miércoles, marzo 30, 2016

LA MADRE QUE LOS PARIÓ

Tres días lleva de parto la buena mujer mientras los matasanos en ciernes y el bardo empinan el codo y arman jarana. Por allí se deja caer nuestro caballero que, animoso como siempre, se une a la fiesta de buen grado.

En brillante charla debaten sobre el mandato bíblico de “creced y multiplicaos”, aunque lo único que aumenta son los dolores de la parturienta. Los padres de la lengua aportan cada uno su granito de arena, pero la madre se resiste a soltar lo que lleva dentro.

Sufre el bardo al verse tratado de cura vergonzante y oír cómo se pone en duda su talento. Sus penas son tantas que intenta matarlas bebiendo, pero ni así se mueren. Piadoso, Bloom lo toma bajo su protección.

Cuando por fin se anuncia el feliz desenlace ya nadie recuerda por qué está allí. ¡Horror! Se han acabado las existencias. Todos a la taberna.


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lunes, marzo 28, 2016

Los bueyes del sol. Se intuye" Finnegans Wake".

All off for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street. Bonafides. Where you slep las nigh? Timothy of the battered naggin. Like ole Billyo. Any brollies or gumboots in the fambly? Where the Henry Nevil's sawbones and ole clo? Sorra one o' me knows. Hurrah there, Dix! Forward to the ribbon counter. Where's Punch? All serene. Jay, look at the drunken minister coming out of the maternity hospal! Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius. A make, mister. The Denzille lane boys. Hell, blast ye! Scoot. Righto, Isaacs, shove em out of the bleeding limelight. Yous join uz, dear sir? No hentrusion in life. Lou heap good man. Allee samee dis bunch. En avant, mes enfants! Fire away number one on the gun. Burke's! Burke's! Thence they advanced five parasangs. Slattery's mounted foot. Where's that bleeding awfur? Parson Steve, apostates' creed! No, no, Mulligan! Abaft there! Shove ahead. Keep a watch on the clock. Chuckingout time. Mullee! What's on you? Ma mère m'a mariée. British Beatitudes! Retamplatan Digidi Boumboum. Ayes have it. To be printed and bound at the Druiddrum press by two designing females. Calf covers of pissedon green. Last word in art shades. Most beautiful book come out of Ireland my time. Silentium! Get a spurt on. Tention. Proceed to nearest canteen and there annex liquor stores. March! Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are (atitudes!) parching. Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs battleships, buggery and bishops. Whether on the scaffold high. Beer, beef, trample the bibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers. Thunderation! Keep the durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops boosebox. Halt! Heave to. Rugger. Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow, my tootsies! You hurt? Most amazingly sorry!
Query. Who's astanding this here do? Proud possessor of damnall. Declare misery. Bet to the ropes. Me nantee saltee. Not a red at me this week gone. Yours? Mead of our fathers for the Übermensch. Dittoh. Five number ones. You, sir? Ginger cordial. Chase me, the cabby's caudle. Stimulate the caloric. Winding of his ticker. Stopped short never to go again when the old. Absinthe for me, savvy? Caramba! Have an eggnog or a prairie oyster. Enemy? Avuncular's got my timepiece. Ten to. Obligated awful. Don't mention it. Got a pectoral trauma, eh, Dix? Pos fact. Got bet be a boomblebee whenever he wus settin sleepin in hes bit garten. Digs up near the Mater. Buckled he is. Know his dona? Yup, sartin I do. Full of a dure. See her in her dishybilly. Peels off a credit. Lovey lovekin. None of your lean kine, not much. Pull down the blind, love. Two Ardilauns. Same here. Look slippery. If you fall don't wait to get up. Five, seven, nine. Fine! Got a prime pair of mincepies, no kid. And her take me to rests and her anker of rum. Must be seen to be believed. Your starving eyes and allbeplastered neck you stole my heart, O gluepot. Sir? Spud again the rheumatiz? All poppycock, you'll scuse me saying. For the hoi polloi. I vear thee beest a gert vool. Well, doc? Back fro Lapland? Your corporosity sagaciating O K? How's the squaws and papooses? Womanbody after going on the straw? Stand and deliver. Password. There's hair. Ours the white death and the ruddy birth. Hi! Spit in your own eye, boss! Mummer's wire. Cribbed out of Meredith. Jesified, orchidised, polycimical jesuit! Aunty mine's writing Pa Kinch. Baddybad Stephen lead astray goodygood Malachi.
Hurroo! Collar the leather, youngun. Roun wi the nappy. Here, Jock braw Hielentman's your barleybree. Lang may your lum reek and your kailpot boil! My tipple. Merci. Here's to us. How's that? Leg before wicket. Don't stain my brandnew sitinems. Give's a shake of peppe, you there. Catch aholt. Caraway seed to carry away. Twig? Shrieks of silence. Every cove to his gentry mort. Venus Pandemos. Les petites femmes. Bold bad girl from the town of Mullingar. Tell her I was axing at her. Hauding Sara by the wame. On the road to Malahide. Me? If she who seduced me had left but the name. What do you want for ninepence? Machree, macruiskeen. Smutty Moll for a mattress jig. And a pull all together. Ex!
Waiting, guvnor? Most deciduously. Bet your boots on. Stunned like, seeing as how no shiners is acoming. Underconstumble? He've got the chinkad lib. Seed near free poun on un a spell ago a said war hisn. Us come right in on your invite, see? Up to you, matey. Out with the oof. Two bar and a wing. You larn that go off of they there Frenchy bilks? Won't wash here for nuts nohow. Lil chile velly solly. Ise de cutest colour coon down our side. Gawds teruth, Chawley. We are nae fou. We're nae tha fou. Au reservoir, mossoo. Tanks you.
'Tis, sure. What say? In the speakeasy. Tight. I shee you, shir. Bantam, two days teetee. Bowsing nowt but claretwine. Garn! Have a glint, do. Gum, I'm jiggered. And been to barber he have. Too full for words. With a railway bloke. How come you so? Opera he'd like? Rose of Castile. Rows of cast. Police! Some H2O for a gent fainted. Look at Bantam's flowers. Gemini. He's going to holler. The colleen bawn. My colleen bawn. O, cheese it! Shut his blurry Dutch oven with a firm hand. Had the winner today till I tipped him a dead cert. The ruffin cly the nab of Stephen Hand as give me the jady coppaleen. He strike a telegramboy paddock wire big bug Bass to the depot. Shove him a joey and grahamise. Mare on form hot order. Guinea to a goosegog. Tell a cram, that. Gospeltrue. Criminal diversion? I think that yes. Sure thing. Land him in chokeechokee if the harman beck copped the game. Madden back Madden's a maddening back. O lust our refuge and our strength. Decamping. Must you go? Off to mammy. Stand by. Hide my blushes someone. All in if he spots me. Come ahome, our Bantam. Horryvar, mong vioo. Dinna forget the cowslips for hersel. Cornfide. Wha gev ye thon colt? Pal to pal. Jannock. Of John Thomas, her spouse. No fake, old man Leo. S'elp me, honest injun. Shiver my timbers if I had. There's a great big holy friar. Vyfor you no me tell? Vel, I ses, if that aint a sheeny nachez, vel, I vil get misha mishinnah. Through yerd our lord, Amen.
You move a motion? Steve boy, you're going it some. More bluggy drunkables? Will immensely splendiferous stander permit one stooder of most extreme poverty and one largesize grandacious thirst to terminate one expensive inaugurated libation? Give's a breather. Landlord, landlord, have you good wine, staboo? Hoots, mon, a wee drap to pree. Cut and come again. Right. Boniface! Absinthe the lot. Nos omnes biberimus viridum toxicum diabolus capiat posterioria nostria. Closingtime, gents. Eh? Rome boose for the Bloom toff. I hear you say onions? Bloo? Cadges ads. Photo's papli, by all that's gorgeous. Play low, pardner. Slide. Bonsoir la compagnie. And snares of the poxfiend. Where's the buck and Namby Amby? Skunked? Leg bail. Aweel, ye maun e'en gang yer gates. Checkmate. King to tower. Kind Kristyann wil yu help yung man hoose frend tuk bungellow kee tu find plais whear tu lay crown of his hed 2 night. Crickey, I'm about sprung. Tarnally dog gone my shins if this beent the bestest puttiest longbreak yet. Item, curate, couple of cookies for this child. Cot's plood and prandypalls, none! Not a pite of sheeses? Thrust syphilis down to hell and with him those other licensed spirits. Time, gents! Who wander through the world. Health all! a la vôtre!
Golly, whatten tunket's yon guy in the mackintosh? Dusty Rhodes. Peep at his wearables. By mighty! What's he got? Jubilee mutton. Bovril, by James. Wants it real bad. D'ye ken bare socks? Seedy cuss in the Richmond? Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in his penis. Trumpery insanity. Bartle the Bread we calls him. That, sir, was once a prosperous cit. Man all tattered and torn that married a maiden all forlorn. Slung her hook, she did. Here see lost love. Walking Mackintosh of lonely canyon. Tuck and turn in. Schedule time. Nix for the hornies. Pardon? Seen him today at a runefal? Chum o' yourn passed in his checks? Ludamassy! Pore piccaninnies! Thou'll no be telling me thot, Pold veg! Did ums blubble bigsplash crytears cos fren Padney was took off in black bag? Of all de darkies Massa Pat was verra best. I never see the like since I was born. Tiens, tiens, but it is well sad, that, my faith, yes. O, get, rev on a gradient one in nine. Live axle drives are souped. Lay you two to one Jenatzy licks him ruddy well hollow. Jappies? High angle fire, inyah! Sunk by war specials. Be worse for him, says he, nor any Rooshian. Time all. There's eleven of them. Get ye gone. Forward, woozy wobblers! Night. Night. May Allah the Excellent One your soul this night ever tremendously conserve.
Your attention! We're nae tha fou. The Leith police dismisseth us. The least tholice. Ware hawks for the chap puking. Unwell in his abominable regions. Yooka. Night. Mona, my true love. Yook. Mona, my own love. Ook.
Hark! Shut your obstropolos. Pflaap! Pflaap! Blaze on. There she goes. Brigade! Bout ship. Mount street way. Cut up! Pflaap! Tally ho. You not come? Run, skelter, race. Pflaaaap!
Lynch! Hey? Sign on long o' me. Denzille lane this way. Change here for Bawdyhouse. We two, she said, will seek the kips where shady Mary is. Righto, any old time. Laetabuntur in cubilibus suis. You coming long? Whisper, who the sooty hell's the johnny in the black duds? Hush! Sinned against the light and even now that day is at hand when he shall come to judge the world by fire. Pflaap! Ut implerentur scripturae. Strike up a ballad. Then outspake medical Dick to his comrade medical Davy. Christicle, who's this excrement yellow gospeller on the Merrion hall? Elijah is coming! Washed in the blood of the Lamb. Come on you winefizzling, ginsizzling, booseguzzling existences! Come on, you dog-gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed, hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyed fourflushers, false alarms and excess baggage! Come on, you triple extract of infamy! Alexander J Christ Dowie, that's my name, that's yanked to glory most half this planet from Frisco beach to Vladivostok. The Deity aint no nickel dime bumshow. I put it to you that He's on the square and a corking fine business proposition. He's the grandest thing yet and don't you forget it. Shout salvation in King Jesus. You'll need to rise precious early you sinner there, if you want to diddle the Almighty God. Pflaaaap! Not half. He's got a coughmixture with a punch in it for you, my friend, in his back pocket. Just you try it on.

martes, marzo 22, 2016


Nos vemos el día 30. Feliz Semana Santa


jueves, marzo 17, 2016

Proclamation of the Irish Republic

Centenary of the 1916 Easter Rising Commemorative Video

San Patricio 2016


lunes, marzo 14, 2016

Roma, contado por José Félix Valdivieso

domingo, marzo 13, 2016

78 RPM - The Excelsior Quartette - My Grandfather's Clock (1926)

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, the Boys Are Marching

Enrico Caruso - 'M'Appari' from 'Martha' (1917-1932)

Mona , my thrue love. Yook. Mona, my own love

MONA.

Words
Music.
Fred. E Weatherly.
Stephen Adams.
By kind permission of the Author.
O swift goes my boat like a bird an the billow,
The boat of my heart-my trim Ben-my-Chree;
But swifter than bird leaps my love from her pillow,
The girl of my heart, who is waiting for me;
And down drops the anchor, the brown sails are falling,
And out on the shingle we leap in our glee:
But for all the bright eyes and the laughter and calling,
The girl of my heart is all that I see.
Mona, my own love; Mona, my true love,
Art thou not mine thro' the long years to be?
By the bright stars above thee, I love thee, I love thee,
Live for thee, die for thee, only for thee-
Oh, Mona, Mona, my own love,
Art thou not mine thro' the long years to be?
Farewell ! all is over, the bitter tears falling
My life is a wreck on a dark winter sea;
The innocent days are all gone past recalling,
There yawns a dark gulf 'twixt my darling and me;
I pass to my exile, alone, unbefriended,
The summer days mock me with gladness and mirth;
For only with death will that exile be ended,
Thou'rt lost to me, darling, for ever on earth.
Mona, my own love; Mona, my lost love,
Pray for me, pray, thro' the long years to be
And the angels above thee, who pity and love thee,
Will plead for me also, and bring me to thee
Oh, Mona, Mona, my lost love,
Pray for me, pray, thro' the long years to be.

domingo, marzo 06, 2016

The National Maternity Hospital


La carta al amigo


"Am working hard at Oxen of the Sun, the idea being the crime committed against fecundity by sterilizing the act of coition. Scene, lying-in hospital. Technique: a nineparted episode without divisions introduced by a Sallustian-Tacitean prelude (the unfertilized ovum), then by way of earliest English alliterative and monosyllabic and Anglo-Saxon (‘Before born the babe had bliss. Within the womb he won worship.’ ‘Bloom dull dreamy heard: in held hat stony staring’) then by way of Mandeville (‘there came forth a scholar of medicine that men clepen etc’) then Malory’sMorte d’Arthur (‘but that franklin Lenehan was prompt ever to pour them so that at the least way mirth should not lack’), then the Elizabethan chronicle style (‘about that present time young Stephen filled all cups’), then a passage solemn, as of Milton, Taylor, Hooker, followed by a choppy Latin-gossipy bit, style of Burton-Browne,  then  a  passage  Bunyanesque  (‘the reason was that in the way he fell in with a certain whore whose name she said is Bird in the hand’) after a diarystyle bit Pepys-Evelyn (‘Bloom sitting snug with a party of wags, among them Dixon jun., Ja. Lynch, Doc. Madden and Stephen D. for a languor he had before and was now better, he having dreamed tonight a strange fancy and Mistress Purefoy there to be delivered, poor body, two days past her time and the midwives hard put to it, God send her quick issue’) and so on through Defoe-Swift and Steele-Addison-Sterne and Landor-Pater-Newman until it ends in a frightful jumble of Pidgin English, nigger English, Cockney, Irish, Bowery slang and broken doggerel. This progression is also linked back at each part subtly with some foregoing episode of the day and, besides this, with the natural stages of development in the embryo and the periods of faunal evolution in general. The double-thudding Anglo-Saxon motive recurs from time to time (‘Loth to move from Horne’s house’) to give the sense of the hoofs of oxen. Bloom is the spermatozoon, the hospital the womb, the nurse the ovum, Stephen the embryo. 
                        How’s that for high?"

jueves, marzo 03, 2016

Saint Patrick´s

Dear friends,

The Embassy is delighted to let you know that this year will once again see a family-friendly celebration of St. Patrick’s Day here in Madrid.  This year’s event will be held on Sunday, 13th March at the Parque Deportivo Puerta de Hierro. 

The event, which will take place from 13:00 to 18:00, promises to be a fantastic day out for everyone, offering a range of activities including Irish sport, music, dance, storytelling and theatre.  There will be a particular focus on activities of interest to children and families, with the day featuring Gaelic games for children organised by Madrid’s very own GAA club, the Madrid Harps Youths. Childrens theatre will be provided by Interacting and Irish dancing workshops by the Irish Treble Dancers.  Irish beverage products will be available for purchase at the venue while those attending may also bring their own picnic with them to enjoy at the park. 

Further information on the day’s activities and the location of the event is available in the attached flyer. 

We warmly invite you to share this invitation widely with friends and family, bearing in mind that the event is open not only to members of the Irish community here in Madrid but also to Spanish and international friends of Ireland.  

For more information please don’t hesitate to contact Keith Curran atsecretary.madridyouths.europe@gaa.ie


Regards

Ann Marie Murphy
Agregada Cultural
Embajada de Irlanda, Madrid
+34 914364104

Vuela Pluma, INTERIORES, inauguración el sábado 5 de marzo. Laura Mira.

Añadir leyenda

A LA SOMBRA DE LAS MUCHACHAS EN FLOR


Descansa melancólico nuestro buen amigo después del mal trago del pésame en la casa de Paddy Dignam. No somos nadie. Y el día, que ha sido de no te menees. La vista de la bahía al atardecer le reconforta; belleza, paz, música religiosa y recuerdos de tiempos pasados.

Parece como si el tiempo se hubiese detenido y de hecho siguen siendo las cuatro y media, la hora fatal. ¿Fatalidad o magnetismo? Qué más da. Ya pasó y el tiempo vuelve a su curso. Tic, tac. Tic, tac.

¡Vaya con la niña cursi! La chiquilla le ha vuelto loco y es que todas las mujeres son iguales. Desde bien pequeñas lo único que buscan es eso. No importa que esta sea coja. Por lo demás es de primera. En cambio, las otras, tan solo mala intención y ganas de fastidiar. Bien sabía ella lo que se hacía con tanto mirar y tantos fuegos artificiales. A ver qué hace ahora nuestro pobre caballero extranjero con la pólvora derramada.


En fin, hay que irse recogiendo. Perfumes abandonados, misteriosos mensajes en la arena. El cuco da las nueve.

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