Daniel Cabrera en Concierto

Sin importar la alta temperatura veraniega un gran público se dio cita a la sala Juan F García del Conservatorio Nacional de Música para deleitarse la noche de este martes 14 de Junio, con el joven maestro Daniel Cabrera quién con motivo de su graduación en Profesor de Musica: Primera Enseñanza ofreció un reportorio clásico a piano entre los que resalta la rapsodia dominicana, Sambumbia.

De una pieza musical a otra, las palabras emotivas de sus padres y la oblación de aplausos el también estudiante de matemáticas de 21 años sorprendió con reconocimiento especial a la  maestra del centro artístico,Maria Irene Blanco,actualmente directora del mismo.

Cabrera se reconoce por su trayectoria y empeño en avanzar como músico recibiendo mención de honor en el 2007 en el IX  Festival de Musica Latinoamericana, más su contínua participación en eventos de la música lo llevó a compartir escenario en clases magistrales junto a pianistas internacionales como Maria Asteridou y Antonio Pompa Baldi.

"Estoy muy feliz por su noche de gala musical,a pesar de las inclemencias de la temperatura, las notas musicales salian a relucir,te olvidabas de todo, tenías una clase de re-encuentro con tus sentimientos y con tu ser" comentó Jesús Barruos colega de universidad.

El evento que conto con el apoyo del Dirección Gral de Bellas y Ministerio de Cultura culminó pasadas dos horas y media de melodiosas notas agradando a los presentes con un brindis acompañado de una tarjea regalo  para maestros/as del CNM.


Nicole García

Siembra la semilla en tierra firme

Elogio a quienes encuentran su vocación sin mirar muy adentro entre las páginas de un libro, admiro las maravillas de la vida expresadas en las diferencias de raciocinio, creo que hay muchas decisiones parecidas a tener un hijo planeado o no, la importancia esta en dar algo de sí mismo.

La sociedad te empuja y limita, la familia te impulsa a tomar acciones, mas las decisiones aunque llenas de incertidumbre y miedo solo son tuyas. Para muchos pudiera ser una comparación fuera de lugar, le daré contexto, no soy madre mas tengo una idea de cómo es serlo, las mujeres a mi alrededor tienes hijos  en su pubertad otras estudian y no bien tienen su título en las manos cuando en su vientre llevan a su bebe y las otras, no profundizare mucho en eso. Atentos no se trata de juzgar, es una realidad cultural y por eso no condenable, porque simplemente la causa, Dios, nos hizo a todos/as libres.

Yo soy una más que me enamoré a temprana edad, aunque por mucho tiempo vi lo de afuera desde una ventana, yo decidí salir y me embaracé con tan solo 16 años con cabeza en alto, defendiéndome tal cual una fiera ante todas las amenazas y sufrí esos empujes de la sociedad y esos impulsos de mi familia que me hacían tener los peores malestares pensables, así comencé a subir escalones aunque herida y golpeada por la pobreza, humillada por qué me faltaba vitaminas del conocimiento jerárquico catedrático, pero no me importo yo seguí tomando cada reserva en mi cuerpo.

Los meses eran como años, mas entre risas y llantos disfrute mucho ese embarazo tuve  momentos de florecimiento cuando podía sentarme y disfrutar de las ricas cenas, esas que con tanto cariño preparaban mami y tía, me las guardaban únicamente en la noche para que pudiera soportar los días de hambre y de sed, me encontraba con unas matas que producen cocos  de ricas aguas, a quienes la gente llaman profesores, esos que se meneaban con el viento para que mi criatura pudiera alimentarse.

Esos días, sin duda eran los más felices. Lo único que puedo sentir mío, mi criatura, me pateaba dejándome sentir su alegría, aunque a veces se ocultaba ante la ignorancia de las noches oscuras de nubes picantes a los ojos, esas noches largas, tenebrosas pobladas de hombres desarmados y encapuchados a quienes la policía  respondía con tiros cuando ellos solo usaban carteles a la suma piedras para alejarlos. Yo con paciencia soportaba los empujones y llegue a casa sana aunque débil, no podía más que nutrir con páginas a mi criatura perdiendo la noción del tiempo para que el sol me lo recodara.

Llegamos a 8 meses como años, mi cosita debió abrir sus ojos a este mundo antes, el miedo le enfermo impidiéndole salir causándome así los dolores más intensos e inimaginables. Hoy esta toma decisiones con autonomía, llega a lo profundo de mí ser y decide alumbrar nuestras vidas.

Mi criatura trae un pergamino con insignias en él su nombre "Estudia", es fuerte, no teme a nada, siento que vino a reemplazar mi pobreza. Cuando la miro veo en sus ojos la  avidez de gatear, explorar e ir más lejos acercándose a la gente. Siempre humilde regalándome en cada paso la libertad.

Quisiera que muchos vivan la experiencia que ilumina los espacios con sencillez y trabaja arduamente en cada uno como persona, como individuos sociales.

Yo decido ser una partícula en el universo, una semilla para tierra que necesita frutos. 

  Imagen: Fuente externa

 

 Nicole García

23/Feb./2016

República Dominicana, Fiesta y Tradición

 Para compartir la alegría del carnaval dominicano, no se puede estar por todas partes hay que Vivirlo en Quisqueya. NG

The joy of moonlight sonata

Concerns about facts neither of both had lived,

We as possible witnesses of broken models in an unknown future,

Outside the grass jumpers play music to the moon

You awaken by birds sings to the sun and the bee around pretending ignore you

 even not content, distract the bright stars from me.

The moonlight sonata unites our heart in the same beat

through the wireless that today lift us to antique letters.

The silence became our perfect scenario

miles of deep blue kingdom were not distant enough

to keep the Ode of joy

that enters as whisper to our ears.

Souls embrace in just one stare

differences now die forgotten to the act of your lips on mine

and the heat of our bodies presence the classic dance

where merciless time catches us play with the wind and fire.

Angels are praying these ashes travels springs and autumns

to conceive the pleasure of our desires

that unconsciously rejoices every dawn

with hopes to wake up under warm sheets

where the brown land and the blue sea meet in a smile

 after eruptions accept cool drops of dews

and the night ends with the promise of a morning next to you.

 Blake

Nicole García. 29/Nov./2011

There is a country in the world

There is
  A country in the world
                          located
In the same way the sun,
A native of the night,
                         located
In an improbable archipelago
of  Sugar and rum
                          simply
light,
            As a bat's wing
Supported in the breeze.

                         Simply,
Clear,
As the trail of kiss on the singles
antiques
          Or the day on the roof.
                        Simply
Fruit, fluvial and material. Yet
Simply hot and kicked

as a teenager in the hips
simply sad and oppressed.
Sincerely wild and uninhabited.

Indeed.
With three million
                           Sum of life
And among all
              Four cardinal ridges
And a huge bay and another huge bay,
Three peninsulas adjacent islands
And a wonder of vertical rivers
And land under trees and land
Under the rivers and the foothills of Mount
and at the foot of the hill and beyond the horizon
and earth from the roosters cantío¹
and earth under the gallop of horses
and land on the day, under the map around
and under all the tracks and through love.

 
Then
                       This is what I said.

There is
A country in the world
just wild and uninhabited.
Some love will believe
that in this fluvial country where the land rises,
And it pours and cracks like a broken vein,
Where the day has its true triumph,
The farmers will go with amazement and apero²

to cultivate.
                  Singing
                            their own fringe.

This love
Will break his solitary innocence
                                  But no.
And will believe
That in the middle of this rise land,
Everywhere, where rolling hills in the valleys
As fresh blue coins, sleeping in
A forest in each flower and each flower, life
The farmers will  walk for the hill sleeping
To enjoy
              struggling
                            With its own goods.

This love
Double its light arrow.
                         But no.
And will believe
That where the wind assails the innermost clod
And become them summits troops and grasslands,
where each tor looks like a heart,
In every farmer will go the spring
singing
        between the rows

                              their property
This love
Reach its flowering age.
                     But no.
There is
A country in the world
Where a farmer brief
Dry and bitter
                dies and bites
barefoot
           Its powder demolished,
And the land is not enough for its row death.
Hear it well! Not enough to fall asleep.

It is a small country and attacked, just sad
Sad and grim, sad and acrid. As I already said:
Just sad and depressed.
Is not that only.
                              Men are needed
For so much land. That is, are missing men
who undress the Virgin Mountains and make them mothers
After a few songs.
                            Mother of the vegetable
Mother of bread, Mother of the canvas and the roof
request Mother and night by the bed ...
Men are needed to kneel down the trees and then
rise them against the sun and distance.
Against gravity´s the laws.
And I take from them rest, rebellion and clarity.
And men who lie with clay
And left them calving walls.
                              And men
To decipher the river´s gods
And upload them trembling between the networks.
And men on the coasts and in the cold
                              gorges
And in all desolation.

That is, missing men.

                              and need a song.
From the depths of the night
I come to speak of a country.
         Precisely
Poor of population.
         but
                               Is not that only.
Nature of the night I'm the product of a trip.
Give me time
         courage
                              to make the song.
Lung Nest down at the moon
Golden Health open guitar
End of the journey where an island
the peasants have no land.

Tell the wind surnames
Of the thieves and caves
And open your eyes where a disaster
The peasants have no land

The sharp air a brief fist
Is stopped by a stone
Open an injury where the eyes
The peasants have no land.

Those who do not have angels stole
They have orbits between the legs
They don´t have sex where one homeland
The peasants have no land.

They have no peace between the eyelashes
Landless they have no land.

Unlikely country.
                           Where the land springs
And it pours and cracks like a broken vein,
Where it reaches the statue of vertigo,
Where the birds swim or fly but in the middle
There is no more than earth:
                         The peasants have no land.
And then
                        Where did that song come out?
How is this possible?
                       Who says that between the thin
Gold Health
                the peasants have no land?
That's another song. Listen
the delicious song of sugar mills
And rum.

Look at a sudden rush of rail
are of  the sugar mill
Holders of the aborigine green
are of  the sugar mill

And the native mountains

are of  the sugar mill
And the grass and cane and wicker
are of  the sugar mill
And the path and its two scars
are of  the sugar mill
And small towns and virgins
are of  the sugar mill
And the simple man's arms
are of  the sugar mill
And his young veins caliber
are of  the sugar mill
And guards with guns voice
are of  the sugar mill
And the lead spot in the groins
are of  the sugar mill
And the anger and hate without limit
are of  the sugar mill
And the laws are sad and silent
are of  the sugar mill
And the blame is not redeemed
are of  the sugar mill
Twenty times I say it and I said
are of  the sugar mill
"Our fields of glory repeat"
are of  the sugar mill

In the shadow of the anchor persist
are of the sugar mill
Although shed the burden of crime
Far from the port
With the blood, the sweat and salt
are of the sugar mill.
And this is the result.

The bright day
Returning through the glass
of Sugar, first meet the farmer.
Then to wood worker and the chopper
                                of cane.
Surrounded by his children filling the roads.
And the child of guarapo³ and then the serene old
with the clock, watching him with his secret death
and the young girl sewing early its eyelids
in the sack hundred thousand, and the trail of salary
Lost among the leaves of the timekeeper. And to sweaty profile
of the chargers wrapped in their dark muscle´s cloaks.

And the celestial mason
Placing in the sky the last brick
of the fireplace. And to the gray carpenter
jabbing the coffin for the immediate death
When the whistle blows, white and definitive,

 that the rest contains.

The bright day wakes up in the back
Suddenly, running between the rails
Climb up the crane, falls into the stores.
In the yards at the foot of a laundress,
Wet in the songs, crackle and rejuvenates.
On the streets complaining in the proclamation. Just

their foot stands out tears the cribs.

Walk around the cities full of lawyers
they are just signatures and silence, to the poets
they are nothing but fog and silence and judges
Silent. Climb, jump, delirious at the corners
And the bright day is solved by an imminent dollar.

One dollar! Here is the result. A gush of blood.
Silent, strict. Blood wound in the wind.
Blood in the effective product of bitterness.
This country is a country that Doesn´t deserves the name of the country.

But grave, coffin, or burial hole.
It is true that I kiss it and it kiss me
And that your kiss will not taste more than blood.
What day will come, hidden in the hope
With her basket full of implacable wrath
And made ​​faces and fists and knives.
But be careful not fair that the punishment
Fall on everyone. Let's find the culprits.

And then drop the infinite weight of the people
upon the shoulders of the guilty.

And so
             Pallor of the moon
                                        passengers’
uninhabited and wild dew,
goes mountains and valleys along the river
Way of the foreign ports.

It is true that the river´s traffic.
Honey ridges, gorges
of sugar and crystal sailors
Will enjoy a metallic whim,
And at the foot of the cooperative effort
the proletarian instinct appears.
But drunk with oregano and anise
and martyr of hot landscapes
There's a man standing in the gears.
Banished in his land. And a country
In the world,
                  fragrant
                               located
In the same way of war.
Land speculators and landless.
Material. Morning. And banished.

And cannot be like that. From soil

will procedure a light whisper

probably hoarse and shed.

Probably in pursuit of  the land.

 artist: Candido Bidó

Pierce the fields and the celestial
domain from east to west

thrilling the last root.

And taking off the heroes from the grave
there will be blood back into the country.
there will be blood back into the country.

And this is my last word.
                             I want it
hear it. I want to see on each door
of religion, where open hands
request a miracle of the estuary.

I want to see the bitterness necessary
where man and the beef and the furrow sleep
and dreams get thin in the germ
of quiet that perpetuates the praying.

Where an angel breathe.
                            where burns
a pale and secret prayer
and following the road lane
a herdsman is extinguished in the afternoon.

After
          I do not want more than peace
                               a nest
of constructive peace in each palm.
And perhaps to the purpose of soul
The swarm of kisses
                      And oblivion.

"Seeing this country so I exploded and kicked in desperation,

I wrote 'There's A Country in the World,"

Pedro Mir,  
 (published Cuba, 1949).

Translation: Nicole García.

3. Guarapo: juice of sugar cane, typically made in The Dominican Republic.

2. Apero: instrument used on farming.

1. Cantío: singing of a rooster.