Daniel de Culla (Biography and Poems)
Moderator 
DANIEL DE CULLA
Daniel de Culla, Writer, poet, painter and photographer. Member of the Collegiate Association of Spanish Writers, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, Nietzsche Circle and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review and Robespierre Review. He has participated in numerous Poetry and Theater Festivals, has collaborated and collaborates with various magazines and newspapers such as: Otoliths; The Stray Branch, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Allien Buddha Zine, The Poet Magazine, Uppagus, ReSite, GloMag, From the River to the Sea, The Erozine, Fleas on the Dog, LAROLA, RAL'M, Misery Tourism, Leavings,Wilderness House Literary Review, Eye to to the Telescope, The Creative Zine, Terror House Press, CentarKukture, Ranger, Literary Cocktail Magazine, Our Poetry Archive, Lambda Literary; and other national ones: Pluma y Tintero, Letras de Parnaso, Revista Azahar, Cultura de Veracruz; Vericuetos, Gibralfaro, Sol Cultural Center, etc.
GAZA, MARITIME CITY OF PALESTINE
There is no more blood in Gaza hospitals
Because all the blood has reached the sea.
There are no more sick people
Not even health personnel
Because some, health personnel
Has tried to escape
Only managing to suck his thumb.
The others, the sick
Have died by the grace of Death
Eternal companion of their lives
Without being able to reach the border on time
Or arriving in Egypt out of time.
In life buried the living and the dead
Believing that they will never escape danger.
Let us hear their laments:
-We are souls in pain.
Nobody and nothing can help or help
To the living and the dead.
Night has fallen over Gaza.
Western nations
Sitting in front of the television
Cheerful and very happy they say to each other:
-Now let's see the news about Gaza
What do we think
According to our understanding
A terror movie.
The tunnels under the hospitals rumble.
They barely remove the dead
Whose souls march to the Gazofilacio
Place where alms were collected
Income and jewelry
From the temple of Jerusalem.
PALESTINE IS NOT A TALE
I don't cry out to any God
Because they are all cardboard
Or cloth lint. And I say:
How there will be destined subjects
To commit such horrible actions
Of wanting to murder
To an entire Palestinian people
Including men, women and children
Who have never done wrong
Because some awesome flies
Sometimes horrendous criminals
Flies called terrorists
Touch the balls
To the war lords and settlers
That, in a long procession
Of colonization, looting and robbery
Have shamelessly plundered
And humiliated the Palestinian people
Their colonists despising
A small iota of humanity
As demonstrated.
This war against Gaza
It's just another party
Of Crime and Opprobrium
Against the innocent
That survive against history
Of inhumanity
That denies that to other peoples
We should have appreciation.
So we see, and time tells
How the world falsely called
“Civilized” with its Pope included
Instead of imposing yourself
And saying “Enough”
Encourages crime, deaths
And the colonizer takes revenge
Because Israel has the best weapons
And to the warlords
That like to tell stories a cappella
Of serial killers.
PALESTINE
Palestine, the Holy Land
Or ancient Land of Canaan
Sad and heartbroken
Cries daily for the death of his children.
Of their massacred boys and girls
Because of the bombs and shrapnel.
The gods and demigods of the three religions
How badly they coexist with each other
Even though they say otherwise
They are silent like obscene people
Watching how it is distributed
The Death Cake
One God of them; the most armed.
Israel, what ardor uses, what effort.
Your God has married infamy
Of a warlord
Pestle, simpleton, oaf
With the mind of a serial killer
Who boasts, laughing, repeating:
-We have to finish them all
Embarrass them and defeat them
Hating a hypocritical and lying truce
Imposed by foreign voices
“Civilized” voices
Holy voices
Like the Vatican Pope
That don't let us colonize its lands.
HI DIMETRODON
At the Dinos exhibition
The child, the children, my children
Want to reach Dimetrodon.
Although they know these no longer exist
Because they are prehistoric
One has taken a rod
Another has picked a flower.
-Dad, mom
I want to give it to Dimetrodon
To play with me
And I gave it to Dimetrodone
When they go out for a walk at night
And come to haunt them
The shooting stars
With the castanets
With the mortar
And the tambourine
That moon makes ring
The prettiest boy says.
They are leaving the tent
They are already leaving
More than four dinosaurs
Remainig crying.
IT’S SNOWING
Snow falls
About that abandoned house
That reminds me
The abandoned road workers' houses
That are still seen
On the roads of emptied Spain.
When we were little, we liked to go see him
Although our mothers told us:
-Don't go, he's going to know you
And then he will come to tell us
That you have done something wrong.
We liked it
Because this character
“The road laborer”
That cleaned the roadsides
At the entrance of the towns
Lefting his jacket in a ditch
And doing nothing
Maybe sometimes playing a guitar
Found without ropes
Settled down with his back
Against the wall of the house
To see if any stranger came
On the regular bus.
Also, because our mothers
Bad-tempered and with bad temper
Told our parents
Whom we always saw
Touching their balls:
-You're lazier than the road driver's jacket.
What made us laugh
Like he does to us now
Seeing falling snow
Under the roadster's bedroom
That has stuck his head out the window
Scratching it hard with his hands
starting to fall off all his dandruff
Above our heads
That we thought
It was snow falling from Heaven's ass.
Heaven that, to us, seemed
That was a woman's ass
His wife, terrible beast
For her Moon and stars tattoo.
Also, she made us laugh, and a lot
When we listen to her
Telling him jokingly:
-Come in, roadster, close the window
You will see a year's worth of yarn
And shit for a month
More pieces of cob
That you put behind this ark
Hairy as do you see.
-But what a mess and a glutton you are
He answered her with grace.
