Hi friends
The meeting with Barbara did not disappoint, and all who were there enjoyed a memorable evening of good poetry and complicity between guest and attendees.
As Cereijo made a remarkable and accurate submission, we let his words, written for the occasion and who kindly has given us, which summarize what they think of this poet.
A hug to everyone. Smyrna Team
The meeting with Barbara did not disappoint, and all who were there enjoyed a memorable evening of good poetry and complicity between guest and attendees.
As Cereijo made a remarkable and accurate submission, we let his words, written for the occasion and who kindly has given us, which summarize what they think of this poet.
A hug to everyone. Smyrna Team
Cereijo Pepe Presentation:
know Barbara since some time. We agree, at the time, a collective reading, in which he participated as a dozen people. I, who knows? if unjustly, do not remember the others, but I immediately called Barbara attention. I could not tell then, fortunately, chance, not always bad things, we met again later, and finally I had occasion to explain how much I was interested in his poetry.
In a sense, we could say that there are two types of poets. (And do not forget, he said this, the old joke: "There are two kinds of people, those who divide people into two classes, and that no"). In the poetry of the first strikingly abundant images, metaphors, tropes, to speak of this reality, we are constantly sending others, that function in a way, as I wanted Eliot, as "objective correlative" of the here and now. The poetry of the latter, however, is short on images, on the other hand always subordinate to the keynote address.
For the first type of poets (and since we are not free simply to a hodgepodge, a mere accumulation more or less mechanical), they discover vivid imagination has an obvious risk: the place, as a kind of parasitic flowering on a minimum basis of reality, which in fact is a mere pretext for virtuosic display of images. The real intention behind it and be -A little child, no doubt, to shine: see how many things I do, how brilliant I am, all I can think of. Towing capacity that is great imaginative power, and the risk I say succumb, one way or another, most of these poets. The result is that we still are plenty of imaginative then mere froth flashy, bloated, of course, but so fragile that leaves no trace.
against this risk, the solution is so clear in theory and difficult in practice: that such a display showcasing not pure vacuum but lighting a hard core and existing, that the imagination serves therefore not to fake a space so long and laborious as superficial, but to develop a worldview robust and relevant enough to him imaginative richness that is submitted, is governed by it. In other words, the poet-or, perhaps more accurately, the poem always know, how far away you can take your imagination, what is your starting point, what we're talking about.
Barbara's poetry, in my opinion, is of the latter class. Never lost in the void, because it is never a simple metaphorical display of virtuosity. She knows, or intuits, meaning, perhaps better, what you are looking, at all times, and uses his formidable imagination to serve the search. Therefore has its own world, and a personal language to tell.
And so your searches are not we vagrancy useless, so his words are full and convincing. His poems are not, therefore, predicates itself, looks pleasing to your own navel, but risky exploration of reality. Hence the compelling impression of depth that produce, hence, also, authenticity, consistency.
know Barbara since some time. We agree, at the time, a collective reading, in which he participated as a dozen people. I, who knows? if unjustly, do not remember the others, but I immediately called Barbara attention. I could not tell then, fortunately, chance, not always bad things, we met again later, and finally I had occasion to explain how much I was interested in his poetry.
In a sense, we could say that there are two types of poets. (And do not forget, he said this, the old joke: "There are two kinds of people, those who divide people into two classes, and that no"). In the poetry of the first strikingly abundant images, metaphors, tropes, to speak of this reality, we are constantly sending others, that function in a way, as I wanted Eliot, as "objective correlative" of the here and now. The poetry of the latter, however, is short on images, on the other hand always subordinate to the keynote address.
For the first type of poets (and since we are not free simply to a hodgepodge, a mere accumulation more or less mechanical), they discover vivid imagination has an obvious risk: the place, as a kind of parasitic flowering on a minimum basis of reality, which in fact is a mere pretext for virtuosic display of images. The real intention behind it and be -A little child, no doubt, to shine: see how many things I do, how brilliant I am, all I can think of. Towing capacity that is great imaginative power, and the risk I say succumb, one way or another, most of these poets. The result is that we still are plenty of imaginative then mere froth flashy, bloated, of course, but so fragile that leaves no trace.
against this risk, the solution is so clear in theory and difficult in practice: that such a display showcasing not pure vacuum but lighting a hard core and existing, that the imagination serves therefore not to fake a space so long and laborious as superficial, but to develop a worldview robust and relevant enough to him imaginative richness that is submitted, is governed by it. In other words, the poet-or, perhaps more accurately, the poem always know, how far away you can take your imagination, what is your starting point, what we're talking about.
Barbara's poetry, in my opinion, is of the latter class. Never lost in the void, because it is never a simple metaphorical display of virtuosity. She knows, or intuits, meaning, perhaps better, what you are looking, at all times, and uses his formidable imagination to serve the search. Therefore has its own world, and a personal language to tell.
And so your searches are not we vagrancy useless, so his words are full and convincing. His poems are not, therefore, predicates itself, looks pleasing to your own navel, but risky exploration of reality. Hence the compelling impression of depth that produce, hence, also, authenticity, consistency.
Poems of Barbara Butragueño:
Let the rush to install the nails, loud,
as a Birdsong hurry
stop light live with this insistence
moth from somewhere knowing that I say I say rain water
fish and bees back in my acid times body while parceled into tiny
dates.
Because there is a persistence of you at all. Because you smell gun
military structures on my bed,
slow circles of light that you repeat, I
impose customs bureaucracies and banned me say that my legs will extend me salivate
and illegible prescriptions where tidal stay sweet stay impertinent animal
come to light.
I must retract my thirst. Impose a schedule for you, a sequence of prayers we invoke only when I want it because the little
be endless swarm
fall, I fall fatally
swarm you
the little tear of whatever name it fall on
wounds of my bed you still require
and entered your swell with black footprints
and noise of your cities
is a crazed whale song. ***
set myself up dungeon tower island to be the blind spot mirror the wave does not break the full
fire tear eye eye
compass and suffocate insects and meat insurgent salivas
sed the sheet that tied us to the bowels without mercy
it is time for planting and nobody owns the land that germinates in silence
because the good soldier ever dies in combat and no thousand slave masters remember the way back to his castle
I set myself up
dungeon tower island to spit out the ripe fruit as the tree he looks in his infinite supply and is known crack open the calm and the fire
leave the road at last imposing the path to which all roads lead this city without firewalls leave without fear
tremor without rancor escape what they see not expect more than a centimeter of his skin fish blind soldiers helpful only in this life have gone the way there to hook
stop being a creature of traffic to be without beginning or end or outcome
because it is planting time and I can not save your wars or be released or rifle but I can turn off the timers ticking arteries and never to be without dawn wake fallow field in infinite filament viscera overcrowded
because we can polish polish life as the poem
challenging the inertia of the bus to the cry of the fires
the false lure gag and rubble covering life to rubble and make it a sweetened dessert in a tasty dish
simple spit on the false freedom given to us
and stop being a couch for abandoning
stalls offering the way to slaughter the sadness of the docks in the cold light geometry
and open the sky and the sidewalks but opening his face with his whole body as if we can stop being what we called
and birds fill the street and be in the winter flower seed germinates in
clearly be infinite but we throw bones to the face
although the mass grave has space for all city
be a
be
yet be
***
've entered my cities razed
groping your business objects with gentleness and look at me like
who cries out that comes in to be legion anthem
break my body to shake with your fingers the purity that is me.
Like you could get some
kiss me break the wire
burning the empty shell and there is some fire in your eyes some delicate-minded beast jungle.
And I say yes because near the origin of the shadows and make me
water and do not desert because your body is depth music
rift between the salt and say you come to hermanarte in my fervor as a heartbeat and
say without fear or without cement path
nor rust nor selfishness nor greatness
invented or fracture. Bracelets
my body as a dark transparent
my body rebelled without fire or I appointed
gap clean the stables and now finally I am the light from the light non-urgent
body
discovery you make me you make me blind clarity burning pulse of things. ***
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