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Marga Doval ilumina moi ben a figura de Luísa Villalta.

Suso De Toro non é soiamente do presente si no do futuro tamén. Porque a morte é un instante e o demais é todo vida.

Mil grazas por contar conmigo! É un pracer poder acompañar a Suso nesta entrevista coa miña música. Apertas :)

Non se enterrou en Vigo. Él descansa en paz no cemiterio parroquial de San Pedro de Ramallosa en Nigrán, xunto con Evelina, onde pasaron moitos veráns en Praia América

Bravo, gracias

Que ben bailan Rosalía e Yaiza!!!👏👏

Entendi tudo perfeitamente e português com sotaque espanhol

Que lugar lindo! Quero Galiza!

Sou brasileiro e sempre estou pesquisando vídeos sobre a Galiza. Gosto especialmente os que falam o galego mais original, com menos castelanismos. A pronúncia soa muito familiar ao português falado do Brasil.

Eu amo a pronúncia e o acento galegos. Idioma belíssimo, apesar da forte entonação castelan.

Muy chulo chic@s!!! 👏👏👏Ole esa jotilla!!

Bom Dia ! Estamos lingados ao galego por laços históricos e gostamos de imaginar como estaria agora a vossa língua não fosse a dominação espanhola, e a consequente espanholização de muitas palavras, numa dependência colonial ou ,quem sabe, por parte de muitos, o fruto de uma subserviência voluntária ou por espanholofilia imposta. É preciso que haja um revisionismo profundo em busca das raízes aparadas e das muitas ocultadas e substituídas pela língua de Castella. Almejamos sucesso nessa peleja que não é vã nem inglória, mas que se assenta na honra e nos deveres cívicos do vosso povo. Atenciosamente, JATeixeira(SC)Brasil

para tar quietos taremos xa na tumba; viva Galiza

Respira sen moverte se eso a ver se das lista

Unha marabilla e tan só 273 visualizacións...?

Muy bueno me gustoume facedelo tan ben q parecen facil

Grande Xesús Fortes. Foi un pracer coñecerte. Canto aprendemos contigo, canto confías na xente. Moi agradecida.

Sintamos este orgullo sempre,que prenda a mecha!!!👏👏👏👏

Me ha dejado boquiabierta tanto la coreografía como su ejecución!!!! ;)))

Ánimo amigas.🖤🖤🖤

Ben bailado rapaces.

Que bonitiñ@s. Moi ben. A seguir así. Atendendo do noso primeiro. Viva o galego e vivan as Tanxugueiras.

Esto e maravilloso

Unha pasada, moi lindo de ver, notase o traballo, parabens

Mezclar tradición e modernidade. Encántame. A full coas Tanxu. Lumeee 🤘🏼💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼🔥🔥🔥

Precioso que cunda o exemplo. Mais rapaces coma estes bailando tan ben todo o de Tanxugueiras. Maravilla! Seguide non paredes.

Bravo bravo e bravo

Precioso...hacia falta una música que llegará a los jóvenes. Enhorabuena

Parabéns. Emocionoume

A quality small

Brief Bio: I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply and i became a “ Baba Lover” In 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese man who helped me perfect my Senryu and Haibun. I am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun. Here are some examples of each of my specialties. They are all from the contemporary American format. Senryu ( senryu is the humorous human side of haiku. Usually 3 lines but can be 2 or 1 line so long as it is 17 syllables or less). It is considered the humorous human side of haiku. For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking dealing with the Holocaust): cattle cars - between the slats human eyes ~ Stutthof - the stench of burnt smoke from the chimneys (And here are some more examples): thrift store purchase inside the leather jacket a tarnished half-heart ~ dentist chair the hygienist removes my Bluetooth ~ Internet argument all his words in CAPS hers in EMOTICONS ~ after the divorce he spends more time at the dollar store ~ damsel in distress Clarke Kent still searching for a phone booth ~ cauliflower ears once a contender now boxing vegetables ~ under the influence - moonshine ~ Audubon sale all variety of seeds. . . early birds welcome ~ Buddhist fortune cookie the unfolded paper reads “ better luck next birth!” ~ sudden downpour. . . adults run for shelter ~ sidewalk cafe birds and people tweeting ~ Crowded crosswalk the “seeing eye” dog leads the way ~ deserted train depot a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~~ return to my youth lit by the tracks of Lionel trains. ~ Tanka: (Tanka is comprised of 5 lines of 31 syllables or less. Usually there are far less syllables) Here are 3 examples: returning home from a Jackson pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and morph into art ~ crowded bus a young lady offers me her seat it seems like only yesterday I was offering mine ~ deserted train depot a conductor shouting “ All Aboard!” now a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~ Haibun: ( the haibun consists of a prose section with one or more haiku that must in some way relate to the prose. All Haibun have titles Here are some examples: The Mathematics of Retribution “Karma is unfathomable,” I inform her It’s late and our conversation turns heavy “ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds. “If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.” “ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin. “What if you murdered me in this life because I murdered you in a prior life karmic debts and dues are now equalized.” “But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?” “As I said, karma is unfathomable.” We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep Stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~~ Mama There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace -her arms the heat of home Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness. She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior. nursing home bumper wheelchair her favorite pastime Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together -grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes. When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened. thrift store the dress mama donated she wants to buy On a cold December morn mama passed. The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes. autumn twilight - oh mama tuck me under hug me one more time ~ ‘Round Midnight It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way. My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough. But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night. Harlem The A-train replaced by the Bullet ~ Atlantic City New Jersey I had just graduated from high school I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in... first “french kiss” under the boardwalk “over the moon!” ~~ All love, Al

I hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites. It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self. ~~ Suibhne Gheilt 1 He has haunted me now for over a year that madman Suibhne Gheilt who in the middle of a battle looked up and saw something that made him leap up and fly over swords and trees - a poet gifted above all others - 11 How could a proud loud mouth who yelled KILL KILL KILL as he plowed done the enemy - heads rolling off of his sword - be so lifted up ( or fly up as those below saw it - wings beating) be so suddenly gifted with poetry and nest so high in Ireland’s tall trees? Is there a point where all paths cross? And why am I so drawn to him that all my questions seem shot in his direction? “And they ran into the woods and threw their lances and shot their arrows up through the branches” What parallels could I ever hope to find - my refusal to fight ( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)? my leaving my country behind? my poetry? “and my wife wept on the path below. . . Oh memory is sweet but sweeter is the sorrel in the pool in the path below” I fly down every night to eat 111 Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women. But the point of it lies hidden in a pool of milk in a pile of shit for you to see when a milkmaid smiles Sweeney like the rest of us flies down and when she pours the milk into the hole her heel made in the cowdung Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it. So before you have anything to do with women remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland lying on his back in the middle of that path in the moonlight. 1V And on my way home this morning ( my wife waiting) my shadow racing up the path ahead of me I saw something ( a black stone?) thrown at the back of its head ducked and spun around so fast I almost fell down - it was a bird flying up into a tree V No good could come out of this war out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame - the villagers streaming like tears towards the forest cover his helicopter’s blades blow the leaves off and and the flame towards. . . as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president ( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s sitting on the bubble having a bubble movement) and first lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of their own bubbles, crawls in between - “ Mah daddy has so many troubles turning the world into a bubble and sick of crossfire - the cries of the women and children flying over his head - he stumbled down to the riverbank and found, the wreckage twisted around the tree behind, his skull. . . Noises, there are noises, noises that can of themselves drive a man mad -NOISES! But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling and thought until all that was left was something the size of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone in the middle of an infinite space. . . -Howard Dull ~~ ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

Enjoyed your poems. And your unique word choices enhanced the poems emotional impact and kept me engaged throughout. I’m a poet specializing in Japanese forms: haiku, tanka, haibun, kyoka, senryu. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a tanka and my haiku, a tribute poem to Bashō’s frog with commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my Basho haiku among her top 10 haiku of all time. What an honor. Here’s the Bashō poem and commentary: Bashō’s frog four hundred years of ripples At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum. The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us all that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain. ~~ And my tanka: returning home from a Jackson Pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and morph into art ~~ -All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al

Moi ben chavales fgacedelo moi ben e ademais con musica a nosa terra e por riba das tanxungueiras , agora outra con terra.

Aquí ven a cantera para que non morra o noso, parabens rapaces e Lume cas tanxuuu

Por que raios o galego é mais claro aos ouvidos brasileiros que o português de determinadas regiões lusitanas? Vocês (os galegos) nos entendem tão claramente quantos nós os entendemos?

Apaixonei-me pelo acordeonista barbudo😍😆😆

AHHHH, CARLOS UNO DE MIS NTIGUOS DIIRECTORES Si carlos ve esto, que sepas que soy Adam Gibert, me estuviste enseñando cuando iba en primaria, en Vilariño de Conso, si le pueden transmitir el mensaje lo agradeceria. Me acuerdo mucho de cholo y nela, me gustaba mucho, cuidense mucho :)

Sera' talvez um mero preconceito atavico da minha parte ,mas nao consigo imaginar o Galego a ter uma grafia semelhante ao Portugues,devido ao facto de haver uma minoria ferranha de Castelhanos que nao consegue admitir que outras culturas tenham tambem direitos e tendo eles o poder tudo fazem para impor a sua vontade.

Galego e português com muita influência do espanhol

Os galegos falam lentamente com gerúndio por isso os brasileiros que não tão acustamados a ouvir os portugueses entendi melhor o galego

Maravilhoso testemunho documental do grande professor. Obrigado!!!

mi admirada amiga tengo la fortuna de conocerte hace unos cuantos años .soy una afortunada .

Muita música brasileira parecida com essa também. Parabéns pelo seu vídeo me interessa muito essa situação da língua galega.

O galego e à Galiza precisam ter uma estratégia de visibilidade. Falar disso ou daquilo somente para o público interno não é mais suficiente, por haverá sempre o conflito interno. Estas ideias precisam sem entendidas fora da Galiza.

Bem intencionados, mas o projeto do binormativismo está condenado ao fracasso; o governo espanhol nunca permitirá que o português desfrute de qualquer privilégio, nem sequer como ajuda ao galego. Tampouco hai demanda popular, fora de mui reduzidos grupos inteletuais ou militantes. E coa crise que vem aí disfarçada de (imaginária) pandemia as persoas deixarám de interessar-se por questões secundárias à sua sobrevivência.