Escuela ruben dario: Ruben Dario Middle School

Rubén Darío Community School – El Paracaidista

Lea nuestros artículos más recientes

Dentro del sistema de educación para adultos del distrito escolar del condado Miami-Dade la escuela intermedia Rubén Darío ofrece gran cantidad de programas para el estudio del inglés y carreras vocacionales.

«Durante las tardes tenemos funcionando un laboratorio de inglés con computadoras por el cual los alumnos pueden aprender más rápidamente con la última tecnología. Además tenemos por supuesto las clases para ocho niveles de inglés, desde gente que comienza de cero hasta alumnos avanzados. Cuando se inscriben un consejero les hace un pequeño examen en inglés para saber en qué nivel están y ponerlos en las clases correctas», explica Frank De Varona, Coordinador del Programa del Adultos de Rubén Darío Community.

Además, ofrecen cursos de ciudadanía, programas de GED (General Educational Development) para terminar el colegio secundario y educación básica para adultos que tengan niveles de lectura y matemáticas menores del noveno grado.

La matrícula está abierta todo el año, para inscribirse solamente hay que presentar la licencia de conducir o un ID de Florida, ser mayor de 16 años y todas las clases son gratuitas con excepción de los cursos de cuidado de niños que cuestan $50 para hacer las primeras 40 horas obligatorias.

350 NW 97th Ave
Miami, FL 33172
T + 305-226-0179.

• Facebook

• Twitter

• LinkedIn

• Email

• Copy Link

• More

Artículos Relacionados con

Educación

Más de

Educación

• Facebook

• Twitter

• LinkedIn

• Email

• Copy Link

• More

• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5

• Facebook

• Twitter

• LinkedIn

• Email

• Copy Link

• More

Los Miami Dolphins Visitarán La Escuela Intermedia Ruben Dario Middle

Los Miami Dolphins Visitarán La Escuela Intermedia Ruben Dario Middle

Rubén Darío (I) – Trianon — LiveJournal

Thinking about my impressions of Seville — collected interesting materials about the Plaza de España that I liked so much — the Piazza and the nearby Maria Luisa Park were arranged for the Ibero-American Exhibition of 1929.
This turned out to be a very interesting topic – I will try to write in the next few days.
And suddenly, reading about this grandiose exhibition, I suddenly realized the scale of the talent of Ruben Dario – one of the greatest poets of Latin America and Spain. Not just talent, but brilliantly educated and brilliantly intelligent – a rare combination of qualities in a poet. When I was in Madrid on New Year’s Eve, I first learned about Ruben Dario – but in a rather strange context: his monument was put in place of the monument to Lope de Vega, and Lope was moved and placed near the Encarnacion monastery in the very center of the city, not far from the royal palace. Then this name began to appear more and more often, but only yesterday I read his poems for the first time – in Spanish and in English translation, and found several poems on the Russian Internet. I did not analyze the quality of the translation, I simply admired the verses.
I am posting here some of my favorite poems. All translations are from the 60s. I will write about the connection with the Ibero-American Exhibition separately. Tomorrow they should deliver 2 of his books in Russian. And these poems are from an anthology of Latin American poetry from the BVL series.

MEASURED-GENTLE…

The spring wind blew measuredly-gently,
and the wings of Harmony chimed softly,
and heard sighs, words of regret
in the sobs of the pensive cello.

And there, on the terrace entwined with flowers,
the lyre of Aeolia chimed dreamily,
only the ladies touched with brocade and silks
the high-rising white magnolia…

Marquise Eulalia with an innocent smile
tormented the rivals of two wayward:
heroes of duels, blond viscount, 900 03 of the abbot, who knew no equal in impromptu …

And next to it – the god Term with a thick beard
laughed, crowned with a vine,
Diana shone with naked beauty –
ephebe, embodied in a young woman.

Where is the holiday of love – in the boxwood thicket –
Attic plinth. There, swift Mercury
held out its burning torch to the sky;
Giovanni Bologna – the father of that sculpture.

The orchestra poured magic relentlessly,
winged sounds flowed serenely,
flying gavottes with a decorous pavane
Hungarian violins played so tenderly.

The abbot and the viscount are full of terrible resentment –
laughs, laughs, laughs the marquise.
She was given the spinning wheel of Omphale, and the belt of Cyprida,
and the arrows of Eros were given for a whim.

Trouble, who will believe in her chirping
or be carried away by her love song…
After all, listening to the story of anguish and suffering,
the goddess Eulalia only laughs.

Beautiful blue eyes are insidious,
they flicker with an amazing light,
in the pupils – like a reflection of a radiant soul –
champagne bright sparks sparkle . ..

And there is a masquerade.
fun flares up violently, grows and grows like an avalanche…
Marchioness without words on her openwork hem
drops, laughing, dahlia petals.

How her sonorous laughter murmurs and flows!
It looks like the singing of a cheerful bird.
Now you hear – a dancer flies in staccato,
now – fugues of a girl who has run away from school.

Like a bird sometimes, having begun its song,
coquettishly hides its beak under its wing, –
like this the marquise, yawning and contempt
hiding behind a fan, fooling lovers.

When will Philomela
scatter her arpeggios over the garden that silently slumbers,
and the swan will swim by the pond, snow-white,
like a boat, cutting through the waves, –

the marquise will go, holding her breath,
to the forest arbor, dressed in grapes;
there a page lover appointed her a date –
he is a page, but in his chest the heart of a poet . ..

Bel canto of a singer from azure Italy
rushes downwind in the adagio of the orchestra;
in the face of the gentlemen the goddess Eulalia,
Eulalia the fairy laughs, laughs.

… That was not under Louis, was it at Versailles,
when Cupid ruled life at the court,
when the planets shone all around
and Pompadour bloomed like a rose in the halls?

When in the minuet
beautiful nymphs clutched
frills in transparent hands
and carelessly listened to the music of the dance,
stepping on their red heels?

At the time when the shepherds
were putting their lambs in multi-colored ribbons
and listening to the compliments of
faithful slaves Versailles Tirsa and Chloe-girlfriends.

When shepherds and dukes were,
gentlemen wove gallant nets,
princesses walked in wreaths of daisies,
blue chamberlains bowed to them?

I don’t know what this wonderful garden is called
and the year in which this moment was marked,
but I know that the marquise laughs to this day,
and golden laughter is merciless and eternal.

(Translated by A. Starostin)

VARIATIONS

You are here with me, and again in your breath
I smell ancient smoke incense,
I hear the lyre, and in remembrance
Paris, Athens, Rome rise again.

Breathe in your face, let the bees swirl,
collecting tribute from the Olympic goblets,
the Greek valleys are full of nectar,
and Bacchus, waking up, wakes up early with laughter.

He wakes up the morning of golden Hellas,
clutching the thyrsus crowned with ivy,
and glorifies God with the dance of the maenad,
teasing with his teeth and carmine mouth.

The Bacchantes praise God, the dew melts
around the fire, the dawn is pearl-gray,
and roses glow from the fire with rouge
on colorful velvet panther skins.

Rejoice, my laughing friend!
Your laughter is wine and lire tones,
at Terminus it flutters in the wind of the south
the tow of a long-haired beard.

Look how Artemis wanders in the grove,
through the leaves with snowy nakedness,
how she looks for Adonis Cyprius there,
arguing with her sister with tender whiteness.

She is like a rose on a stem, and backgammon
absorbs a spicy aroma,
a retinue of leopards rush after her,
white doves fly behind her…

*

Do you like the Greeks? Well, I am lovingly
looking into the mysterious distance of centuries,
looking for gallant festivities green myrtle,
Bush’s country of music and dreams.

There abbots are walking along the alleys,
whispering something in the ear of the marquises,
and careless Socrates
talking about love slyly and easily.

There, in the emerald thickets of leek,
the nymph is laughing, which year
with an acanthus flower, whitening marble,
and the inscription Beaumarchais lives on it.

Yes, I love Hellas, but another,
French-haired,
Parisian immodest, alive,
whose frisky mind is full of games.

How beautiful in flowers, with a narrow camp
goddess Clodion! Only with me
she mutters softly in French,
confusing the ear with cheerful chatter.

Without thinking for Verdun at once
I would give Plato and Sophocles!
Love and Reason reign in Paris,
and Janus has now lost power.

Prudhomme and Ome are stupid and rude,
what do I care about them when there is Cyprida,
and I kiss you hard on the lips
and I can’t take my eyes off you …

*

A mandolin plays, sounds, crying,
fly in through the Florentine window…
Do you want, like Panfilo at Boccaccio,
sip red wine,

jokingly, listen to the salty conversations of
poets and artists? Look,
how sweet it is to listen to windy lords
about Cupid’s pranks until dawn.

*

Do you like the open spaces of Germany?
Song of the nightingale, whitish light of the moon?
You will be Gretchen, whose eyes are azure –
your poet is forever wounded by them.

And at night, with waves of hair turning white
in silvery rays, on a steep rock,
the beautiful mermaid Lorelei
will sing to us in the damp misty haze.

And Lohengrin will appear before us
under the gloomy vault of the northern skies,
and the swan, splashing its wings on the water,
will remind the shape of the neck the letter “S”.

Here is Heinrich Heine; you hear the blue-eyed Rhine rubbing against the shore in a drowsiness
,
and, with a blond mane, the young Goethe
drinks the miracle of Teutonic vines – Moselwein … 03 love of carnations, whose petals absorbed
flaming blood of crazy bulls?

Do you dream about the gypsy flower at night?
The Andalusian juice of love is alive in it –
its breath gives off cinnamon,
and the color is the crimson of a knife wound.

*

Do you look away from the east?
Be the rose of Saadi, I pray!
I am intoxicated by silks and the brilliance of porcelain,
I love Chinese women like Gauthier.

The chosen one, whose leg will fit in the palm of your hand
! I am ready to give you
dragons, fragrant tea,
incense and rice expanses of grace.

Say “I love” – ​​Li Tai-bo has many
similar words, his language is melodious,
and I will compose sonnets, madrigals
and, like a philosopher, I will soar between the clouds.

I will say that you are Selena’s rival,
That even the sky fades before you,
that is more beautiful and dearer than the riches of the universe
your fragile fan, snow-gold.

*

Whisper “your”, being a Japanese languid
from the fabulous oriental antiquity,
a princess, chaste and modest,
in whose eyes dreams have rested,

the one that, not knowing the innovations of Yamagata,
under a canopy of lush chrysanthemums ,
sits motionless in a niche of agate,
and her mouth is mysterious and German…

Or come to me as a Hindu priestess,
performing a mysterious rite,
her eyes are two fiery birds,
even the heavens tremble before them.

In her land and tigers and panthers,
there rajam on disassembled elephants
all dancers-bayaders dream
in diamonds and sparkling stones.

Or appear as a dark-skinned woman, sister
to the one that the Jerusalem king sang,
let under the tender maiden foot
hemlock flowers with a rose bloom like old …

Love, you give any joy!
You say the word – the valley turns green,
you charmed the serpent,
that you once braided the tree of life.

Love me, O woman! What
country is your home – is it all the same to me!
My goddess, young, good,
I alone have been given to love you.

Queen of Sheba, virgin
in my palace, where there is pink comfort,
sleep. Slaves will burn incense for us,
and next to my unicorn,
having tasted honey, the camels will rest.

(Translated by G. Shmakov)

SONATINA

How sad is the princess… What would that mean?
Her lips have faded, her heart is clothed with grief;
smiles sadly; the sigh is sad and deep. ..
In her golden chair, longing is inseparable from her,
and the harpsichord fell silent, the full-sounding chord,
and the forgotten flower withers at her feet.

Pavas roam the garden in their colored plumage,
duennas are chatting incessantly about something,
nearby, in red robes, jesters sparkle …
The princess does not laugh at their ridiculous efforts,
she keeps looking to the east, she keeps watching the flickering
dragonfly of a restless – whimsical dream.

The Prince of Golconda, perhaps knocking at her heart?
Or the one that rushed in a golden chariot,
so that her eyes could see, their dreamy light?
Is it the king of the vast blessed islands?
King of the Diamond Land? Edges of fragrant roses?
Prince Hormuz, owner of expensive pearls?

She is dreary and sad, this poor princess.
She would fly quickly into the skies like a swallow,
over the mountain and over the cloud, through the cold and heat,
soar effortlessly to the sun along the openwork ray
and read the spring poem to the realm of lilies,
rise above the sea wave in the noise of the storm.

Behind the silver spinning wheel and with jesters she is bored,
looks at the magic falcon so indifferently!
How dreary are all the swans on the azure of the ponds…
And the flowers became sad, and the green blades of grass,
and the oriental jasmine, and the midnight water lilies,
sunset dahlias, southern garden roses!

Oh, poor princess with blue eyes,
you are chained with gold, lace chains…
The castle is marble – a cage, it is surrounded by a wall;
on the wall with halberds fifty blacks,
in the gate ten guards, with similar statues,
a dog, sleepless and fast, and a huge dragon.

This poor prisoner would turn into a butterfly
(how sad the princess is! how pale her face is!)
and become friends forever with a golden dream –
fly away to the king’s son in a beautiful and distant land
(like a princess is pale! How a princess is sad!),
he is more radiant of the dawn, like May – with beauty . ..

fairy goddaughter, –
rushes on a fast-flying horse, ray in the air,
knight; raising his sword, he strives forward.
He will overcome death, accustomed to victories,
although he does not know you and he is unknown to you,
but, loving and captivating, he will set you on fire.

you lay gypsy lips
and bloom carelessly on sovereign lips .