SANJUÁN IN SMYRNA
Last Friday 21 we had the meeting with Miguel Angel Muñoz Sanjuan.
Michelangelo did not see the figure of the poet as a writer, nor poetry as a craft. Rather, for him, writing poetry born of a need and a certain way of judging reality, which makes it a moral act, in a projection of their own way of understanding the world. Perhaps the same attitude that has always accompanied the creation of every true work of art.
Moreover, his poetry, the antithesis of the intimate confessional, born almost always something that happens, from any condition, in daily life, causes consciousness of the poet.
The meeting was enlivened by the illustrious Paco Sevilla, who, like the natural gifts in the party appeared describing his own orbit. Finally we outlined some of the keys of Michelangelo, and went to read the odd poem of our guest.
With this meeting we conclude our tour of this course. The first time we went up this post, we said that in June we would balance and would read our stuff, even in the Pub, and that in July there would be a surprise out of script or at least that was the idea. That this was an opportunity we did not want to miss, and I had to do with the presence in Madrid of a foreign poet. Well, more than a month later, we are in the obligacación to rectify. Due to World Cup has not been possible to reserve a table for dinner at the Joyce, which has scheduled games every Friday. For this reason, we feel the need to postpone the dinner until after 11 July. Moreover, our surprise flew before putting foreign land in Spain and will not stop here. Who knows, maybe decided to head to South Africa, so we do not seems a bad choice. Finally, some other time.
satisfaction with living so this year we said goodbye until next season.
A hug to everyone. Team
Smyrna.
Poems of Miguel Ángel Muñoz Sanjuan:
SUNSET Talati
I
under the fig tree wet
whole truth of the world.
blood only stone
must own the language of the times,
and sun
decadent as a look without history,
offered to wonder
foreign men.
II
night with its wealth of
starts howling, the air is populated
a restless perfume.
light warm
leaves its mark in the shadows, and a breeze
gets old
fill empty-handed from a muted cry.
A freak storm in (Stock Cibeles Fountain, 1992)
A Osip Mandelstam
RUN heaven as do thoughts.
But death, oh, the death of the hours chosen
Siege of silence quiet mouths. Yesterday
nobody thought about the madness of the sky,
But somebody knew about it, like the night in memory.
A freak storm in (Stock Cibeles Fountain, 1992)
New York scene
I
at dawn,
skyline from the light is made of ice,
and still, between traffic lights and traffic lights
from inside their cars, faces
understand what is happening out there
as a result of a bad awakening
or a freak storm.
II
after hiding that sun, no one tried to find
who were around him.
ago seemed lost herself, and
men were only shadows of the trees.
A freak storm in (Stock Cibeles Fountain, 1992)
Tobias Wolff
heroism was to break wind in the reeds,
without spilling,
silent.
A freak storm in (Stock Cibeles Fountain, 1992)
XXIII
Missed the infinity of night, and what is love,
if the thought of what to call it
the missing seaplane howling in my wake
rebuilding your last lips to the sound of their engines,
the wail of sirens from your hands as lighthouses,
substances to lose your breath for port evenings. I do not live pigeons
the landing of the stairs, or uncertain words
air from the piers.
no longer love there are no piers or cities with your name.
In Borders (Calambur, 2001)
7
BACK TO HOME
beechnuts I collected soil with the haste of a child. Ephemeral treasure their shells
misty and cold and your heart in my hands. Grandiose
forest prayer that respected my steps. Silent
lips I spoke with her wet eyes as one among them.
What little I was when I learned the value of a little earth for ants. How I
grow in step with the times sung by cast shadows creeping ferns.
Question after question was opened to my soul as I propped old bones. Hour after hour
arranged to be able to recognize me in the moss on the right track.
I walked trying to remember their names, who their brothers and sons.
I recorded in my clothes a witness to make offerings.
I proclaimed in my house every table, chair, door, lintel, wood or window jamb
are an opportunity to enlarge the universe.
I rested, and in unison has been reborn in my arms gangrene.
Tomorrow I shall again dawn of wield the ax clean and sharp. In
exodus dialects (monosabios, 2001)
CONSULAR OR THREE LETTER WORDS TO WATCH
My sentinel is unknown stare.
He knows that is the hand of another man,
but what is man that takes me by the hand,
that God or talk with my mouth question
of silence in which I sit.
He has never fallen to the ground,
has not scaled the wall of pain in my consciousness.
He ignores the voice that inhabits my thoughts already closed, he does not know
I had a son who lives in the darkness
and in a dream I heard the name of your soul.
He wondered why a man with
shadow boundaries must be his own mouth and his own sword.
He has not been returned to forget their old steps,
to be from that day on the label coined, the group of thirty
not
leaves behind more than the heat of the future, tears.
He does not know I do not want those eyes to see me die.
My sentinel is unknown stare.
He does not know that I shall see the world through them.
Incense, strain smoke and rush, my hands
offer this
voice it rains sores and prayers in the language of the gods without knowing it senses
least have known the history of the constellations,
quote every day lost
names to the door of a heart, hour after hour claim
a tiny drop of blood
that really belongs.
meat is your message that I called a man named,
time when loneliness called me to eat and be food,
forget where someone woke me up to his line: I thought you
to remedy the rot and their depths.
suffers
So my conscience, knowing I'll never be
called for the return. Listen and recognize
not comfort me, because ye
give bread to my silence,
and the greater the vast outer famine that engulfed me.
words, echo the spirit of
unknowingly brought me to the genealogy of the apparitions.
In Consular Letters (Calambur, 2007)
