Ironies of life just after the end of grade exams, soon after posting my entry for grace in which I reveled in my joyful parsimony, while I reveled in the term thinking that free and wide open to please Ms thesis, I dropped a few substitutions two weeks to prepare in record time. Complain, I could not complain about the beautiful subjects, but that because of that were more difficult and involved, " twentieth century English poetry " and "Modernism in Spain ." The second was easily saved with a tour of the literary magazines of the time, the first I took God's help, confused by multiple dilemmas: Going to the anthologies, textbooks and review articles, or select poets and poems to my taste?. I tried to combine both options in the knowledge that is best explained when participating or enjoying the area. But in those cases is more frightening mess up and smash everything, but students are not aware, you do, and if it goes wrong you have left a bitter taste of deceit and betrayal. I did my best and, of course, I went into the wilderness where so many contemporary critics aimless wandering between generations very new and experimental trends, cultural, and even "neosurrealism supragarcilasistas?, Let alone dirty realism of '95, which reminds me of some images of Arc '07. I was not angry young Andalusian poets (whose work, along with Miguel d'Ors, and much prefer it) not to promote them in the classroom: I want to save his poems while still in my hands, under the intimate corner the light of my bedside table, walk long hours with them in the morning of garden, that is, live them and reposarlos before to discuss how they deserve from a distance and experience, of course, I still lack. That's why I served poems by Juan Ramón Jiménez, Damaso Alonso and Luis Rosales. It is true, let's say I opted for caution, " a vague cardboard horse prudence in the bathroom " I have criticized this afternoon, as he scanned the photocopies were distributed during the week: AUTOBIOGRAPHY
As the methodical drowning to count the waves are enough to die,
and tell, and retell, to avoid errors,
to the last,
to one that has the stature of a child, and kissing him and covers her face,
and I have lived with a vague wisdom of cardboard horse in the bathroom,
ever knowing I was wrong in anything, but in
things I loved most.
(Luis Rosales, Rhymes, 1951)
Poem-lived and relived, I have moved to another that I wrote some years ago, rocked by more or less same tragic omen. By then great the story of someone who was always worried about many things, while leaving the important down the road. At the end was left with empty hands, like a fool, at the foot of the deserted platform. Without prudence or modesty I leave here too:
Poem-lived and relived, I have moved to another that I wrote some years ago, rocked by more or less same tragic omen. By then great the story of someone who was always worried about many things, while leaving the important down the road. At the end was left with empty hands, like a fool, at the foot of the deserted platform. Without prudence or modesty I leave here too:
RIDER IN THE STATION
" because love madness makes sense "
(Antonio Machado)
" because love madness makes sense "
(Antonio Machado)
sounds a shrill whistle.
is the train passing neighing, wearing long mane
smoke. Soon the tunnel engulf
the gallop. Routes will stop flashing.
A rider run, run to the platform, desert.
Almost all afternoon cleaning their guns.
Frame polishing wax.
Practicing in the air with the reins.
most of her life. And not understanding
the advice of retired engineer:
- Attentive, young man - he was warned "
times this season to reach
beautiful runaway horses.
[Tarragona, Fall 2000]
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