jueves, junio 28, 2007

CREATIVE SUITE 3

Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
That this mud draws on the stone.
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
From there. Toward . . .
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Is the moon to grow
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
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XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
A pallid yellow lingers
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted

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Away, my songs, must we go
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Astonished that you have returned to go
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Winds blow sharp, what then?
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
End of the comedy.

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He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
And so I gaze avidly
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Along the walls are only empty niches,
To a higher level of appearance.
To reach out into its own vanishing
As if your human shape were what the storm
That patch of white at the very end of the road
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Floating on the sky.
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
And so I gaze avidly
Appear to lift up from the lake;
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
Merely a mockery of spring

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Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Merely a mockery of spring
Is the moon to grow
Would their world not remain comfortably
Billows the fog, cloaks
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,

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End of the comedy.
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Winds blow sharp, what then?
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Dreaming time has reversed—and you,
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Would their world not remain comfortably
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Onto my frozen fingers.
To have been claimed by what we see of what
Writhing their stunted limbs,
In the sound of the snow. What the countless
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
To a higher level of appearance.
A kind of snow, which hesitates
Away from their profundity of surface.
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.

lean sobre don Ernesto Ayala en EMOL

http://www.economiaynegocios.cl/especiales/ernesto_ayala/vida.htm

 

Su vida

Audaz, intrépido, triunfante y apasionado de la libertad del mercado. Éstas fueron algunas de las características propias de Ernesto Ayala Oliva, quien falleció ayer en esta ciudad dando origen a múltiples muestras de pesar entre el mundo empresarial y también político.

Ernesto Ayala. Foto:El Mercurio

Ayala nació en Santiago en 1916. Hijo de Ricardo Ayala y Esmeralda Oliva. Como su padre era ingeniero de una empresa minera, sus primeros diez años de vida los pasó en Antofagasta, cerca de la pampa. Después volvió a la capital.

Fue educado en el Instituto Nacional y posteriormente en la Universidad de Chile, donde se graduó con honores como ingeniero civil y obtuvo una beca para cursar un posgrado en EE.UU.

La semilla de liderazgo brotó a una temprana edad para Ayala. Sus primeros años profesionales los pasó en el Ministerio de Obras Públicas -justo después del terremoto de 1939- en un cargo que puso a prueba sus capacidades de liderazgo. Pero el ingeniero no tardó mucho tiempo en dar un salto al sector privado en los años 40 y rápidamente solidificó su estatus como un referente en el ámbito económico.

En lo personal, Ayala demostró ser un hombre poco tradicional en cuanto a su estilo de vida y costumbres familiares.

"De joven me di vuelta por muchos lados, hasta que tomé una decisión y ahí me quedé. Con mi mujer tenemos 46 años de casados, aunque no celebramos los aniversarios. Hasta los cumpleaños los borré en mi casa", comentó en febrero de 1993.

 

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Saludos
Rodrigo González Fernández
Consultajuridicachile.blogspot.com
Renato Sánchez 3586
telefono: 5839786
santiago-chile
 
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