When poet is a human being like everyone else.
The El Señorio del Sulco restaurant https://www.senoriodesulco.com/, is famed for its repertoire of Peruvian coastal tradition, that blends Spanish and native influences. The city has inspired novelist Mario Vargas Llosa, is been home to the country’s most beloved Peruvian novelists and poets. Lima remains a great place to walk in that writer’s footsteps. When you enter Bar Queirolo http://antiguatabernaqueirolo.com/, not forget has served Peruvian writers for generations. Your Peruvian’s poetic souvenir book? The Librería El Virrey https://www.elvirrey.com/, it is a bookstore in one of the best locations in Miraflores.
Considered one of the most important poetic rumors of the genre in Latin America. BLANCA VARELA was a writer born in Lima in an August day of 1926. In this city, she was attracted to poetry, studying at the University of San Marcos, where she met a painter who would be her future husband and father of their two sons. In Paris, in 1949, she met Octavio Paz, exposed to the literary life of the time. She lived also in Florence and Washington, devoting herself to translation and journalism.
In 2006, she became the first woman to win the international “Federico García Lorca” poetry award. She was not used to giving interviews, and even her public appearances were poor. The international recognition of her work is evidenced by the fact that some of the works of BLANCA VARELA have been translated into German, French, English, Italian, Portuguese and Russian. She died in Lima on a December day of 2009.
WHITE LADY – The poem is my body, this poem the tired flesh, the dream that the sun crosses deserts the boundaries of the soul’s touch. And I remember you Dickinson, precious soft ghost. The time and distance in the other’s mouth are missing, you fall into the air, and you are the air striking my forehead is invisible with salt. The ends of the soul’s touch are closed; the earth is heard to rotate. That noise without blind sand light, striking us in this way will be eyes that were mouth, which said hands, which open and close empty, distant in your window. See the wind that passes, you see your face pass in the flames posthumous, the star of summer and you fall snow made of birds in the source of the earth in oblivion. And come back with the false name of a woman, wearing your winter clothes with your white mourning winter clothes.
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