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Listen to Alonso Véner, a Costa Rican writer residing in Japan, speaks of how he started writing poetry and his new interest in writing short stories. His challenge as a Latin American writer living abroad writing in Spanish, is the lack of professional literary Spanish translators to help him translate his work for a wider public. If, after listening to the show, know of someone who may be able to assist him with that, please contact him at [email protected].
http://yourartsygirlpodcast.com/episodes
Alonso's short story collection!
https://www.amazon.com/Alonso-V%25C3%25A9ner/e/B007WRM9SA?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2&qid=1557405652&sr=1-2
You can visit his blog at: https://veneraciones.wordpress.com His personal webpage: www.alonsovener.com e-mail address: [email protected] The following is a translation of one of his poems: BEYOND When my waits come to an end, and over the garden, there is nothing left, I think I see your hand drawing my smile in the mud, dragging away the petals of good-bye, of ashes, like broken glass next to my window are hanging chrysalis who teach me there are always flowers beyond the storm.
By Cristina QuerrerListen to Alonso Véner, a Costa Rican writer residing in Japan, speaks of how he started writing poetry and his new interest in writing short stories. His challenge as a Latin American writer living abroad writing in Spanish, is the lack of professional literary Spanish translators to help him translate his work for a wider public. If, after listening to the show, know of someone who may be able to assist him with that, please contact him at [email protected].
http://yourartsygirlpodcast.com/episodes
Alonso's short story collection!
https://www.amazon.com/Alonso-V%25C3%25A9ner/e/B007WRM9SA?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_2&qid=1557405652&sr=1-2
You can visit his blog at: https://veneraciones.wordpress.com His personal webpage: www.alonsovener.com e-mail address: [email protected] The following is a translation of one of his poems: BEYOND When my waits come to an end, and over the garden, there is nothing left, I think I see your hand drawing my smile in the mud, dragging away the petals of good-bye, of ashes, like broken glass next to my window are hanging chrysalis who teach me there are always flowers beyond the storm.