Electrobardo (Spanish Edition)

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His whole book "Les fleurs du mal" The Flowers of Evil was heresy at the time , it was about the beauty of evil, well, in part. There are English versions there but it's not easy to translate: I don't find it strange to claim that this is Baudelaire's work. Of course the style and the rhymes makes it very different compared to the original version. I also think that translation has altered the poem's beauty but the message is still here, the story is the same and it leaves me with the same humbled feelings. There's no story in poetry! But yes, this is still Baudelaire's poem, I would have recognized it I know well the French version.

I particularly like the Liam Clancy recitation of it. And so they came. And he pushed them. Natalie merchant has a wonderful song using the second poem as the lyrics. This is not better. Shel Silverstein [0] has been on my bookshelf. I enjoyed reading Falling Up [1] as a way to help my kids understand that poetry is more than rhyming. Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon.

Said the little boy, "I often cry. As somebody who studied lit, this is an impossible question to answer, so I'll just link to my favorite John Donne http: I, like an usurp'd town, to another due, Labour to admit you, but O, to no end. Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy: Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. It's set to music in the fantastic Doctor Atomic by John Adams, with a superb recording available from http: And one poet I never appreciated when introduced to her, but love now: Since you studied it - what do you look for in great poetry?

JohnGB on Mar 30, AlecSchueler on Mar 30, Belfast man checking in, poetry is one of the main traditions here and has a thriving local community, so I thought I would recommend some of my favourites from this part of the world. Paul Muldoon, Maybe something of a "poet's poet" but certainly worth checking out. His style is a casual one, but bursts with sidelong allusions to history, literature, art and etymological punnery. Perhaps of particular interest to people here, might be his novel-length poem Madoc, an hallucinogenic journey through time and place, in which "[he] supposes that Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey took up their actual fancy of founding a Pantisocratic community in North America.

His books since then have been an, at time excitingly precarious, marriage of traditional storytelling and a modernist mock pedanticism. Worth checking out is his Belfast Confetti, a mix of essays and poems which explore the psychological relationship one has to one's city. Leontia Flynn, A much younger poet, of the generation of artists who have had to deal with adapting to life and working in the 21st Century. And for something different that I would particularly recommend to the HN crowd, Sam Riviere, An English poet of the current generation who deals with the cognitive fallout of the ever varied linguistic and cultural deluge one experiences day to day in I don't want to say too much about his writing as he is still so young, but certainly seek out his latest book, Kim Kardashian's Marriage.

I stumbled across this in a high school magazine left in a youth hostel in Maroochydore, Queensland in , and have never seen another reference to it since. It's attribution was 'anonymous', and googling key lines bring up nothing. I've always liked it, and posting it here might give it some longevity beyond that of my hard drive. Running on the front line Leading the way to uncertainty. Why will you lead the way while Others show no taste for adventure? Alone and self-exiled In the midst of a crowd Something not quite a thought flickers and is gone Leaving just enough to tell it came But not enough to remember.

Go forward, relish the unusual, And question the normal.

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Push yourself always to the edge And the edge will move with you. A blur of consciousness, knowledge, Experience, prediction, guesses and lies The elusive unknown and The excitingly uncertain. I don't particularly enjoy poetry or poets for that matter , but I always liked reading "Algorhyme" by Radia Perlman, the inventor of spanning tree network protocol Algorhyme I think that I shall never see A graph more lovely than a tree.

A tree whose crucial property Is loop-free connectivity. A tree that must be sure to span So packets can reach every LAN. First, the root must be selected. By ID, it is elected. Least-cost paths from root are traced. In the tree, these paths are placed. A mesh is made by folks like me, Then bridges find a spanning tree. This is a great one, and one that often comes up when I tutor students. It's even better if you can teach it as a sing-along. I wish I had a better answer than "I make one up as needed", but I have more of a filking http: Dylan Thomas My tears are like the quiet drift Of petals from some magic rose; And all my grief flows from the rift Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream. Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Aside from Tolkien's poetry in-world poetry, my favorite is probably Tennyson. Ulysses in particular is awesome. This is the final stanza. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas.

My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Seamus Heaney - Digging Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather could cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper.

He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, digging down and down For the good turf. The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it. Great to see Heaney mentioned by several people here! Recently voted Ireland's favourite poet of the last years. This poem is a great example of his talent to document the small but evocative, quintessential elements of Irish experience. I'm having some wonderful childhood flashbacks of days on the bog right now: For me it's Sir John Betjeman. Very English of course. A man on his own in a car Is revenging himself on his wife; He open the throttle and bubbles with dottle and puffs at his pitiful life She's losing her looks very fast, she loses her temper all day; that lorry won't let me get past, this Mini is blocking my way.

I can't go on crawling like this! At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead- Thank heavens we don't have to kiss. Who dares to come hooting at me? I only give way to a Jag.

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I'll tell you; come near To lay down in death with so much left. Passion not spent - Oh cowardly regret! For fear of others? I'm afraid to die With no twinkle in my eye - To pass meagerly by Yet hidden inside. To walk through life Not truly alive, And to pass in the night With an unfelt "goodbye". Yes, it's a personal poem. I think he himself wrote that: I have this one tacked up on my wall. Having never really studied poetry before, I found this really cool.

If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently, under the silt, I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built. There was no worth in the fashion -- there was no wit in the plan -- Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran -- Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every stone: Tell him, I too have known.

Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it, slacked it, and spread; Taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead. Yet I despised not nor gloried; yet, as we wrenched them apart, I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder's heart. As he had risen and pleaded, so did I understand The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned.

They whispered and called me aside. They said -- "The end is forbidden. All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years. Only I cut on the timber -- only I carved on the stone: Tell him, I too have known! No Mention of the Bard? That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

A golden fish like a pint of wine Rolls the sea undergreen, Glassily balanced on the tide Only the skin between. Fish and water lean together, Separate and one, Till a fatal flash of the instant sun Lazily corkscrews down. Did fish and water drink each other? The reed leans there alone; As we, who once drank each other's breath, Have emptied the air, and gone. And of course W. I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return.

I'm not Russian and I like Lermontov: Same, but I'm more partial to Pushkin: What Auden couldn't find On hornbooks or in verses Is whether it is our condition Only stirring with the curses. I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. Yeats, The Second Coming: Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

It is beyond extraordinary. The power of the images is utterly breathtaking. However, your version does not have the words of the poem as it's generally published. I've never seen your version. Italics below show the more common wording. I copied it from the top search result http: There have been others since, and Wikipedia uses the newer wording. I'm a fan of Invictus, by William Ernest Henley: Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the Shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. I always loved Invictus. Feet, fail me not, this may be the only opportunity that I got. Eminem has written some really good lines. His play with words is just fantastic. Major points for dropping rap lines. I'm not sure who the poet was, but here's an old Chinese poem that I love.

My translation doesn't quite do it justice, but The local speech hadn't changed, but the hair on my head had. The children looked at me but recognized me not. Laughing, they asked from where this visitor had come. Do you mind sharing the original author's name?

It sounds gorgeous, but I can only read Japanese, so I'm not sure if I'm just completely wrong in getting the images from the Chinese. Search engine yielded both the rest of the poem and the identity of the author. There are only the waters of Mirror Lake before the door, and the spring winds cannot change the ripples of the past. He is one of the Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup ie. More Tang poems http: Can you recommend a good English-language collection of his works? The poem you wrote was amazing.

I only got a brief overview of Chinese poetry in school, so getting to appreciate more is really awesome. Very much like being poor; Wealth is just a key — no more. Why not share this magic key To luxury — and start with me! Surely better that you earn it; Could I trust you to return it? How does one become your ilk? Many paths can lead to riches, Few in sunlight, most in ditches.

Wherein lies the difference From us — this odd ambivalence? Envy, malice, obligations; Toadying from poor relations. Grown far richer than his neighbour, Why would any rich man labour? Wealth is salt in wine immersed, Quaffing but excites the thirst. But surely, comfort pales Perched on padded Chippendales? When affluence holds no surprise, Wonders come in other guise. Aye, the eyes of tart and whore! What might you miss, if you were poor?

The luxury of choices. Except his poems, I also recommend his great book on becoming rich http: Tear It Down We find out the heart only by dismantling what the heart knows. The poetic reference to Rome being better than Rome reminds me of Edmund Spenser's adaptation of Bellay's poem about Rome. That which is firme doth flit and fall away, And that is flitting doth abide and stay. Bellay and Spenser claim that the only city that was ultimately able to conquer ancient Rome is I found that a striking observation.

ISL on Mar 31, Wislawa Syzmborska, for me. When lighthearted, she has depth, and when dark, she keeps a glimmer of light. The Joy of Writing Why does this written doe bound through these written woods? For a drink of written water from a spring whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?

Why does she lift her head; does she hear something? Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth, she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips. Silence - this word also rustles across the page and parts the boughs that have sprouted from the word "woods. Each drop of ink contains a fair supply of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights, prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment, surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.

They forget that what's here isn't life. Other laws, black on white, obtain. The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say, and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities, full of bullets stopped in mid-flight. Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so. Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall, not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop. Is there then a world where I rule absolutely on fate? A time I bind with chains of signs? An existence become endless at my bidding? The joy of writing.

The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand. Let everything happen to you: No feeling is final. Tempt me no more, for I Have known the lightning's hour, The poet's inward pride, The certainty of power. And, of course being a Scot, Robert Burns: What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; A Man's a Man for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains!

We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow, Farewell to the straths and green vallies below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. Burn's Selkirk Grace is about the only thing I've tried to memorise; I'll check afterwards how far away I was: Some hae meat and cannae eat, And some wid eat that want it, But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit. Not too far off, but it turns out there are several versions.

Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit. The last line is often varied to read- And sae the Lord be thankit. Violet Jacobs, from Hallowe'en: But gin the auld fowks' tales are richt An ghaists come hame on Hallow nicht, O freend o' freends! Awa in France, across the wave, The wee lichts burn on ilka grave, An' you an' me their lowe hae seen-- Ye'11 mebbe hae yer Hallowe'en Yont, whaur ye're lyin' wi' the lave. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!

Lovely northern English rhythms. I strike, then from the moment when the matchstick conjures up its light, to when the brightness moves beyond its means, and dies, I say the story of my life - dates and places, torches I carried, a cast of names and faces, those who showed me love, or came close, the changes I made, the lessons I learnt - then somehow still find time to stall and blush before I'm bitten by the flame, and burnt.

A warning, though, to anyone nursing an ounce of sadness, anyone alone: One of my favorites. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head.

In the lonely streets unseen by man, A little dog danced. And the day began. All his life he'd been good, as far as he could, And the poor little beast had done all that he should. So his prayer he got granted—to do just what he wanted, Prevented by none, for the space of one day.

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He took sinewy lumps from the shins of old frumps, And mangled the errand-boys—when he could get 'em. He shammed furious rabies, and bit all the babies, And followed the cats up the trees, and then ate 'em! When the blood-red sun had gone burning down, And the lights were lit in the little town, Outside, in the gloom of the twilight grey, The little dog died when he'd had his day.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit Where the mind is led forward by thee Into ever-widening thought and action Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

I like to think right now, please! I like to think it has to be! I like George Bacovia http: Plumb Dormeau adanc sicriele de plumb, Si flori de plumb si funerar vesmant - Stam singur in cavou Si scartaiau coroanele de plumb. Dormea intors amorul meu de plumb Pe flori de plumb, si-am inceput sa-l strig - Stam singur langa mort Si-i atarnau aripile de plumb. And the wreaths of lead creaked. Upturned my lead beloved lay asleep On the lead flower And the wings of lead drooped.

Translating poems is pretty hard. That was an ok translation. It doesn't quite sound quite right. Regarding poetry translation and a lot more , there is this book: This is arguably a better book than GEB http: I can't recommend it enough. Burroughs Dead City Radio https: The effect seems to create awareness of the medium itself.

The Cut Ups, https: You'd been alerted in my unmailed letter. You were able not to be there at the agreed-upon time. The train pulled up at platform 3. A lot of people got out. My absence joined the throng as it made its way toward the exit. Several women rushed to take my place in all that rush. Somebody ran up to one of them. I didn't know him, but she recognized him immediately. While they kissed with not our lips, a suitcase disappeared, not mine. The railroad station in the city of N.

The whole remained in place. Particulars scurried along the designated tracks. Even a rendezvous took place as planned. Beyond the reach of our presence. In the paradise lost of probability. How these little words ring. Gustavo Adolfo Becquer, about poetry itself sorry, Spanish is my language, still wanted to share: Of the many men whom I am, whom we are, I cannot settle on a single one. They are lost to me under the cover of clothing They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set to show me off as a man of intelligence, the fool I keep concealed on my person takes over my talk and occupies my mouth. Is this the same American Henry James that I think of as a novelist? This one wrote the middle years http: We work in the dark We do what we can We give what we have Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task The rest is the madness of art.

Ah, we were thinking of the same one. It's worth noting that his brother, http: Wallace Stevens is a favorite of mine. His work has been described as "rigorous", which I would agree with. He is an inspiration to me due to his ability to straddle two worlds: I particularly like "The Emperor of Ice Cream": Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

Let the wenches dawdle in such dress As they are used to wear, and let the boys Bring flowers in last month's newspapers. Let be be finale of seem.

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The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. Take from the dresser of deal, Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet On which she embroidered fantails once And spread it so as to cover her face. If her horny feet protrude, they come To show how cold she is, and dumb. Let the lamp affix its beam. The Snow Man is quite good: One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

This poem does in two stanzas at least part of what Hamlet does in five acts. It's even more brilliant once you 'decode' it, one of my favorites. Of Mere Being The palm at the end of the mind, Beyond the last thought, rises In the bronze distance. A gold-feathered bird Sings in the palm, without human meaning, Without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason That makes us happy or unhappy. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches.

One of Cummings's short poems that I enjoy: A few mentions of Hopkins in this thread, but too few examples. I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail, And a few lilies blow.

And I have asked to be Where no storms come, Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, And out of the swing of the sea. Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only makes you eloquent. Want to Learn Spanish? SpanishDict is the world's most popular Spanish-English dictionary, translation, and learning website. SpanishDict is devoted to improving our site based on user feedback and introducing new and innovative features that will continue to help people learn and love the Spanish language.

Have a suggestion, idea, or comment? Send us your feedback. Caso del Sahara Occidental: Ambos reclaman la totalidad del territorio. Caso de la isla Pedro I: Territorios disputados , para evitar confusiones sobre este asunto en un futuro. Tradado s que Reconoce n la s Disputa s: Acuerdo de Ginebra de Venezuela realiza reivindicaciones sobre la Guayana Esequiba, visible en su mapa.

Aclaro un poco la propuesta. Dices que no presento una alternativa viable a la propuesta. Dices que no se ha acusado a la ONU de falta de neutralidad. Pues no lo entiendo. Aunque haya quien quiera bromear con los embarazos a medias, no es lo mismo Cisjordania que la isla Perejil. Del texto del mensaje de Strahler, se deduce que se refiere a infracciones a derechos a propiedad intelectual AR: Por supuesto, si son sitios que violan derechos de autor, los enlaces desde Wikipedia deben ser eliminados, sean de descarga o de otro tipo.

Reitero, cambiando un poco el texto por si me he expresado de manera ininteligible, mi advertencia: A la hora de bajar el articulo falta la ficha que le corresponde a tal articulo. Si bien hay un error en la pagina de descargas cuando se descarga el articulo no aparece la ficha de tal articulo que lo caracteriza, por ejemplo si es de guerra no aparece la ficha de conflicto militar si es biografica tampoco aparece. No me parece serio Yo me pliego y colaboro con lo que se diga.

Al margen de subjetividades que pueda haber sobre casos particulares y disparatados. La herramienta HotCat es un paso intermedio. Pero esto es incorrecto: Estos casos son bastante excepcionales.

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Hola, discrepo con Halfdrag. Desambiguar con el segundo apellido es poco conveniente, porque a menudo ese segundo apellido es poco conocido, y por tanto no aporta al lector. Me parece poco apropiado enlazar a Amazon para demostrar la existencia de un libro. Las razones para ello son:. A sugerencia de Mr. Mira el caso de Selena Gomez: Pero es que el adendo que se propone no aclara nada.

Hace un tiempo en algunas Wikis probaron usar en: Expuesto lo anterior, estas son mis conclusiones:. Un saludo a todos.

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Informe estos cambios a otros usuarios. Veo estos errores en muchas localidades, desde Madrid hasta Ingeniero Budge. Saludos, -- Marcelo Libro de quejas Hello, my apologies for writing this announcement in English. A tool for editing TemplateData will be deployed to this wiki on Thursday, 9 October.

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VisualEditor reads that data, and uses it to populate its simplified template dialogs. With the new TemplateData editor, it is easier to add information about parameters, because the ones you need to use are pre-loaded. See the help page for TemplateData for more information about adding TemplateData. The user guide has information about how to use VisualEditor. Since the last newsletter, the Editing team has reduced technical debt, simplified some workflows for template and citation editing, made major progress on Internet Explorer support, and fixed over bugs and requests.

Several performance improvements were made, especially to the system around re-using references and reference lists. Weekly updates are posted on Mediawiki. There were three issues that required urgent fixes: Badtitletext bug when you saved. The developers apologize for the disruption, and thank the people who reported these problems quickly. Internet Explorer 10 and 11 users now have access to VisualEditor. Support for Internet Explorer 9 is planned for the future. Tablet users browsing the site's mobile mode now have the option of using a mobile-specific form of VisualEditor.

More editing tools, and availability of VisualEditor on smartphones, is planned for the future. The mobile version of VisualEditor was tweaked to show the context menu for citations instead of basic references bug A bug that broke the editor in iOS was corrected and released early bug For mobile tablet users, three bugs related to scrolling were fixed bug , bug , bug You can use VisualEditor on the mobile version of Wikipedia from your tablet by clicking on the cog in the top-right when editing a page and choosing which editor to use.

The tool for editing TemplateData has been deployed to 30 more Wikipedias this week. Other Wikipedias and some other projects may receive access next month. This tool makes it easier to add TemplateData to the template's documentation. When the tool is enabled, it will add a button above every editing window for a template including documentation subpages. To use it, edit the template page or a subpage, and then click the "Gestionar TemplateData" button at the top. Read the help page for TemplateData. You can test the TemplateData editor in a sandbox at Mediawiki.

Remember that TemplateData should be placed either on a documentation subpage or on the template page itself. Only one block of TemplateData will be used per template. Several interface messages and labels were changed to be simpler, clearer, or shorter, based on feedback from translators and editors. The formatting of dialogs was changed, and more changes to the appearance will be coming soon, when VisualEditor implements the new MediaWiki theme from Design. A preview of the theme is available on Labs for developers. The team also made some improvements for users of the Monobook skin that improved the size of text in toolbars and fixed selections that overlapped menus.

VisualEditor-MediaWiki now supplies the mw-redirect and mw-disambig class on links to redirects and disambiguation pages , so that user gadgets that colour in these types of links can be created. Templates' fields can be marked as ' required ' in TemplateData. If a parameter is marked as required, then you cannot delete that field when you add a new template or edit an existing one bug Language support improved by making annotations use bi-directional isolation so they display correctly with cursoring behaviour as expected and by fixing a bug that crashed VisualEditor when trying to edit a page with a dir attribute but no lang set bug The team posts details about planned work on the VisualEditor roadmap.

The VisualEditor team plans to add auto-fill features for citations soon, perhaps in late October. The team is also working on support for adding rows and columns to tables , and early work for this may appear within the month. Please comment on the design at Mediawiki.