Both went, little is left. Today I mourn the departure of two women poets, once, I think, have succumbed to the neglect of the poem. Idea Vilariño. Blanca Varela. Two women who, like me, I suppose, will have been interned in the ways of the Word to see this side of the blank sheet, this side of the mirror in the blood. Two poets most invincible to the clouds of voice. Two beloved poets, perhaps a mystery to poetry itself.
love I'm calling from the well of memory suffocating nothing to serve me and you wait. I'm calling
love
the destination and the dream of peace
I'm calling to voice the body
with life with everything I have and that I have desperately
with weeping with thirst
air like you're drowning and I like you're light
and I died. From a blind night
from oblivion from hours in closed
just no tears and no love I'm calling
like death
love and death. +++++++++++++++++++++
Letter II
You are far and south there are four.
Lying in your chair leaning on the coffee table in your room pulled on a bed yours or someone you wish to delete
I am thinking of you not on those seeking with you what I want. I'm thinking an hour ago you and maybe half
not know.
When the light is over know who are the nine
stretch out the quilt I will black suit and pass me the comb. I'll go to dinner
is clear.
But at some point I will return to this room 'll throw me in bed and then you remember
do I say my desire to see you looking at me
your presence of man I need in life
be made as far you get in the afternoon night is already being
single only thing I care in the world.
+++++++++++++++++++++ When nights and mine ...
When my nights and ignored and intact without friction. When
aromas without mixtures inviolate. When I
cool star and not a bunch of flower colors.
And when my life my hard life in solitude
a slow drop down always willing and always sustained
charging, filling herself, trembling, rushing
brightness and back into the river . No longer trembling
no light falling dimly.
+++++++++++++++++++++
Oblivion
When a soft mouth kiss mouth sleeping as dying then sometimes when overshoot lips and eyelids full of desire fall as silently as consent to the air, your skin night calls furry warmth and mouth kissed in his ineffable joy night calls, too.
Ah, silent nights of dark moons soft night long, rich, cross-doves, in a hand-made air, love, tenderness given nights like ships ...
Then, in the high passion, when you kiss know ah, too, unabated, and is now the world will becomes a distant miracle, you opened lips still deep summers, abdicated his conscience, that he is finally forgotten the kiss passionately and a wind bare it temples, is then, the kiss, descending eyelids and shudders the air with a hint of life, and shudders
yet it is not air, the beam burning hair, velvet now voice, and sometimes the illusion populated and deaths in abeyance.
+++++++++++++++++++++
That
My tiredness my anguish
my fear my joy my humility
my nights all my nostalgia
year 1930 my common sense my rebellion. My disdain
my cruelty and neglect my dismay my
my agony my tears my heritage
irrevocable and painful in the end my suffering
my poor life.
+++++++++++++++++++++
Afternoon
Bodies lying, infinite bodies, concrete, oblivious to the cold that will flooding, filling slowly. Bodies golden arms, knotted warmth forgetting the shadow now shaken, detainee expectantly, ready to emerge that shields the skin blind. Forgotten
white bones also claiming that not every life is a dream, more faithful to the way the skin, the blood , mercurial, momentary. Bodies lying , bodies subjected happy specific infinite ... emerge happy children, moist and fragrant, young victorious, standing, as his instinct, women in the highest point of tenderness, is likely, stand, talk, talk your mouth, that one day broken up, are incorporated, they look with timeless looks.
I, sinner, sin artist, eaten by the desire to the core, I rush of hope and failure, statue of pain, signs of the wind.
I, a sinner, well, desperate of shadows and dreams I confess that I am a man in a position to speak of life. I have sinned. I have no regrets.
was born to tell with these lips death that will sweep one of these days, splendid fall sharply
the beautiful aircraft that flesh and blood. Alas
arms shot up, boasting such high- invention; feathers nickel. Write slowly. Here they are, kneeling on the floor.
This is my site. My field. landing field in my desires. Heaven backwards. It's my site and not by any change . Fell. I have no regrets. Impetus
new born, higher. coming up by my feet - for what you want? - to the country of man-to-ceiling of those shadows and those dreams.
Blas de Otero
EXPIRED ...
For the Manchego becomes plain to see the figure of Don Quixote happen ... And now idle and goes into the gray dented armor, and the gentleman goes idle, no bib and back without ... is full of bitterness ... found that beyond a loving burial battle ... is full of bitterness that there "was his good fortune" on the beach Barcino, facing the sea ... On the plains of La Mancha
turns to see the figure of Don Quixote happen ... is full of bitterness ... goes, up, the gentleman back to his place. many times, Don Quixote, for that very plain, in hours of discouragement and watch you go ... and how many times you cry me a room in your saddle and take me to your place; me a room in your saddle,
Knight defeated me a place in your rig that I I loaded
bitterness and I can not fight. Put me on the rump you, knight of honor, put me on the rump
and take me with you to be with you pastor ...
For the Manchego becomes plain to see the figure of Don Quixote happen ...
