God bless her--we were interested in

Lite rature/Literatur a

John Nolan Sleep. 12x12. Acrylic on stretched canvas.

Closure, not revenge. * This one, 13, told me one time he thought he had the real McCoy, but it was wishful thinking, if you ask me. I don't think you could tell the real one. I don't think you should want to even if you could.

I'm afraid you can't ask him about it, because they were all killed in a fire, the whole family.

It was just a day before the ceremony they had planned, which was some sort of slow thing with wires. There was a gas leak or something. They were all killed and their mac was destroyed in the explosion. Fire and explosion. What insurance company did you say you worked for?

It was--have you got a map? oooh, that's a nice one--right here. On the corner of Oak and Increase, only a half a mile from the site of the original explosion, ironically. The house is gone now. * See that new strip mall? That Dollar Store's where the house stood. The family that lived in it was one of the ones that lost a loved one in the Oklahoma City bombing. They got one of the macs as part of the Victims' Rights

Closure Settlement, but unfortunately tragedy struck them again before they got to get Closure. Funny how the Lord works in mysterious ways.

No, none of them are left. There was a homeless guy who used to hang around but the police ran him off. Beard like yours.

Might have been a friend of the family, some crazy cousin, who knows. So much tragedy they had. Now he lives in the back of the mall in a dumpster. * There. That yellow thing. It never gets emptied. I don't know why the city doesn't remove it but it's been there for almost five years just like that.

I wouldn't go over there. People don't fool with him. He doesn't bother anybody, but, you know.

Suit yourself. If you knock on it he'll come out, figuring you've got some food for him or something. Kids do it for meanness sometimes. But stand back, there is a smell. * "Daddy?" * /the end/

YAREAH MAGAZINE

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lOST pARADISES: Madrid Magerit

Literature /Literatura

Silvia Cuevas Mostacero

All our life is a journey; A Nací en Madrid el 22 de abril de 1965 de majourney through places, peodrugada, en pleno partido de fútbol, según mi ple and ages. A journey in there is always a seeking: of padre, por lo que a mi madre le costó traerme alwhich Love, friendship, recognition, in mundo casi sin ayuda. Y así fue como comencé esteshort, Hapiness.

This section is intended to be a viaje, en Madrid, capital de España, pequeño paísjourney too. We’ll travel from one con gran historia (¿o debería decir historias?) porplace to another or we’ll have the experience of changing from one eso he pensado comenzar esta sección aquí. state of mind to another. We’ll

F

ue en 1561 cuando el rey Felipe II abandonó Toledo, la antigua capital visigoda de España, para establecer la corte en Madrid. Y fue su padre, el emperador Carlos V, quien le aconsejó que emplazara la corte en un lugar fijo, cambiando la costumbre de una corte itinerante.

Felipe declaró que “tan grande monarquía tenga una ciudad que haga las veces de corazón situada en el centro de su cuerpo” y así comenzó su aventura de “villa y corte”.

Madrid es ciudad de excesos. Tanto en su clima (“nueve meses de invierno y tres de infierno”, como dice el dicho popular), como en su gente.

Hemingway escribió en “Muerte en la tarde”: “ A los madrileños les gusta su clima y se sienten orgullosos de esos cambios bruscos. ¿Qué otra gran ciudad podría proporcionar semejante variedad? Cuando os preguntan en el café cómo habéis dormido y contestáis que con ese calor del diablo no habéis podido pegar ojo hasta la madrugada, os dicen que ése es el momento apropiado para dormirse. Poco antes del alba desciende un poco la temperatura, y ése es el momento en que un hombre decente debe irse a la cama. Por grande que sea el calor de la noche, siempre refresca en esos momentos. Por lo tanto, es un clima excelente si los cambios no os trastornan demasiado… En las noches frías podéis beber un buen copazo de coñac y largaros a la cama.

Ir a dormir temprano en Madrid es como querer sentar plaza de persona extravagante, y vuestros amigos se sentirán molestos durante algún tiempo con vosotros.

Nadie se va a la cama en Madrid antes de haber matado la noche. Por lo general, se cita a un amigo poco después de medianoche en el café. En ninguna de las otras

tour round places or visit several Silvia Cuevas Mostacero viasil@telefonica.net ones. We’ll wander, go on trips of many kinds and move through myths and legends of the world or even the universe.

I invite you to join us in this uncertain journey in which we’ll find (or not) our destination.”

ciudades en que yo he vivido, salvo en Constantinopla, durante la ocupación aliada, se va con menos ganas a la cama con el propósito de dormir.”

Quizás nuestro actual alToda nuestra vida es un viaje. Un viaje a través de lugares, calde, con ese afán gentes y edades. Un viaje en el que siempre hay una bús“afrancesado” de seguir queda; de Amor, de amistad, de reconocimiento, en defihorarios europeos, debería nitiva, de la Felicidad. leer a Hemingway para re- Esta sección pretende ser un viaje. Viajaremos de un lugar a otro cordar lo que eran antes o experimentaremos el cambio de un estado de la mente a otro.

Madrid y los madrileños. Lo Andaremos por un lugar o visitaremos varios. Vagabundearedel clima lo achacaremos al mos, viajaremos de muchas formas y nos adentraremos en los calentamiento global… mitos y leyendas del mundo o incluso del universo.

Madrid está llena de tópi- Te invito a unirte a nosotros en este viaje incierto en el que encos (“ciudad de acogida”) y contraremos (o no) nuestro destino. gente típica (de Madrí) y es en la única que he estado en Plaza Mayor con un collar formado por rela que hay que esperar algunos segundos ales y una inscripción que decía: “Son mis para cruzar en un semáforo, esperando amores”. Unos apuntan a que con ello queque alguno se lo salte, lo que indefectible- ría dejar de manifiesto su interés por el dimente, ocurre. nero, muchos otros, sin embargo, Muchos vienen a Madrid por el trabajo y defienden que lo que el conde de Villamese quedan. Muchos salen huyendo. En ge- diana pretendía era dar a conocer su amor neral, se considera una ciudad de paso, por la reina (“reales son mis amores”). salvo por los nacidos aquí, que la familia De cualquier modo, supuso un desafío, y tira. cuando quiso brindarle un toro a la reina, Con tanto movimiento, las leyendas surgen un regidor provocando al rey afirmó: “Su por todas partes. Hay leyendas sobre nu- Majestad, ¡qué bien pica el conde!”. Algo merosas calles, casas encantadas y muchos que Felipe IV zanjó con un “¡pero pica muy personajes. alto!”. Aunque el desagravio pareció queLa Plaza Mayor fue testigo del comienzo dar ahí, el conde de Villamediana apareció de muchas de estas historias. Una de ellas muerto días después cerca de San Ginés, tuvo como protagonista al conde de Villa- iniciándose el rumor de que el asesinato mediana, que en el siglo XVII disfrutó de fue por orden real, producto de los celos una posición destacada, a pesar de ser un del monarca. (esMADRID) personaje polémico por sus críticas contra Monarquía, clérigos, buscavidas, viajeros, nobles y plebeyos. todos han formado siempre parte de esta Quizá por esta razón se dio crédito al villa de cuyas innumerables carreteras rumor que apuntaba a que el conde de Vi- vamos a partir hacia otras tierras y leyenllamediana estaba enamorado de la mis- das. Y con esto y un bizcocho, hasta mamísima reina Isabel de Borbón. Cuentan ñana a las ocho. que el conde asistió a una de las frecuentes fiestas taurinas que se celebraban en la

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lOST pARADISES

Silvia Cuevas Mostacero

Literatur e/Litera tura

From “Death in the afternoon”

by Ernest Hemingway

I

remember having gone down that year to Spain thinking spring would be well along, and all day on the train we rode through country as bare and cold as the badlands in November. I could hardly recognize the country as the same I knew in the summer and when I got off the train at night in Madrid snow was blowing outside the station. I had no overcoat and stayed in my room writing in bed or in the nearest café drinking coffee and Domecq brandy. It was too cold to go out for three days and then came lovely spring weather. Madrid is a mountain city with a mountain climate. It has the high cloudless Spanish sky that makes the Italian sky seem sentimental and it has air that is actively pleasurable to breathe. The heat and the cold come and go quickly there. I have watched, on a July night when I could not sleep, the beggars burning newspapers in the street and crouching around the fire to keep warm. Two nights later it was too hot to sleep until the coolness that comes just before morning.

Madrileños love the climate and are proud of these changes. Where can you get such a variation in any other large city? When they ask you at the café how you slept and you say it was too bloody hot to sleep until just before morning they tell you that is the time to sleep. There is always that coolness just before daylight at the hour a man should go to sleep. No matter how hot the night you always get that. It really is a very good climate if you do not mind changes. On hot nights you can go to the Bombilla to sit and drink cider and dance and it is always cool when you stop dancing there in the leafyness of the long plantings of trees where the mist rises from the small river. On cold nights you can drink sherry brandy and go to bed. To go to bed at night in Madrid marks you as a little queer. For a long time your friends will be a little uncomfortable about it.

Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night. Appointments

with a friend are habitually made for after midnight at the café.

In no other town that I have ever lived, except Constantinople during the period of the Allied occupation, is there less going to bed for sleeping purposes. It may be based on the theory that you stay up until that cool time that comes just before daylight but that cannot have been the reason at Constant because we always used that cool time to take a ride out along the Bosphorus to see the sun rise. Seeing the sun rise is a fine thing. As a boy, fishing or shooting, or during the war you used to see it rather regularly; then, after the war, I do not remember seeing it until Constantinople. There seeing it rise was the traditional thing to do. In some way it seemed to prove something if , after whatever you had been doing, you went out along the Bosphorus and saw the sun rise. It finished off everything with a healthy outdoor touch. But being away from such things one forgets them.

Ernest Hemingway

ISIS Y OSIRIS (IV) There were hard times for Egyptian subjects because Seth ruled with cruelty and asked people for incredible taxes.

He and his friend, Queen Aso of Ethiopia, celebrated merrily while country men and women suffered and wept all of the time.

All was sorrow in the lands of the river Nile until brave Horus “the falcon”, decided to challenge his mean uncle Seth to a duel.

Fueron duros tiempos para los egipcios porque Seth gobernaba cruelmente y exigía a la gente impuestos desorbita-

dos. Él y su amiga la reina Aso de Etiopía se divertían mientras los campesinos sufrían y lloraban.

Todo era tristeza en las tierras del Nilo hasta que Horus “el halcón” decidió retar a su odioso tío Seth a duelo.

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EL COMIENZO DE LOS TIEMPOS

Litera ture/Liter atura

De jose Maria Ortega Sanz

Cuando todo era un gran vacío, ya existía Margald. Era este infinito en el tiempo y en el espacio, pues el principio y el fin albergaban en su ser, llenándolo todo con su mente. En cierto momento, cansado de su soledad, decidió crear un gran gigante, al que dió por nombre Universo y por corazón la Tierra que hoy habitamos.

Pero el tiempo del gigante transcurría triste y sin sentido. Nada había y nada podía conocer, y así, poco a poco, su pensamiento se hizo tinieblas y su corazón se enfrió cubriéndose de hielos.

P

asó el tiempo, y Margald, cansado de la oscuridad que envolvía todo, quiso dar luz y calor a Universo. Fué entonces cuando hizo surgir de su energía a un nuevo ser, el Sol, enviando a este hacia la Tierra sobre un carro tirado por caballos de fuego. Haciendo amanecer por el horizonte, el carro solar cruzó la Tierra fundiendo y resquebrajando los hielos que la aprisionaban. Así cayeron, en ese gran deshielo, espumosas cascadas de agua hacia lo más profundo de la superficie terrestre, formándose los mares y los océanos.

En la misma Tierra, mientras, por la humedad del agua y la luz y el calor del Sol, fueron brotando, primero unas hierbas, luego unos arbustos y finalmente una inmensa selva que cubrió toda su superficie de verde, dejando únicamente despejados los picos de los montes más altos.

Llegó el Sol en su cabalgada celeste hasta donde el mundo se acaba, y allí, descendió a unas tierras montañosas que se alzaban solitarias sobre la superficie del océano. Levantó en lo más alto de

estas, su morada, la que haJosé María Ortega Sanz bría de convertirse con el adriavilo@gmail.com tiempo en la “Mansión del Ocaso”, y acabando el día en Nació en Barbastro (Huesca) en septiembre de un rojo crepúsculo, dejó la 1962, marchándose a los seis años a Madrid, donde Tierra en tinieblas. reside hasta la actualidad. Se licenció en 1987 por Bellas Sucedió mucho tiempo Artes, dedicándose después a la docencia como profesor antes, cuando permanecía de dibujo en institutos. Ha realizado varias exposiciones y Universo en la oscuridad, que colaborado en revistas como articulista e ilustrador. Su prituvo éste por unos instantes la mer libro publicado, fue un ensayo de urbanismo titulado bella idea del amor cruzando “Proyectos Matritenses. Ideas para el Madrid del siglo XXI” por su pensamiento. Pero desapareciendo su brillo rápidamente en la lencio, al creer eternas las tinieblas que larga noche, tomó aquella la forma de habían seguido al crepúsculo.

Fué pasando el tiempo y, despertánuna hermosa doncella, que quedó sepultada entre los hielos que cubrían el cora- dose el Sol, quiso levantarse otra vez por el Oriente, como lo había hecho en el día zón del gigante.

En aquel primer día en que el Sol había anterior. Abrió a los golpes de su maza calentado la Tierra y los hielos morían de fuego un túnel que atravesaba la Tiefundidos en agua, la bella que había es- rra de Oeste a Este, apareciendo de tado entre ellos sepultada, emergió con nuevo sus luminosos rayos por levante. la llegada de la noche, a la superficie de Oteó entre las brumas del amanecer y las aguas. Era ésta la misma Luna que viendo el delicado resplandor de la Luna, hoy navega por los cielos nocturnos, la se enamoró de ella como ella, a su vez, que, asomando entonces tras los montes, lo hizo de él. Se amaron intensamente iluminaba suavemente los espesos bos- sobre los cielos, dejando a la Tierra, por ques en los que dominaba un tenso si- unos instantes, en la incertidumbre de

THEhttp://www.thevenetianmask.com VENETIAN MASK

EL COMIENZO DE LOS TIEMPOS

Lite rature/Literatur a

De jose Maria Ortega Sanz

una nueva, aunque breve oscuridad.

Luego cada uno siguió su camino en el horizonte, aunque tras esa unión ninguno de los dos volvió a ser como antes. El Sol que hoy reluce no es tan fogoso como el de la primera mañana, ni la Luna se recorta ya todas las noches redonda y entera sobre los cielos nocturnos.

Antes de separase, concertaron cada uno sus poderes sobre la Tierra, prometiendo volver a encontrarse con el transcurrir de los días. El Sol brillaría en la mañana y sería el Señor de la Tierra, la Razón y la Fuerza. La Luna, en cambio, sería el lucero nocturno y convertida en la Dama de las Aguas, escogió el sentimiento y la calma para pasear en la noche.

De la unión del Sol y la Luna se engendraron las estrellas. Fueron las ocho primeras, las más grandes y brillantes, las designadas para guardar los poderes de la vida sobre la Tierra. Así, la primeriza nació con potentísimos pulmones para soplar los vientos y los huracanes, mientras que a la siguiente, se la entregó el arco que lanza los rayos, con sus truenos y relámpagos, durante las tormentas. Fué vestida, la tercera, con el manto blanco y frío que se deshace cayendo en forma de nieve. Otra se encarga de tejer el velo brillante y húmedo de la lluvia. La que al nacer hacía el numero cinco, posee la vaporosa cabellera que flota formando las nubes y la niebla, siguiendo la que toca la dulce flauta de los sonidos de la Tierra.

Como guardiana de vigilar la hoguera donde arde el fuego divino, quedó la séptima. Y fué a la última a la que se dio el poder más penoso, ya que debe hacer pasar la muerte por la Tierra, segando con su inalterable guadaña las vidas secas, para dejar crecer a las nuevas.

Pero fueron muchas más las estrellas que nacieron con el transcurrir del tiempo. Una noche, se reflejaron todas ellas en las aguas de los mares, los ríos y los lagos, y entonces bajaron a la tierra tomando una forma semejante a la nuestra, los todavía inexistentes humanos.

Desembarcando en costas y riberas, llevaban cada una un arco, y en su carcaj va-

rias flechas enlazadas de dos en dos por un fino hilo estelar. De cada par de saetas, había de surgir una pareja de animales que, formándose en la imaginación de cada celeste arquero, adoptaría las características que éste desease. Así, miles de flechas, arrojadas al cielo fueron aves e insectos.

Otras, hundiéndose en el agua o en sus húmedas orillas, se transformaron en peces y anfibios. En cuanto a las que se clavaron en tierra se convirtieron en los mamíferos y los reptiles. La Tierra se llenó, a partir de entonces, de vida y movimiento, creciendo y desarrollándose éste para dar compañía a los “albos”, que era como se llamaban aquellos personajes estelares, pues con ellos había comenzado una nueva era en el mundo.

Los albos fueron aumentando e independizándose cada vez más, de sus estrellas. Se establecieron en la Tierra, viviendo de lo que ésta les daba, así como de los seres que ellos mismos habían creado. Construyeron bellos poblados y cada vez se aproximaban más a lo que son los hombres de hoy, salvo en que su mundo todo era paz y armonía.

Mas en el fondo del corazón del gigante Universo habitaba Nakbar, “Señor del Mal y la Tinieblas”. Había extendido éste su dominio por un mundo de oscuras cavernas, donde se rodeaba de abominables criaturas que él mismo había creado, para que le sirviesen. Sin luces ni voluntad, aullaban aquellos seres malditos en aquella mansión de sombras, saltando en torno a un fuego rojizo que quemaba sin dar luz ni calor.

Sucedió que las raíces de los más grandes árboles llegaron en su camino descendente a los dominios del Mal. Sobresaltado Nakbar por aquello, envió a sus esbirros a espiar sobre la Tierra, y tras conocer la verdad, pidió a estos que le trajesen materia de aquel mundo exterior.

Una vez esta en su poder, la arrojó sobre las brasas que se extendían ardientes por sus espacios subterráneos, y mezclando ambas, empezó a modelar figuras malignas que tomaban vida en sus manos, ad-

Gabriela Labudda Buscando quiriendo también sus perversos poderes. Mientras esto hacía, comenzó a su vez una frenética danza que le fué conduciendo hasta el más terrible de los paroxismos. Reventó Nakbar con su baile el interior de aquel mundo, y ascendiendo las sombras hacia los espacios exteriores, fueron cubriendo el cielo de negras brumas, mientras sus demonios, cayendo confundidos entre la lava de los volcanes, se extendieron por la Tierra sembrando la destrucción.

Iban cabalgando sobre la muerte y la desolación, haciendo conocer al mundo el dolor, la desesperación y el sin sentido.

Pero peor fué aún, cuando tomando la forma de los albos, incitaban a muchos de estos, por el engaño, a que anidase el odio en sus corazones y se arrojasen a la lucha contra sus hermanos.

Así pasaron sobre la Tierra días de terror y oscuridad, hasta que finalmente, una tormenta, arrastró las cenizas con su lluvia, dejando brillar la luz del Sol, que había permanecido oculta todo ese tiempo. Las fuerzas del Mal se replegaron huyendo a su mundo de cavernas o escondiéndose en los más remotos rincoYAREAH MAGAZINE

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Gabriela Labudda Natch

EL COMIENZO DE LOS TIEMPOS

Lite rature/Literatur a

De jose Maria Ortega Sanz

nes; quedaron a la espera de otras épocas de debilidad y caos.

La nieve caía, tapando los desgarrones y cicatrices que el maligno había ocasionado en la Tierra. Selvas enteras habían sido reducidas a humeantes estepas. Los albos intentaban encontrar de nuevo la calma, pero ahora que conocían la maldad y la miseria, su corazón se resquebrajaba perfilándose ya en ellos el alma aturdida y desesperada de los seres humanos. Marchando tristemente por campos desolados, continuaron viviendo y luchando, con la esperanza de que algún día la Tierra volvería a ser un paraíso. Mas no quedaron solos. El Sol sale cada mañana, sigue irradiando claridad y energía, la Luna luce serena en la noche junto a las estrellas; y Margald continúa llenándolo todo con su espíritu, grande y bondadoso, aunque a veces las tinieblas y la desesperación, parecen ser las dueñas de la Tierra. * * * Brillan de una manera especial las estrellas esta noche. Parece mentira que aún puedan relucir en una atmósfera que hasta hace poco estaba tan cargada por la bruma, las explosiones y los gases. Habrá sido el viento que lo ha barrido todo. Y mientras ellas titilan alegremente sobre el negro manto de la noche, los hombres estamos aquí escondidos, agazapados en estas trincheras húmedas y malolientes, viendo consumirse nuestro tiempo entre el dolor, la monotonía y el sin sentido.

Hay quienes dicen que la guerra puede ser hermosa, aunque esos probablemente no han conocido un campo después de la batalla, ni visitado un hospital de campaña. ¿Y qué belleza puede haber en ver avanzar a miles de hombres hacia un destino en donde solo se puede matar o morir? He visto caer a tantos durante tantos días, mientras corrían hacía el horizonte gris y desolado que iba consumiendo sus vidas como una insaciable maquina de picar carne.

Cuando yo era un niño la gente vivía con optimismo la llegada del nuevo siglo. Lo consideraban un tiempo nuevo, distinto a todos, en que el progreso hallaría la solución a todos los males de la humanidad. La ciencia avanzaba sobre las enfermedades y las taras, el hombre se comunicaba por cables a distancias de miles de kilómetros y las máquinas sustituían a las fuerzas naturales en velocidad y eficacia. Hasta había quien soJohn Nolan ñaba con llegar a la luna y Rapunzel. 24"x24. Acrylic on streched canvas. tocar las estrellas. Esas mismas estrellas que ahora iluminan estos hacían feliz y lo que aún es la existencia en retaguardia. Pero el último permiso campos de destrucción y muerte.

Pero ¿qué pecado ha cometido mi ge- fue hace tanto y el próximo...¿Quién neración para tener que contemplar la sabe?

Algún día llegará un general, uno de cara más terrible y amarga del progreso? Con aquel mismo optimismo esos que debe ver a los soldados como montamos en los trenes hacia el una masa indefinida del color de sus campo de batalla, y hoy sufrimos el tristes uniformes, y decidirá lanzar un peso del trabajo y el ingenio puestos al nuevo ataque. Entonces, mis camaradas y yo saldremos de nuestros agujeservicio del aniquilamiento.

Los camiones nos conducen raudos a ros, y avanzaremos una vez más, hacia primera línea, mientras que los aviones ese horizonte de bruma y alambradas, surcan los cielos como mortíferos pá- donde suena constante el traqueteo de jaros que escupen acero sobre nos- las ametralladoras. Quizás, ese día me otros. Grandes cañones bombardean abrace la muerte, para llevarme concon una potencia salvaje que convier- sigo definitivamente, después de más ten los campos y las aldeas en un terri- de dos años rondándome cercana con torio desbastado y mutilado por miles su macabra danza. de cráteres, que transforman la faz de Pero hoy la noche es tan hermosa que la tierra en un rostro marcado horrible- hasta el aire parece traer las fragancias mente por la viruela. Aparecen armas de la naturaleza a este hediondo agunuevas tan sofisticadas como crueles; jero, y el tiempo simula querer detener gases que traen la muerte con el su paso sanguinario y mecánico. Algún viento, sin que uno tenga contra qué día, ojalá pronto, acabará todo esto y luchar, y lanzallamas que convierten a vendrá un mundo mejor en el que las los hombres en antorchas vivientes en gentes hayan comprendido lo terrible segundos. Hasta me han hablado de e inútil de las guerras. Aunque, tan solo unos ingenios de acero que se mueven porque haya concluido esta carnicería, solos como los automóviles y donde el mundo será ya lo suficientemente los tripulante van protegidos por una bueno. Pero esta noche, viendo brillar las estrellas desde esta triste trinchera, gruesa coraza.

Mas lo peor es la espera, esa incó- no quiero pensar en el mañana, pues moda y angustiosa espera entre el quizás ya no exista para mí, y prefiero barro de las trincheras. Uno trata de soñar con mundos remotos e imposiagarrarse al recuerdo de lo que antes bles, imaginando cómo pudo ser el coera la vida, las pequeñas cosas que le mienzo de los tiempos.

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PETER PAUL Rubens Siegen 28-7-1577 - Amberes 30-5-1640

Isabel del Río

THE ARTS NOTE

Painter

Peter Paul Rubens was a Flemish Baroque painter, master of colour, movement and perspective. Famous by his portraits and religious paintings, it is in his mythological and allegorical canvases where he could create a world of sensuality which excited our feelings still today. His models were always his two wives: Isabella Brant (died in 1626) and Hélène Fourment who inspired his voluptuous figures from 1630.

Throughout centuries, most famous artists have been painting or sculpting myths and legends. Monthly, we will analyze one of these master pieces Isabel del Río with the help of a speaguayfuego13@yahoo.es cialist: maybe a teacher or perhaps a poet. Our intention is to go deeply into the artist’s ubens’ biographies and books heart and into his happy nightmares… Are they tell us about his well-balanced the roots of mankind? Are they our flesh and personality. He was good tempeblood? At least, we think that they are a beautiful red, that is sure, because in addiwind, the wind of our spirit. tion to painter, he was diplomatic in What are our young artists working in? We will in- several European Courts managing among terview them and we can see one of its works, a princes and kings so well as among artists special one, that one that changed their life be- and servants and because everybody that cause it was made the day they decided to enter met him was delighted with his good bethe world where muses live. havior and friendly conversation. He is wiWe will pay special attention to established artists. thout doubt the other face of that What is Art for them? They will tell us while we widespread idea about artists’ bad mood see a gallery of their favourite works. Great con- and madness (Beethoven, Van Gogh, Potemporary sculptures, painters, photographers or llock …). What was the problem with these potters will fill our eyes with colour and magical last ones? Contemporary psychologists shapes. use to affirm that their parents and family: We hope you will enjoy this site.

Beethoven’s father was a drunkard, Van Gogh’s one excessively strict and so on.

Must we suppose that Rubens’ family was exemplary? I would not like to have Jan A lo largo de los siglos, los más famosos Rubens as progenitor and, in my opinion, artistas han pintado o esculpido mitos y le- Maria Pypelinx (his wife) felt alleviation yendas. Mensualmente, analizaremos una de when he died in 1589. estas obras maestras con la ayuda de un especia- Only after Jan’s death, Maria Pypelinx and lista: quizás un profesor o tal vez un poeta. Nues- her children could live quietly in Antwerp. tra intención es profundizar en el corazón del Previously, they had all kinds of proautor y en sus felices pesadillas… ¿Son las raíces blems: the family had to flee to Colonia de la humanidad? ¿Son nuestra la sangre que a cause of Jan’s religious ideas: he was corre por nuestras venas? Al menos pensamos Calvinist but the rest of the members que son un hermoso viento, el viento que aviva were Catholics (in fact, Peter Paul Rubens nuestro espíritu. studied with the Jesuits). In Colonia, Jan ¿En qué están trabajando nuestros jóvenes crea- Rubens worked as Anna of Saxony’ secredores? Los entrevistaremos y podremos ver uno tary and cheated his wife with her. Anna de sus trabajos, uno especial, aquél que cambió of Saxony was married with William I of su vida porque fue hecho el día en que decidieron Orange and their affair was known by entrar en el mundo donde habitan las musas. this last one who condemned Jan to the Daremos especial importancia a los artistas con- death penalty. The poor Maria had to temporáneos ya establecidos. ¿Qué es el Arte swallow her pride and to beg for clepara ellos? Nos lo dirán mientras vemos una se- mency. The adultery Jan was forgiven but lección de su obra. Grandes escultores, pintores, they had to pay a big fine and to run fotógrafos o ceramistas nos llenaran los ojos de away again. This time, they went to live color y mágicas formas. in Siegen where Peter Paul was born in Esperamos que os guste esta sección.

1577.

R

NOTA DE ARTE

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“Home sweet home”: I do not believe is the best sentence to define Rubens’ infancy. Do you imagine the dinners in that home? Maria looking at his husband angrily while Jan was thinking the way of returning to Colonia… Why for? In fact, they came back to this city and Maria had to put up with neighbourhood’s wicked smiles and with her bad memories.

No, it was not a sweet home and as soon as she was free. She and her children settled down in Amberes (Catholic city where she had rich family and could educate Rubens and his brothers without problems).

Therefore, it is not so easy to explain motives that form a personality. Artists as the rest of the people are different and everybody can break the mould. Silly explanations about what Freud never said but what misinterpretations have been spreading for years would be reviewed.

ISIS Y OSIRIS (V) Seth was easily defeated by his nephew, the brave Horus, and forced to surrender.

Afterwards, he was turned over to Queen Isis to decide his fate: -I will forgive you if you return Osiris’ coffin to me –she claimed.

-He is buried near the bank river, under the tallest willow –a repented Seth explained with sorrow.

Seth fue derrotado fácilmente por su sobrino, el valiente Horus, y se vio obligado a rendirse. Después, fue llevado frente a la reina Isis para que decidiera su destino: -Te perdonaré si me devuelves el ataúd de Osiris – sentenció la buena reina.

-Está enterrado bajo el sauce más alto de la orilla del río Nilo –Seth explicó triste y arrepentido.

Rubens, “The Rape of Europe”

Isabel del Río

ARTS/ARTE tains and cities, their forests and lakes, will be Europe: Europe, my little girl.

Then, Europe smiled… A silly maid is dying but a queen is bearing… A miracle can happen every day!

Peter Paul Rubens The Rape of Eurpe. El Rapto de Europa.

Current location: Museo del Prado (Prado Museum). Technique: Óleo sobre lienzo (oil on cavas). Year: 1628-1629. Dimensions: 407×1,275

E

urope was a beautiful princess, daughter of the king of Fenice. Young and naïve, she used to spend her time playing with her friends near the sea… Silence! The gods are observing them… Old gods take pity on nobody and Zeus is their powerful king.

How happy was Europe! How unable to imagine the perfidy of men! How little to discover Zeus’ tricks! He is disguised as a white bull, so tame as not to frighten anybody and the sweet maids have started to play with him.

Europe put some flowers between his corns, some garlands around his neck, a daisy near his feet… Zeus’ strong passion is increasing while the Mediterranean waves are singing their eternal music under the enormous yellow Sun. It was a terrible moment, quick and gloomy, when the innocent girl sat on the animal’s back. What a smooth comfortable back! Then, Zeus ran to the sea, faster and

faster, and Europe cannot get down and escape.

Dramatic waves surround them, wild winds obey that divine bull, Europe’ salt tears are filling the brilliant sky and they continue flooding the mysterious land where she is going to be driven: Crete.

There were sad days there: she had been kidnapped and perhaps she was going to be raped… By a bull?

-No, little Europe –Aphrodite whispere to her-. You have been honored, much more than you may imagine.

-Why? –the girl asks while drying her tears.

-The bull is Zeus, king of universe, god of gods and father of mankind. He loves you and you will have the most heroic sons with him and from day on, a part of the Earth will be called by your name, Europe.

-What a part? –the girl asked shyly.

-All lands from Crete to the end of the continent, all villages and rivers that you can find walking to the west, all their moun-

Europa, la hija del rey de Fenicia, era bellísima. Joven e inocente, solía acudir con sus amigas a jugar a la orilla del mar… ¡Silencio! Los dioses las observan… Los antiguos dioses no tienen piedad de nadie y Zeus es su poderoso rey. ¡Qué feliz era Europa! ¡Qué incapaz de imaginar la perfidia de los hombres! ¡Cuán niña para descubrir los trucos de Zeus! Se ha disfrazado de un blanco toro, tan manso que no asusta a las dulces doncellas… Ya han empezado a jugar con él.

Europa pone flores en sus cuernos y guirnaldas en su cuello, también una rosa entre sus pies… La pasión de Zeus crece al compás de la música eterna de las olas mediterráneas, siempre bajo el tórrido Sol. ¡Qué espantoso momento! La inocente joven se han sentado en la espalda del animal y Zeus ha comenzado a correr hacia el mar, va tan rápido que Europa no puede bajarse. Se siente atrapada, no puede escapar.

Vientos y olas obedecen al toro, las lágrimas de Europa llenan los cielos, las mismas lágrimas que inundarán la misteriosa tierra donde va a ser conducida: Creta.

Fueron días tristes, estaba secuestrada y tal vez sería violada… ¿Por un toro?

-No, pequeña Europa –le susurró Afrodita. Estás siendo honrada, mucho más de lo que imaginas.

-¿Por qué? –preguntó la niña mientras se enjugaba las lágrimas.

-El toro es Zeus, rey del Universo, dios de dioses, padre de la humanidad. Te ama y tendrás hijos con él y, desde hoy, una parte de la Tierra llevará tu nombre: Europa.

-¿Qué parte? –se atrevió a musitar.

-Todas las tierras que van de Creta a Finisterre, todos los pueblos y ríos que hay hasta el Oeste, todas sus montañas y ciudades, sus bosques y lagos, serán Europa, niñita.

Entonces, Europa sonrió… Una niña tonta ha muerto y una reina está naciendo… ¡Hay milagros todos los días!

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Entrevista: Paula Yesteros Nombre: Paula Yestera Lugar y año de nacimiento: Madrid 1986 Estudios: Cursando 5º de bellas artes - ¿Cuándo descubriste tu vocación artística? En la adolescencia - ¿Qué personas o instituciones te apoyaron? Mi profesor de dibujo - ¿Cuál fue la mayor dificultad que tuviste que superar? La facultad de bellas artes - ¿Crees que éste es un buen momento para desarrollar la creatividad? Ahora se puede hacer de todo, menos pintar - ¿Qué época y lugar elegirías si pudieras viajar en el tiempo?La Florencia del quatroccento -¿Por qué? Para haber sido discípula de Botticcelli - ¿Qué artista te ha impresionado últimamente? Ingres y los neoclàsicos - ¿Podrías explicar brevemente qué buscabas con la obra que has elegido para que presentemos este mes en nuestra revista? Estudiar la estructura del cráneo humano y las relaciones aureas que se establecen en su idealización - "Yareah" es una revista especializada en indagar sobre las raíces míticas y legendarias del Arte: ¿hay algún mito que te inspire en particular? Precisamente ahora tengo en mente un proyecto sobre el mito de la medusa - ¿Y alguna leyenda? La del Golem - Danos dos adjetivos que, en tu opinión, califiquen a: -El Greco, amanerado, histriónico -Ingres , magistral, delicado -Basquiat, banal, ordinario -Botero, desgraciado y pretencioso - ¿Crees que los grandes museos tradicionales (Prado, Louvre…) son un buen lugar para apreciar el Arte? Aunque no sea la mejor, no creo que haya otra forma para apreciarlo en directo ¿Dónde trabajas? En el estudio Torre With her own hands, Isis carved under the enormous willow and got Osiris’ ¿Podrías descoffin. cribirnos Anxiously, the Queen opened its golden lid and saw brevemente with horror Osiris’ corpse. tu estudio o -Oh, my beloved husband! –Isis exclaimed-. So handsome years ago! So green and spoilt now! taller? A difeA magic tear slid along her cheek and it fell on Osirencia de la ris’ body. Osiris started to breath again. facultad, es un lugar serio Con sus propias manos, Isis cavó bajo el enorme sauce y desenterró el ataúd de en el que verOsiris. Ansiosa, la reina abrió su tapa de daderamente oro y contempló con horror el cadáver de Osiris. se aprende -¡Oh, mi amado esposo! –exclamó- ¡Eras tan ¿Qué rutina apuesto hace años! ¡Estás tan verde y estropeado ahora! sigues antes Una lágrima rodó por su mejilla y calló, con todo de abordar su poder y magia, sobre el cuerpo de Osiris… Le el trabajo? había devuelto la vida.

Debería seguir alguna

ISIS Y OSIRIS (VI)

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ARTS/ARTE

disciplina, pero la verdad es que soy muy desordenada ¿Cuántas horas te ocupa al día?

Prácticamente todo el día - ¿Prefieres la noche o el día? El atardecer - ¿La ciudad o el campo? Los dos - ¿La razón o los sentimientos? Los sentimientos, por supuesto ¿Tienes miedo de algo o de alguien? De la muerte - ¿Te asusta la soledad? Si - ¿Y la muerte? También - ¿Nos citarías alguna obra artística que plasme su "temido" rostro? La balsa de la medusa, de Gericualt - ¿Con qué tipo de música te sientes bien? Me gusta la música romántica, la barroca, y muchos otros tipos - ¿Con cuál relacionarías tus obras? Mi proyecto actual se inspira en el neoclásico francés, por lo que principalmente la música del s.XIX. Se identifica más con los temas que trato - ¿Qué escritor te ha hecho reír? Cervantes - ¿Y sonreír? Cervantes, Quevedo - ¿Podrías nombrar algún protagonista literario con el que te hayas identificado?

Con la serpiente dorada, Pierre Bézujov, Razumjin

Gabriela Labudda Mi Hija

ARTIST OF THE MONTH: JOHN NOLAN

ARTS/ARTE

WHAT’S THE ART?

By John Nolan f I understood why I paint, I probably would have stopped by now because I would have found what I was looking for, and thereby lose the need to explore and develop.

Painting for me is a life long journey of exploration, my need to create Art is as strong as anyones need to live.

The subject of my work is colour. My paintings have been inspired by many artists including Vincent Van Gogh, Howard Hodgkins, Tony O Malley, Albert Irvin, Louis Le Brocquy, Picasso, Andy Warhol, Jackson Pollock, Matisse, the list is endless.

My working method for both abstracts and contemporary pieces is similar. Obviously the paint is more freely applied when attacking an abstract. Each painting is built up using a solid field of saturated colour, on top of which even more intense and pure colours are laid. I use acrylics which are very versatile and can be easily adapted to either thin or impasto effects without losing intesity.

Most of my work takes place on the canvas. Prepatory sketches are fleeting and are only used in order to work up the courage to attack the blank canvas - A new canvas is alway a frightening sight for any artist.

The proverbial agony and ecstacy that is the artist's lot ( often more agony than ecstasy) is something we all have to live with, except when we are guided by that powerful creative force where everything falls into place and we manage to produce that rare masterpiece, not knowing how we really did it, and unable to recapture it. This is the spur that drive me onward.

Over the course of my career, I have assembled a visual language of motifs, which is evident in my contemporary work. I simplify the image in order to explore the colour combinations. Bold outlines combined with bright colours define the compostion and transmit an upbeat feeling. Primitive cave paintings are a great source of inspiration for me. Across the

I

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centuries we can still relate to these striking images that proves the power of shape and colour.

I have explored many themes through my comtemporary style over the years and at present I am working on a series of paintings paying homage to the great masters. I incorporate images and allusions from the paintings of the great masters into my work. This series contrasts my motifs with many of the great icons of art history. I have attempted to make elegantly economical use of simple motifs which are explored in various compostions.

Music has always been very important for John. His abstract work is hugely inspired by Jazz.

For John, art is a visual language, an important means of communication, he creates each piece as a unique experience - " Art is everywhere, all around us, all we need to do is open our eyes and enjoy, art is for everyone" says John.

Only my muses know what the future holds and they are not forthcoming - despite the odd pint of Guinness.

ARTIST OF THE MONTH: JOHN NOLAN BIOGRAPHY John Nolan John Nolan was born in Dublin - Ireland in 1958. For John, painting is in his blood, he has been painting since the age of 7 due the influence of his father who was also an artist.

As a child I was literally surrounded by art. The walls and ceilings of our house were covered in murals and friezes by my father. Our small bedroom was decorated with scenes from Hollywood movies, and on the ceiling his magical paintbrush had created scenes from the Sistine Chapel.

With my father's continued encouragement and support I entered many art competitions here in Ireland and at the tender age of 7 was selected as one of the winners. The thrill of the accasion turned my young life around : I wanted to be an Artist.

After briefly attending art college, I realised it wasn't for me. My foundation course had been completed many years previously my upbringing with the daily drawing and painting lessons brought to life by my father's expertise and enthuasiasm and the weekly visits to various exhibitions and galleries.

After many years working in a representational style the focus of my work eventually became colour. I explore colour through my abstract and contemporar y styles. Since finding my direction in art, I have developed a very

ARTS/ARTE

distinctive style which is instantly recognisable and creates a new and exciting dynamic.

Most people expect to hear I live in some exotic location and fail to understand how I can produce such a riotous celebration of colour while living as I do in the watery greyness of Dublin, famous for the blackness of its Guinness !

What I put on canvas is pure creative explorat i o n from m y imagination, I u s e an inspirational palette.

John has also seen life on the other side of the fence. He was once a gallery owner. He ran a small establishment called The Basement, a friendly place where browsers were treated to a cup of tea and a chat. "It was too Utopian to work. Generally, it's not a good idea for artists to go into the gallery business."

John was nominated by the International committee, as one of the artists to represent Ireland at " The Biennale Internazionale Dell Arte Contemporanea " (The florence Biennale, Italy) which took place in Florence in December 2003. It was a great honour for John as an Irish Artist to represent Ireland at this international venue, and a great honour, yet again, to be recognised internationally.

For more informtion about John Nolan and his work please v i s i t www.nolanart.com YAREAH MAGAZINE

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ARTISTa del mes: gabriela labudda

ARTS/ARTE

Nací en Costa Rica donde pasé gran parte de mi vida. Desde muy niña me gustaba expresarme por medio del dibujo y la pintura. El inicio de mi carrera como artista solo puede definirse como uno autodidacta. En 1993 me mudé a Hamburgo en donde estudié diseño gráfico. Muchas de mis pinturas han sido expuestas en diversas ciudades de Alemania así como en Costa Rica. Me gusta pintar temas que no solo atraigan al ojo del espectador sino que motiven sus emociones, creando así un espacio íntimo y mágico con el artista.

QUÉ ES EL ARTE? Por Gabriela Labudda

C

ada artista puede definir el arte de distintas formas. Es posible que muchos coincidan en que el arte es una forma de expresar sentimientos como la alegría, el sufrimiento o el miedo, así como un sinnúmero de ideologías y experiencias culturales o de género. Indudablemente la mitología y la magia son parte integral de mi experiencia cultural y de mi género y están presentes en mi cotidianidad.

Es por ello que al intentar definir el arte solo puedo referirme al modo en que expreso mis experiencias como mujer latinoamericana. Mis pinturas son el medio para mostrar la magia en la que crecí. Ha sido un proceso largo de descubrimiento y formación de mis ideologías y una fuente de liberación espiritual. Sin importar la definición que le demos, el arte es una experiencia personal que generosamente compartimos con otros.

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ARTISTa del mes: gabriela labudda

ARTS/ARTE

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ARTS/ARTE

little great museums

santo stefano rotonDo roMe (italy)

O

Museo Picasso, eugenio arias colec tion.

A LOVELY MUSEUM IN A LITTLE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS. Pza. de Picasso, 1. 28730 Buitrago del Lozoya. MADRID (Spain). Tel.: (+34) 91 868 00 56

N

ear Madrid (74 km.), there is a little village called Buitrago de Lozoya where Eugenio Arias, Picasso’s hairdresser and friend, created a marvelous place to honor the painter.

Up to 54 pieces (drawings, paintings, pottery, curiosities…) are showing in an intimate quite atmosphere, free from queues, expensive tickets and pretentious explanations.

Eugenio Arias was born in this little village but due to the Spanish Civil War, he had to flee to France. There, he met other Spanish exiled man: Pablo Picasso. They were friends until the artist’s death.

In 1982, the hairdresser offered the pictures and drawings that the master had given to him (as presents) to the County Council and they created this “monument” that smells of art and friendship.

Visit it! The way is not so difficult and in mountains, landscapes are marvelous too.

Cerca de Madrid (74 Km), hay un pueblecito llamado Buitrago de Lozoya donde Eugenio Arias, barbero y amigo de Picasso, creó un museo para honrar la memoria del pintor.

En un ambiente íntimo y tranquilo, podemos ver unas cincuenta y cuatro piezas (dibujos, pinturas, cerámica, curiosidades…) sin aguantar colas, precios abusivos y pretenciosas explicaciones.

Eugenio Arias nació en este pequeño pueblo pero, a causa de la guerra civil española, debió huir a Francia. Allí conoció a otro compatriota exiliado: Pablo Picasso. Fueron amigos hasta la muerte del artista.

En 1982, el barbero ofreció las pinturas y dibujos que el maestro le había regalado a la Diputación de Madrid y se creó este “monumento” al Arte y la Amistad. ¡No te lo pierdas! Llegar no es tan difícil y los paisajes de montaña también son maravillosos.

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Via de Santo Stefano Rotondo, 7 ROME (tlf: (+39)06 421199)

n the walls which decorate the circular plant of this unknown church, we can find the most terrible torments suffered by the first Christians while defending their faith of all kind of imaginary (sometimes real) attacks committed by Old Pagan Roman Emperors.

Painted in fresco in the 5th century, they represented the spirit of that primitive Catholic Church trying to convince everybody of its past sufferings and strength moral.

Hardly people visit this museum nowadays. However, Charles Dickens was keen on describing all these “horrible?” paintings in detail: cut tongues, pulled ears, broken yaws, skinned bodies…

If you have the opportunity, you should enter in this different place: far away of tourists and far away of beautiful classical pictures.

En los muros que decoran la planta circular de esta desconocida iglesia, podemos encontrar los terrible tormentos que los primeros cristianos padecieron por defender su fe de los imaginarios (a veces reales) ataques cometidos por los antiguos emperadores romanos, demasiado paganos.

Pintadas al fresco en el siglo V, representan el espíritu de aquel primitivo catolicismo que trataba de convencer al mundo de sus pasados sufrimientos y fuerza moral.

Casi nadie visita este museo hoy en día. Sin embargo, Charles Dickens estuvo entusiasmado al verlo y describir en detalle sus “¿horribles?” pinturas: lenguas cortadas, orejas arrancadas, mandíbulas rotas, cuerpos despellejados…

Si tenéis la oportunidad, acudid a este lugar diferente: lejos de los turistas y de las bellas pinturas clásicas.

Bomarzo is a small town located on a tufa rock overlooking the Tiber valley. Houses are packed around two palaces belonging to the Orsini family which played a major role in Roman affairs for many centuries.

In the XVIth century however the fortunes of the Orsini were declining while another family, the Farnese were trying to consolidate their wealth and their power during the pontificate (1534-50) of Pope Paulus III, Alessandro Farnese.

T

he marriage between Vicino Orsini and Giulia Farnese helped both families: the Orsini made an alliance with the Farnese who had acquired most towns of northern Latium (Nepi and the Duchy of Castro); the Farnese saw their new status recognized by one the most ancient Roman families.

The couple set their residence in Bomarzo which must have had a very wearisome appearance.

Vicino Orsini concluded he had to do something about it: his relative Cardinal Alessandro Farnese was building in Caprarola a very large palace embellished by a splendid garden. He felt the Orsini too had to show their wealth.

Old Bomarzo is situated between two palaces belonging to the Orsini: the first one, at the entrance of the town has some medieval features, while the second one has a distinctive Renaissance design.

Coats of arms of the Orsini combined with monograms of Vicino Orsini decorate the external walls and the streets of Bomarzo. Certainly the inhabitants of Bomarzo gained from all this building activity of their lord, but their living conditions were nonetheless very miserable.

XVIIIth century travellers who crossed the border between the Granduchy of Tuscany and the Papal State were struck by seeing the inhabitants of villages and small towns living in caves.

The house shown above has retained a ground floor dug into the rock: the two floors above the

ARTS/ARTE

Magic gardens:BOMArzo

door are a relatively recent addition so originally the house consisted of just a single room getting light from the door.

In some cases tombs, which the Etruscans had cut in the rock, were turned into houses. The towns of Grotte (caves) di Castro and Grotte di S. Stefano retain in their names a description of their former appearance.

Vicino Orsini took care of the only church of old Bomarzo, which was given an elegant Renaissance façade (the steps are a later addition). The old bell tower is decorated with a Roman funerary relief, while the church has a couple of bears holding a rose: the rose is an element of the Orsini's coat of arms, while the bear (orso in Italian) is a traditional reference to the Orsini.

Giulia Farnese passed away in 1564 and her husband dedicated to her an intriguing garden in the valley below Bomarzo. Giulia was a daughter of Galeazzo Farnese, Duke of Latera, a relative of Pope Paulus III. She must not be confused with another Giulia Farnese, elder sister of the pope, who made use of her beauty to entice Pope Alexander VI to promote the career of her brother: she was so successful that he was appointed cardinal at the age of 26.

At the entrance of the garden Vicino Orsini built a sort of temple, which is a mix of classical and Renaissance elements. The ceiling of the porch is decorated with the rose of the Orsini and the lilies of the Farnese.

The garden is today known as Parco dei Mostri, but this is a modern name and as a matter of fact many other late Renaissance gardens have sculptures portraying mythological animals or gigantic faces. But the Orsini garden was abandoned for centuries and its sculptures covered by vegetation and almost forgotten, so when the current owners of the garden started a lengthy restoration to bring it back to its former splendour, the sculptures were labelled as monsters and the name helped in "marketing" the garden.

The gigantic mask was a picnic spot as the mouth has room for seats and a small table.

The mermaid shown above had a practical purpose too: her long tail could be used as a bench.

What makes Bomarzo so different from other Renaissance gardens is its lack of symmetry. A relatively small area is crammed with gigantic statues which can be fully seen close-up: the shield of the tortoise comes into view a certain distance away and appears to be the dome of a small temple: only at a few yards from it one discovers the rest of the body.

Without doubt Vicino Orsini wanted to surprise his guests: probably he realized his garden could not compete in size and richness with those of other more powerful Italian families and he

Roberto Piperno Roberto Piperno

I was born in 1946 in Alexandria Roberto Piperno (Egypt). My family moved to http://www.romeartlover.it Italy when I was a child and I grew up in Florence. I remember visiting the museum of "Firenze com'era" (Florence as it was) and getting very much impressed by the changes which had occurred over the centuries. I believe my interest in fitting into the past the monuments and the buildings of a city started then.

This is a picture of myself at the time. chose to enhance its originality.

Unlike other gardens which were continuously visited through the centuries and of which we know the meaning of fountains and sculptures, for most of the statues of this garden we do not have a convincing explanation of how the subjects were selected and assembled. For sure the combat elephant is a reference to either Hannibal or Pyrrhus who both made use of them to disrupt the Roman legions: but how this is linked to the life and actions of Vicino Orsini we do not know.

The puzzling impact of the statues is even increased by the many sentences written on vases or plates, which rather than explaining confuse even more. What can be said about a small leaning house which serves as a passage from the upper to the lower garden? The inscription does not shed light on the purpose of this earthquake stricken building.

Maybe Vicino Orsini had a spiritual heir in the Prince of Palagonia, whose residence near Palermo was visited by J. W. Goethe in 1787 who wrote in his Italian Journey: "Our entire day has been taken up with the madness of the Prince of Pallagonia. His follies turned out to be quite different from anything I had imagined after hearing and reading about them. .. the drive to the house is unusually broad and each wall has been transformed into an uninterrupted socle (base) on which excellent pedestals sustain strange groups interspersed with vases. The repulsive appearance of these deformities, botched by inferior stonecutters, is reinforced by the crumbly shell-tufa of which they are made ...

In the house the fever of the Prince rises to a delirium. The legs of the chairs have been unequally sawn off, so that no one can sit on them.... "

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the myth of melusina

MYTHS and legends/MITOS y leyendas

Elinas, King of Albania, to divert his grief for the death of his wife, amused himself with hunting. One day, at the chase, he went to a fountain to quench his thirst. As he approached it he heard the voice of a woman singing, and on coming to it he found there the beautiful fay Pressina.

A

fter some time the fay bestowed her hand upon him, on the condition that he should never visit her at the time of her lying-in. She had three daughters at a birth: Melusina, Melior, and Palatina. Nathas, the king's son by a former wife, hastened to convey the joyful tidings to his father, who, without reflection, flew to the chamber of the queen, and entered as she was bathing her daughters. Pressina, on seeing him, cried out that he had broken his word, and she must depart. And taking up her three daughters, she disappeared.

She retired to the Lost Island, so called because it was only by chance any, even those who had repeatedly visited it, could find it. Here she reared her children, taking them every morning to a high mountain, whence Albania might be seen, and telling them that but for their father's breach of promise they might have lived happily in the distant land which they beheld.

When they were fifteen years of age, Melusina asked her mother particularly of what their father had been guilty. On being informed of it, she conceived the design of being revenged on him. Engaging her sisters to join in her plans, they set out for Albania. Arrived there, they took the king and all his wealth, and, by a charm, enclosed him in a high mountain, called Brandelois. On telling their mother what they had done, she, to punish them for the unnatural action, condemned Melusina to become every Saturday a serpent, from the

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waist downwards, till she should meet a man who would marry her under the condition of never seeing her on a Saturday, and should keep his promise. She influenced other judgements on her two sisters, less severe in proportion to their guilt.

Melusina now went roaming through the world in search of the man who was to deliver her. She passed through the Black Forest, and that of Ardennes, and at last she arrived in the forest of Colombiers, in Poitou, where all the fays of the neighborhood came before her, telling her they had been waiting for her to reign in that place.

Raymond having accidentally killed the count, his uncle, by the glancing aside of his boar-spear, was wandering by night in the forest of Colombiers. He arrived at a fountain that rose at the foot of a high rock. This fountain was called by the people the Fountain of

Gabriela Labudda Dreaming Thirst, or the Fountain of the Fays, on account of the many marvelous things which had happened at it.

At the time, when Raymond arrived at the fountain, three ladies were diverting themselves there by the light of the moon, the principal of which was Melusina. Her beauty and her amiable manners quickly won his love. She soothed him, concealed the deed he had done, and married him, he promising on his oath never to desire to see her on a Saturday. She assured him that a

the myth of melusina

MYTHS a nd legends /MITO S y leyen da s

breach of his oath would forever deprive him of her whom he so much loved, and be followed by the unhappiness of both for life. Out of her great wealth she built for him, in the neighborhood of the Fountain of Thirst, where he first saw her, the castle of Lusignan. She also built La Rochelle, Cloitre Malliers, Mersent, and other places.

But destiny, that would have Melusina single, was incensed against her. The marriage was made unhappy by the deformity of the children born of one that was enchanted. But still Raymond's love for the beauty that ravished both heart and eyes remained unshaken. Destiny renewed her attacks. Raymond's cousin had excited him to jealousy and to secret concealment, by malicious suggestions of the purport of the Saturday retirement of the countess. He hid himself; and then saw how the lovely form of Melusina ended below in a snake, gray and skyblue, mixed with white. But it was not horror that seized him at the sight, it was infinite anguish at the reflection that through his breach of faith he might lose his lovely wife forever.

Yet this misfortune had not speedily come on him, were it not that his son, Geoffroi with the Tooth [a boar's tusk projected from his mouth], had burned his brother Freimund, who would stay in the abbey of Malliers, with the abbot and a hundred monks. At which the afflicted father, Count Raymond, when his wife Melusina was entering his closet to comfort him, broke out into these words against her, before all the courtiers who attended her, "Out

of my sight, thou pernicious snake and odious serpent! thou contaminator of my race!"

M e l u s i n a 's former anxiety was now verified, and the evil that had lain so long in ambush had now fearfully sprung on him and her.

At these reproaches she fainted away; John Nolan a n d Shadow trees. 36x36. when at length of Lusignan, then will it be certain that she revived, full of the profoundest in that very year the castle will get a grief, she declared to him that she new lord; and though people may not must now depart from him, and, in perceive me in the air, yet they will see obedience to a decree of destiny, fleet me by the Fountain of Thirst; and thus about the earth in pain and suffering, shall it be so long as the castle stand as a specter, until the day of doom; in honor and flourishing -- especially and that only when one of her race on the Friday before the lord of the was to die at Lusignan would she be- castle shall die." come visible.

Immediately, with wailing and loud laHer words at parting were these, "But mentation, she left the castle of Lusigone thing will I say unto thee before I nan, and has ever since existed as a part, that thou, and those who for specter of the night. more than a hundred years shall succeed thee, shall know that whenever I Raymond died as a hermit on Monseam seen to hover over the fair castle rrat.

ESTUDIO TORRE DE DIBUJO Y PINTURA c/ LARRA 11, MADRID http://www.estudiotorre.es

MYYHS AND MATHS MITOS Y MATES

Por Noa Martín Vázquez

Fiabilidad... oímos con bastante frecuencia esa palabra, y en la mayoría de esas ocasiones va acompañada con datos matemáticos. Pero esos datos en realidad no nos aportan casi información, incluso nos pueden llegar a confundir sobre lo que realmente se esconde detrás, es como si leyéramos el principio de una palabra y con eso tuviéramos que interpretar lo que ya está escrito (al leer “cas”, pude que sea la palabra casa, o castillo o cascarrabias).

U

n caso que puede llegar a ser muy dramático se da a la hora de los análisis que diagnostican terribles y extrañas enfermedades. Supongamos que el diagnóstico de una enfermedad tiene una fiabilidad del 99%, para hacerlo más sencillo diremos que tiene la misma fiabilidad en las dos direcciones, es decir, solo el 1% de las veces da falsos positivos y con la misma probabilidad de falsos negativos.

Ahora tenemos que imaginarnos que nos hemos hecho la prueba y nos ha dado positivo, lo normal en esta situación sería entrar en pánico, ya que parece que tenemos un probabilidad del 99% de tener la enfermedad. Pero lo que en realidad deberíamos hacer es intentar “leer” toda la información, para saber cuál es la verdadera situación en que nos encontramos.

Así que e n ese

momento deberíamos acudir al médico y preguntarle qué porcentaje de la población se ve afectado por la enfermedad. Hemos dicho que era una enfermedad poco común, así que vamos a suponer que afecta a un 0,1% de la población, es decir, una de cada 1000 personas.

Ahora ya tenemos información suficiente como para analizar nuestra probabilidad de estar enfermo. Para ello utilizaremos números que siempre simplifican más las cosas: Nos basaremos en una población de 100.000 personas, como la enfermedad afecta al 0,1% de la población habrá 100 personas enfermas y 99.900 personas sanas. Si todas las personas se hicieran el análisis para diagnosticar la enfermedad los resultados que obtendrían se ven en la siguiente tabla: Enfermos Sanos Positivo 99 999 Negativo 1 98.901 Es decir, que de 1098 (999+99) personas que han dado positivo 999 están sanas en realidad y 99 están enfermas. Así que la probabilidad de ser una persona enferma al haber dado positivo en el análisis es de 99/1098, es decir, cerca del 9%. Ahora ya podemos estar más tranquilos, teniendo en cuenta todos los datos.

John Nolan Homage to Juan Gris. 20x20. Acrylic on stretched canvas.

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Gabriela Labudda DieVerkauferin Biografía

Nacida en Segovia, hija pequeña de una familia de cuatro hermanos entre los que existía mucha diferencia de edad. Esta distancia entre los hermanos y Noa hizo más poderosa la influencia de éstos sobre ella. Con sus diferentes carácter le transmitieron tanto el amor por las letras como la pasión por las ciencias, lo cual marcó su carácter para siempre. Estudió matemáticas en la Universidad Autónoma de Madrid mientras colaboraba con algunas editoriales en la realización de libros de texto para institutos. Ahora mismo imparte clases en un instituto de Madrid a la vez que continúa sus estudios en la misma universidad cursando un máster sobre aplicaciones matemáticas.

ISIS Y OSIRIS (VII) Queen Isis’ magic tear revived her husband Osiris (for then on, Osiris “green face”). His heart started to beat again while his lungs breathed filling Egyptian air of new promises of welfare and justice.

Together, always together, Isis and Osiris continued ruling Egypt and their subjects recovered health and happiness.

La mágica lágrima de la reina Isis revivió a su marido Osiris (conocido desde entonces como Osiris “rostro verde”). Su corazón comenzó a latir de nuevo mientras sus pulmones respiraban y llenaban el aire de Egipto de nuevas promesas de justicia y bienestar.

Juntos, siempre ya juntos, Isis y Osiris continuaron gobernando Egipto y sus súbditos recobraron la salud y la felicidad.

John Nolan Homage to Modigliani. 24x24. Acrylic on streched canvas

reviews/criticas

Título: MORAS Y CRISTIANAS Autoras: Ángeles de Irisarri y Magdalena Lasala Editorial: Salamandra Con un lenguaje seco y austero, la periodista Ángeles de Irisarri nos introduce en el mundo medieval ibérico y nos describe la vida de las cristianas de aquél entonces con maestría y amplitud. Hay reinas y prostitutas, campesinas y sanadoras, monjas e intelectuales. Son diez cuentos diferentes, cada uno dedicado a la peculiar biografía de una mujer que nos susurra desde las frías piedras de las espadañas románicas, que nos calienta desde el fuego de su cabaña gastada, que nos devuelve a un mundo lejano… ahora ya cercano.

Las moras de la polifacética Magdalena Lasala están junto a ellas, como lo estuvieron en Al Andalús, como lo están en nuestra cultura y sueños. El lenguaje se vuelve ahora colorista y poético, es el lenguaje que describe la mentalidad oriental de las sultanas y copistas del Corán, de las esclavas y favoritas, de las princesas de los jardines de naranjos. Son diez relatos diferentes e iguales… caminan junto a las cristianas, a veces delante, otras detrás, casi siempre al lado.

Es un libro de dialogo y profundidad psicológica, un libro escrito con sentimiento y documentación por dos autoras que han sabido complementarse con éxito.

Título: RECONOCER LO QUE ES Autores: Bert Hellinger y Gabriele ten Hövel Editorial: Herder En este libro, el periodista Gabriele ten Hövel entrevista al c o n t ro ve rtido Bert Hellinger para ayudarnos a comprender el p e n s a miento y la terapia de este alemán nacido en 1925, que fue religioso de una orden católica y que estudio con profundidad la cultura de los zulúes, psicoanálisis y diversos métodos de hipnosis antes de desarrollar su propia terapia sistémica y familiar: las Constelaciones Familiares.

Las preguntas de Hövel son acertadas e incisivas y Hellinger responde de manera directa, a veces brutal. Habla de amor, pero también de violencia, adopción e incesto intentando desmitificar verdades establecidas: hay una clara diferencia entre la responsabilidad pública y psicoterapéutica afirma con rotundidad.

A lo largo de sus páginas, se aprende y profundiza y llegamos a entender en que consiste este novedoso (rápido según Hellinger) método de mejora psicológica. Una “performance” colectiva en que improvisados actores se introducen en la piel de desconocidos, llegando a sentir y reaccionar como ellos ante un público sorprendido o enfadado…, nunca indiferente.

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Título: VISIÓN MÁGICA (Ilusiones ópticas en 3D) Autores: Thomas Ditzinger y Armin Kuhn Editorial: Ediciones B

Son treinta y siete láminas tridimensionales y unas gafas especiales (el cristal de un ojo es rojo, el otro azul) que nos permiten adentrarnos en un mundo nuevo y desconocido, verdaderamente divertido y emocionante. ¿Qué ves a simple vista? Un bonito paisaje de un castillo… pero si sigues el método de observación que el libro te indica, tus ojos entran en la ilustración, y ya no hay un castillo sino un dinosaurio o… nunca lo puedes saber, siempre hay una sorpresa, incluso a los experimentados exploradores de la tridimensionalidad (al principio cuesta trabajo mirar de esta especial maAfter many years, when Isis and Osiris nera) siguen esperándoles returned to the Heavens as god and goddess, their son Horus “the falcon” nuevas experiencias.

ISIS Y OSIRIS (VIII) was the new king. He ruled wisely as his parents had taught him and Egypt was the most important country of the world for centuries.

When Horus left our planet, he was commissioned by the rest of gods to protect and to advice the future Egyptian Governors who had the title of “Pharaohs”.

Después de muchos años, cuando Isis y Osiris regresaron al Cielo como Dios y Diosa, su hijo Horus fue el nuevo rey. Gobernó con sabiduría como sus padre le habían enseñado y Egipto fue el país más importante del mundo durante siglos.

Cuando Horus “el halcón” dejó nuestro planeta, los dioses le encargaron la misión de proteger a los futuros gobernantes de Egipto a los que llamarían “faraones”.

MUJICA LAINEZ: BOMArzo

Por Martín Cid

reviews/criticas

Bomarzo es la historia del noble italiano Pier Francesco Orsini, Vicino para los pocos amigos que tenía. Vicino (con cierta sorna, amigos, sí) es jorobado, cruel, bisexual, diletante, amigo de la magia y, sobre todo, noble.

M

ujica Láinez compone así, valiéndose de este elaborado personaje, un complejo fresco de ese período «oscuro» de la humanidad llamado Edad Media, incluyendo anacronismos, falsos testimonios. Por Bomarzo desfilan Miguel Ángel, Benvenuto Cellini, Cervantes, Carlos V y demás personajes históricos que han dado a la obra el nada claro epíteto de «novela histórica».

Pero «Bomarzo» es mucho más que una «novela histórica». Los personajes «reales» dan credibilidad a la historia (si bien es cierto que en ocasiones no ayudan excesivamente a la trama, pero no podemos acusar al esteta que fue Mújica Láinez de ser algo parecido a su espejo). «Bomarzo» es la recreación de un período a través de uno de los personajes. Vicino es un Orsini, rival de los Borgia, rival de los Farnesse y de los Colonna, grandes familias en aquella eterna lucha de poder real, religioso, familiar o territorial, siempre en guerra.

Vicino se cría como la «oveja negra» de la familia, objeto de burlas de sus hermanos y padre (mucho más «medievales» que él). Así, en Vicino se juntan las dos raíces de este período, propuestas en antagonismo: la brutalidad de aquellos tiempos de guerreros y el clasicismo (ya decadente) heredado de los tiempos ancestrales, siempre presentes en aquellas grandes familias.

Vicino-Láinez hace uso de numerosos anacronismos para mostrar precisamente este decadentismo (que muy bien nos recuerda a lo que sería un Baudelaire de «barrio alto», muy alto).

Hay referencias constantes a Freud, al mismo autor de «Las Flores del Mal» y a otros muchos escritores nacidos posteriormente al tiempo en el que, se supone, está escrita la novela. ¿A quién le importa? Láinez es perfectamente consciente de este hecho y juega con ello para crear incertidumbre hasta el

final. Los trucos de magia con los que que el duque de Bomarzo juega no son tan diferentes de los empleados por Mujica Láinez: Vicino nace en el engaño como nace Láinez, hijo de la verdadera literatura, de aquélla clásica y veraz en un juego de espejos, truculento y real. El duque de Bomarzo se enfrenta constantemente con su imagen desfigurada, unas veces transfigurada en el rostro de un demonio, otras en sus propios sueños, otras en sus palabras. Engaños, bellas mentiras reencarnadas.

Si hay algo a destacar del libro (y mucho hay) es precisamente el empleo del lenguaje. Láinez, descendiente de aristócratas, hace uso de las historias y de los clásicos (a destacar los «sutiles» juegos lingüísticos con Ariosto, autor del «Orlando Furioso»), empleando las expresiones de la época y las historias que, enrevesadas por el tiempo y una mente deformada, han llegado a nosotros. Y es que,paradógicamente, Láinez no pretende hacer historia, sino Historia, y es que, ya lo decía Unamuno, la novela es quizá la más veraz de las historias. La realidad, comprobada o no, poco importa, sino la visión poliédrica y barroca de este noble medieval.

El bosque, siempre el bosque, leitmotiv de los deseos y aspiraciones. Vicino descubre una ruta secreta dentro del castillo de Bomarzo, allí instalará su gran obra, el «sacro bosque». Son imágenes que resumen una vida, una época. Contrariamente al gusto clásico

de Pier Francesco, el bosque se plaga de imágenes casi neo-góticas (se puede visitar en la provincia italiana de Viterbo). Pero las estatuas no son reales, son construcciones de los sueños, superación de un manierismo próximo, aspiración clásica, descripción estructuralista... Todo cabe en el «sacro bosque», porque todo cabe en el aristócrata con toques de mendigo altivo.

El duque de Bomarzo yace sobre su escritorio, reflejo que nos mira, amanerado.

«Bomarzo» es una novela larga, difícil (sobre todo en estos tiempos de personajes amables y groseramente estúpidos), pero es también una novela apasionante y compleja, repetitiva, poética y siempre novedosa, pretérita, moderna, paradógica, cruel, europea, profundamente argentina..., mentirosa y, sobre todo, falsamente sincera, verdadera.

Biografía

Martín Cid nació en Oviedo el veintiséis de junio de 1976. Escritor no demasiado prolífico, novelista principalmente, ha tratado otros campos como la poesía y el ensayo y la crítica (literaria Ha publicado una novelas (“Ariza”) y “Un Siglo de Cenizas” aparecerá publicada en el 2009.

Es editor de la revista Yareah.

Web: http://www.martincid.com

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Homo svm: HVUMANI NIHIL A ME ALIENVM PVTO Por Juan Ignacio Guglieri

Huc geminas nunc flecte acies, hanc aspice gentem Romanosque tuos. Hic Caesar et omnis Iuli progenies magnum caeli ventura sub axem Virgilio, Eneida

John Nolan Homage to Picasso. 24x24 acrylic on stretched canvas.

YAREAH MAGAZINE Director/Editor: Martín Cid Arts Section/Arte: Isabel del Río Lost Paradises/Paraísos Perdidos: Silvia Cuevas Mostacero Entre Mitos y Mates: Noa Martín Vázquez Paintings: Gabriela Labudda y John Nolan Contributors/Colaboradores: Mark O’Connor Delfina Acosta Terry Bisson José María Ortega Sanz John Nolan Gabriela Labudda Juan Ignacio Guglieri

Special Thanks to:

John Nolan and Gabriela Labudda for their fantastic pictures; Gianfranco Zanardo for this wonderful masks that paint the magazine of plenty colours... and, of course, all of the contributors. You are the real aim of Yareah.

See you on number two.

Agradecimientos especiales: A John Nolan y Gabriela Labudda por sus fantásticos cuadros; Gianfranco Zanardo por estas maravillosas máscaras que llenan de color la revista... y, por supuesto, a todos los colaboradores. Sois la verdadera alma de Yareah..

Nos vemos en el número dos.

Aquellos paseos vespertinos le relajaban del trabajo que desempeñaba como administrador militar de la guarnición en la nueva plaza ganada para Su Majestad. No le desagradaba la ocupación. Además, obtenía sustanciosas ganancias. Volvería a Inglaterra con la dignidad que su linaje requería. ¿Qué sería de Catherine? Extraordinaria mujer. Nadie como ella sabía hacer agradable la vida a su tío. Él le admiraba. Admiraba a Sir Isaac sinceramente. Sin duda era un sabio. Y tenían aficiones comunes: la Antigüedad. Vería a Newton en cuanto regresara a casa y le visitaría en la Royal Society para comentarle cuanto había curioseado por estas playas a unas leguas de Gibraltar.

Entre restos de antiguas construcciones, ¿un teatro?, ¿un muelle portuario?, fragmentos de cerámica, algún que otro mármol, a John le venía a la memoria la emoción de su preceptor en la prestigiosa Westminster School de los años de formación. Sobre todo revivía el entusiasmo con el que el maestro leía aquel pasaje de la Eneida de Virgilio, cuando Anquises en los Campos Elíseos muestra a su hijo, Eneas, el futuro de su estirpe. Parafraseaba los hexámetros diciendo: “¿Ves, hijo, aquellos que, tras atravesar el río del Olvido, se dirigen a la luz, a la vida? Ésa es tu descendencia”. Los personajes, a los que Anquises señalaba, explicaba el preceptor, eran los romanos. ¡Roma! Roma era el destino de Eneas; de él surgiría la estirpe que fundaría Roma, con la misión de dominar a los demás pueblos y extender sobre ellos la civilización. John percibía cierto nudo en la garganta de su preceptor. Era un momento solemne: ¡Roma eterna! ¡Estos preceptores! Allá, en Inglaterra, eran inconcebibles unos primeros estudios que consistieran en otra cosa que no fuera latín, latín y más latín.

Aquello dejaba huella. Lo mismo le había pasado, antes que a él, a su admirado sabio de la Física y las Matemáticas, Newton, el tío de Catherine.

Por entonces Sir Isaac estaba interesado por la ciudad de Carteia, establecimiento romano cerca de las columnas de Hércules, que se dedicó a los hijos de las mujeres hispanas habidos con soldados de las legiones romanas. Así lo había escrito Tito Livio.

John tropezó. Demasiadas abstracciones. Cayó de bruces y allí, delante de sus narices, apareció la moneda. En ella se apreciaba a Neptuno con su tridente. También un delfín. En la otra cara de la moneda la cabeza de una mujer. Iba tocada con una corona en forma de torre. Y una leyenda: CARTEIA. Había que contárselo a Newton. Catherine le esperaba.

John Conduitt volvió a Inglaterra desde Gibraltar. Gozó de una excelente posición social. Se casó con Catherine Barton, sobrina de Newton (1717).

El matrimonio cuidó del gran sabio en la última etapa de su vida. La Royal Society de Londres publicó un estudio de Conduitt sobre la ciudad romana de Carteia. Carteia también aparece en una obra histórica de Newton, The Cronology of Ancient Kingdoms Amended. La lápida de Conduitt se ve en la Abadía de Westminster frente al monumento funerario de Newton.

Juan Ignacio Guglieri Vázquez.

Este profesor de latín, nacido en Madrid en 1951, ha dedicado largos años de docencia a la enseñanza de los rudimentos de la lengua del Lacio. Aparte de esto y de entregarse en su tiempo libre a la holganza, a la que tiene especial afición, según declara, se ha interesado por los estudios de humanismo y pervivencia del mundo clásico.