Until recently, in the context of Spanish poetry, it was common to hear that you had to choose a side, which, apart from sounding very ugly, seems especially inappropriate given the current situation: what we find today is that each young poet they have to choose their war, because it is no longer a matter of knowing which aesthetic or school each one belongs to, but whether or not they are really poets and what they want to do with their words. It is no longer so much about quality as it is about nature.
These eight poets are poets and form, along with many others, a resistance to the cheapness that, judging by the poetry sections of many bookstores, the genre has become. Post-hermetics like Javier Fajarnés coexist with neoclassicals like Luis Bravo, who is the emperor of the hyperbatians, and the Gimferrerian Aitana Monzón sees her culturalism, so colorful, along with that of Laura Ramos, even more smiling and naive. María Sánchez-Saorín reinvents eroticism in her poem, and Rocío Simón demonstrates why she lives this course in the Student Residence, with a creation scholarship. Juan F. Rivero advances on his own masterful path, and Manuel Mata, my great weakness, always makes gold out of nothing, makes the void overflow.
It’s only a very small sample, but it hits the mark. Not all of them are there, far from it, but they all shine and, surely, they will continue to shine.
You say “your hair” and the possessive traces a tunnel from your tongue to my root. You write to me, thus we find ourselves in silence. Silence, as in music, is necessary in language: tonight I have learned, for example, that my lips are called “your lips” in your mouth. You name my sex, your voice rests on it like a hand. Everything you name suddenly trembles. Like the gods in the sacred texts of each civilization, you do and create with words.
The brief breath of the ocean. An expansion towards nothingness and from here, the plastics. the light walk that the fish takes. be enough meat and enough beauty. a marque tries to back down from what is human. It is July. It was July once upon your heart.
loves a horse
Almost love are two people disguised as horses who walk strangely.
[…] Do you know what a telephone booth is?: it is the same as a city drawn with square and bevel but it does not join points with cement, it joins points with cables. It is a hanging neural network: from building to building the lives of people roll silently. Now it is no longer the same because there are frequencies that do not hang but fly direct from satellite to satellite; too complex. How is such a contraption possible: that’s right, because of the hole that desire causes. Do you know the story of Antonio Meucci? Between Mr. and Mrs. Meucci there was a gap. A hollow known as rheumatism. A bedridden wife and an office below. We don’t talk about Florence because the Meucci family resided in New York. Let’s say Meucci hadn’t been in love with his wife. Let’s say his wife hadn’t been sick. Holes only exist if we invent them. Necessity invents the hole. Honey how are you too much work in the office. Meucci created the telephone to reduce the gap between obligations and love. Don’t worry, I’ll sing you a ninna nanna piccola later.
If in the immense forest of pain a tree planted in another life was born, long ago, for me,
If the relentless ascent to memory were cut short and the ghosts that I have been returned,
If I left one day without the words on and even if you called I didn’t know how to answer,
remember that there was a time when I was happy
and that I loved as a child all these things on their way to destruction.
His much confinement prevents him from enjoying his youth Celestina
but it is necessary the edifying stone enlarges and subsuggests a joint or a stem outside the very thick nectar inside the lobes load the pleasure and throw me throw them open yes they burst happy and hidden now fun bubbles hold it like this a long mane down and hanging they look at each other and dangle and her long body prevents joy
Written at midnight. The day and the words are broken. Someone says minuit to make it sweeter and the poems fit through the door.
Yes, in the black, a ghost crosses me on tiptoe, he’s afraid that I’ll grab him.
Inside there are many, you are like him. The rest of the lights are a lie.
What humility would they dare to show themselves when they were born among the ever-surplus baroque? How much milky acidity could be extracted from the tight sigh in their little by little absorbed blood that encloses the breasts of a lady brought to mortal love, to the last? Is it magnificent that they form thorns and celebrate in the sun the sleepiness of the place? Is there something more than fever in their corollas? Who picks up the worlds that hang from those petals that went to the grave where the walker, for charity, at least in German, could leave a few verses to cover his name?
According to the criteria of The Trust Project
