1 .- Against symbols poetry (Two poems sad Promenade).
I.
Can you be a poet against established poetic symbolism? Absolutely. Even today I think is a good way to be: breaking all topics constituted as "platitudes" about the most elusive nebula called Poetry . I refer, of course, the mastery of poetic technique in the form of creating "mental images", but all unconscious ideology about what poetic. A Javier Egea liked to recall that in my book I had noted how this "what " condensed all the cords that used to be embedded in each poem, which encouraged killing each poem contemporary sublime, sensitive, intimate, beautiful. and of course, the purity of the language or hidden feelings (we may add other signs of "what ": the offender, the marginal, etc.). In short poetic as the last room rented by the petty-bourgeois unconscious inside a world monopoly that generated the illusion of "me" precisely because it prevented building "self."
On these issues we talked many times while he was still signed Francisco Javier, and then keep talking and talking before and after they appeared Paseo de los Tristes and Troppo mare. The two poems that I will read / analyze belong to Paseo de los Tristes, a book in which, obviously, Javier tried to finish the fight to grips with his previous poetry. This reading attempts to unify the atmosphere of the book. To be excused, therefore, the failure decontextualized, analyzing them as islands. For me they are symptoms that focuses on the full range of meanings, the meaning Javier Egea tried to give your text. Avoiding any apology and any excess of knowledge I will just give a dry report of this range of meanings.
II. To contextualize historically
this book (and co-textualize both poems) will begin by briefly describing what we might call it the emergence of the ideology of the poetic. Say so it is published in Huelva, by the Hon. Provincial, and on the cover tells us that he won the prize JRJ of 1982 (1). Below is an introduction to the Hon. Chairman of the Delegation, a dedication by the author Luis García Montero A and all that time fighting for different and, as an opening, an appointment of Diego de San Pedro. The book itself (although everything pointed to a lot to the book) is divided into two parts. The first is titled Income and Daily love and the second The Long Goodbye. The extensive final text, "Paseo de los Tristes," title to all the poems. Should begin this brief report noting that the most bizarre in the biographical note is the apparent "silence" of the author from 76 years and this book of 82 (although in 81 displayed scored another title: The traveler ). It is clear that the author happened "something" in the silence of five or six years. It may not be very difficult to explain what happened. Well, in fact, the first major significance of the book is found in the introduction of the Hon. President and contrast that offers face to face the book itself. Significant because the Hon. reproduce here the whole ideology of poetry that we are taught as truth from school to college or family unconscious of everyday life. Ie the Hon. does not say anything different to what we say we "experts" in literature. He says: "The poetic expression, as an exceptional vehicle for the relationship between men, as a contribution of subjective beauty to the creative force." This is a mixture of Adorno and Habermas on language poetry as exceptionally subjective beauty, and as a means of communication. Then the Hon. becomes experiential, based on Leon Felipe, he adds: "The great poetry. born of life experience "(and where is born the way you eat, Mr. HE.?), concluding with a fatherly tone / populist, which is highlighted in the fullest aestheticism to write poetry, all in capital letters. He concludes: "our people, more or less culture, but almost always with adequate capacity to recognize and capture the beauty that comes diaphanous poetry." I thought I was reading Heidegger, and of course, Damaso Alonso. Diaphanous beauty that springs moved me. To be fair in this report I must say it looks as if the whole book was written by Javier Egea against the ideology inscribed in the words of Hon., Which basically is the ideology of all us. The fight against the poetic unconscious, as indicated, may explain the silence of years the author and an overall sense of the book. I thought I saw that the essential metaphor that Javier Egea aims to build the book is fundamentally this: love is impossible in an impossible world. That time of infamy is specified from the second poem: "They, the murderers, / watching the game of love in silence." This poem takes us to a kind of Lorca without lorquismo, ie "dry" by the influence of Cernuda. Indicates the initial appointment of Cernuda himself: "They, the victors ...». Something that also used Gil de Biedermann. In the first poem is a second metaphor also through the book: love is impossible in itself. This is a basic poem but a conceptually confusing, between Quevedo and Diego de San Pedro (which would explain the initial appointment of the book). In fact all the poems "conceptual" show that the author is steeped in the English classics, from the Song and Ballad Baroque to conceptualism. That is, apparently, difficult to use "poetic concepts" in the strong sense that today we talked about it (although the poetry of "ideas" is far more accomplished in the final walk). But if your first cancioneril conceptualism seems baroque or deployment of poetic rhythm and tone of metaphors is amazing. For me, pages 23 and 25 are critical. Here are two of the best poems in the book. Thus erased the differences between the supposedly subjective (love) and the supposedly foreign, strikeouts to get on page 25 his real accomplishment spatializing from the looks to mugs, from afternoon shade in the shadow of Bach "And how much blood / how much death roll among us for tea." The complete poem reads:
Barely looking at us, almost on edge,
as if they had suddenly come
sea or the photographers,
with the dignity that smoke rises
cup in the cup,
alone
or between morning and Bach crouching
hardly look at us we know the sentence
love and how much blood, how much death
rolling between us for tea .
the protagonist of the poem obviously is space. Notice that time is stopped, where only gestures count. But gestures also arrested in themselves, "almost on edge." The relationship of the two characters, the poem introduces almost absent figures is inscribed on the white space, the place "on edge" and devoid of meaning only, "without just watch us. " The objectivity of the relationship is great, if not crossed eyes is because there is something above and in front of them. Say, a third character in the blank: this is how you look at the sea that is how you look at the photographers. The sights are together but there is something, that party which is sandwiched between them, that distance. That forces them to look elsewhere. The relationship between the two is therefore frozen, "as if they were to come soon / sea or photographers." Of course the metaphor is overloaded on purpose. It does not say as if we saw the sea as if we were in front of a photographer. There is a kind of virtual ghostly a kind of surreal game that never leaves the book: the dream of the sea is coming, or photographers in the plural ("such as those surrounding the death?). The space character is populated, however, with a concrete object: the smoke of the cups if present, is not to-come. That smoke-that nothing, does have the aura of dignity in himself, something like life vibrating or something like the bourgeois myth of afternoon tea. The distribution of family or love even more specific in the objectivity of the two cups, inert things as the only living ("the smoke of a cup in a cup"). Smoke that instantly elevates the dignity of the detainee, as a new place interspersed: alone. "Alone" can mean both the loneliness of each as that of the two figures who inhabit the space. Except that suddenly triggers the rhythm of the poem with the disjunctive "or" that closes the first description. Now the loneliness is better understood, which is clouding the possibility of looking, so he repeated the "not just watch us." There's something stronger than the sea, the photographers or the inane dignity of smoke. In fact it is the image of two shadowy figures, as two poachers, "crouching" between diffuse but not least: the light in the afternoon or the music of Bach. The music and the smoke is dissolved in the light to accomplish something very direct. The two figures, the two characters alone, "know." And all personal pronouns (and absent: us) explains why the absence of love and attention: "know." What these players in the space, that frozen instant, you know? Obviously the truth of our world: "We know the conviction of love / and how much blood / how much death. "Why? Only to capture what lurks behind every moment everyday, costing each routine gesture, "how much blood [.] For tea." The daily life is steeped in something we are not ourselves and that, however, paralyzing, pervades: the blood of history that condemns even love. But this blood is exactly the history of each day, the blood of the operation to build the self or the U.S.. Know that our lives turned into juice, which is squeezed from a long time but here it becomes visible only in the glare of smoke. We only smoke (humus) history, but this effect is so strong that we regret and condemn us.
The poem on page 23 is equally impressive. Speak a second fork which is key in the book: the metaphor of the loss of the continuous farewell. I would say that this second branch is crucial. So, again, spatial metaphors, specifically now on platforms or lost on trains. And the ghosting of the loss to be structured to condense on the vision of "your eyes", eyes that are a tunnel but also a source of life, an impossible black tunnel of hope. The poem is this:
The terrible thing is the street single,
the platform as a challenge, missed trains.
terrible thing is not even the pain.
What hurts terribly and shakes
is already
only recourse is to life through your eyes
are a distance almost absurd,
being a black tunnel of hope.
The images solitude of the streets of the platform to say goodbye as a challenge, a challenge to oneself (is able to withstand the very lonely after the bye?) inevitably unfold in the ambiguous, "the trains lost." Who? "Again the two, or a self that is referred to us impossible? There is a continuous repetition of the terrible obsession, something that becomes anaphoric in the beginning of the first four verses ("The terrible thing is not the lonely street [.] The terrible thing is not even the pain") but that is internalized in the fifth verse, same as the pain becomes a living word, like a whip: "What hurts terribly and shakes." And again the challenge of loneliness ("is that it is only"), or again the distance from the bye, which may be temporary goodbye on the platform or the long goodbye forever. Hence the required final correlation between the railway tunnel and the tunnel of the eyes / life or hope impossible. That total darkness to which we referred. Who is going with the train of life, who is left alone in the pain of the street? In the challenge of solitude of the platform, who has seen him go to a particular train as if dragged to life itself? The double metaphor of that particular train and goodbye forever that moves us from the loneliness and pain of the platform of the street. In the Street is where the pain starts to hurt and shaken. The hope has faded into the tunnel. Only there is not an atom of tearing. This is again, as in the previous poem, a frozen moment, the moment from a distance, a distance which, however, seems to accompany it forever. And yet, there is no alternative to that distance absurd.
III.
To put a final note at the bottom of these two poems I add more lines on the contextualization (and co-contextualization) in which they develop and about the times when they were written. I would note only this: the third branch of the book lies in what we might call revolutionary utopia. It is noted that this script looks for another world that is as steeped in Marxism recently. This also obviously falls within the scope of "The other sentimentality" of the early 80's in Granada. Apart from the references to texts fetishes that group (as Gramsci's Ashes of Pasolini, or The Long Goodbye, Chandler), in both senses of the same title. It is assumed that this "Walk" is because that's where the sad passing of Granada burials, but the author's treatment makes it a question on the solitude of dawn and the historical construction of sadness. Perhaps too much emphasis on the credit and the debit side of love, understood as a book of accounts or petty-bourgeois rentier or agriculture. Or perhaps another metaphor bifurcated between the commercialism of every day and love viewed as a commodity between what we give and what we give. The poem that closes the book demonstrates that the author is a poet of long-term, and who knows condense all those forks metaphors to which we refer. That is, the relationship interior / exterior, the impossible love itself, the utopia of a different world and, finally, the aforementioned presence of the platforms and loss, or latency of death. It is therefore not surprising that end the first half with other text of lorquismo "dry." It is entitled "final barracks" and reads: "- Do you know who killed Mr. Egea? / / "I know. / / - Well, say so immediately! / / "I threw the empty / from the dead star / and I have no fear of dying."
fact can be a poet against "what " poetic. One can love life to kill her.
2 .- Wake in vacuum (A final poem.)
I woke up again
between two shades.
There were no words in my memory.
With fingers, groping,
the feeling was:
eyes enemies,
his dry lips,
the map above,
the deep craters, written
hearts with loneliness.
A prisoner
his faithful always looking
shadows my friends all these years. They
,
I stole the light from a dream, no longer
ransom for my kidnapping. Javier Egea
12/abril/1999
Black Shadow Ensombra I
Funny how this poem Javier Egea-a text that I did not get released before his death, "is like Rosalia as a drop of ink to another. Maybe, or course, because it is a poem order. should distinguish between order and final. The order would mean finishing and easy to talk about this poem as a premonition, an advance granted as rotten food for suicide deglutidores Javier almost immediate. Only premonitory warnings annoy me not to mention the previous horoscopes.
masterly This poem is not a game of horoscopes. End and Final charge here two completely different ways. It's like the game of 7 and 5 metric that builds the poem. Almost could speak of a curious "lay", if we think that the lay is always a kind of crying, here becomes a "cry himself, or rather, a dry tears over the loss of something of their own: the loss memory or words. A crying, then, about the emptiness, the loss of words in this memory is a kind of blank wall that is hollow or has been moved. That's what we are told from the beginning of the text. But announcing means anticipating? Only sibyls, sorcerers or weepers death. I think there are no cryptic announcement in any way. Only the presence of this, the key continuous Javier's poetry. A mind that has now become white in his own presence, the moment of awakening. White in the shadows: "I woke up again / between two shadows." The image of the back obviously implies that the presence of white in the shadows has been repeated at other times. But it is only an image of presence, again, and nothing else. I've always said that Javier reached its true poetic-only and only at that moment when he compressed his verses to get their "poetic ideas." The poetic idea is the key to contemporary poetry. To Troppo mare or Paseo de los Tristes, Javier (which Francisco Javier is still signed as a Jesuit and an aspiring Bourbon to the throne) was playing with the sarcasm of the meter and rhyme. Played (as a whole baroque tradition) with the rupture of unity between the line of verse rhythm and rhythm of speech. He was a mechanic of verse sublime (if any Hayles), but still did not know being a "talkative" in his poetry. And poetry "eidetic" poetry does not exist today. You have to know, learn to say things in poetry . We must learn to build "poetic ideas." For example, the fantastic beginning of this poem: the dialectical contradiction between waking life and non-awakening of memory one hand, and between words and other shadows. But above all the wonder of what is silent below: the line that blemish / links the two shadows with the words or memory to make the shadow on white. I mean, you mean, only emptiness. Can you touch the void? Maybe so, where negativity. Feel what? Just groping what should have been a friend and yet has always been an enemy, dryness or negation: enemies eyes and dry lips . The map of life that become deep craters written in the hearts of loneliness. Look at the writings : the poetic idea alluded, is the centerpiece of the text. If hearts are just writing the sunken solitude ( craters), then what good writing? It is not therefore abstract hearts but cursed or useless condition of writing. And then the second "poetic idea" caught in a new dialectic: the central image is the prisoner (again denying any poetic or vital), but a prisoner who is determined, almost like the Count of Monte Cristo, only output without any possibility of escape, revenge. Also because the prisoner recognizes himself as such, it is true . The contradiction is striking. The shadows, sentries, which watch - always looking - are not enemies as dry eyes or lips seemed to let us guess, but actually are the real partners, the only ones: those of many years. This continuous presence of that inescapable. And so the conflict comes to an end. The shadows have always been there have always existed (wonder why both? The father and mother? Or would be too easy to say this? Perhaps life and death?). Presence, therefore, eternally This is configured around the theft of light: "They robbed me / the light of a dream ." A great "poetic idea" again, since it is uncertain whether these shadows thieves of light are indeed "robbers" or if the issue takes us away: the light ever existed except in the light of a dream? But that does not matter. This is not a paradise lost , modeled on Alberti or Aleixandre. You have become accustomed to the shadows and they love us, what we have built, they sleep with us and wake us up to each one: "You do not ask for rescue / by my abduction." If
someone finds a "poetic idea" that best know ooze into our lives, the better. Perhaps only the memory of Rosalie: the shadow that darkens us in life and in this poem of continuous order. Shadow as our double in the mirror everyday.
But it really would be another story, because we all know that (very short time after delivery of the poem) the life of Javier Egea did have an end. Even though he has been the etceteras, how are you pages, for example.
I.
Can you be a poet against established poetic symbolism? Absolutely. Even today I think is a good way to be: breaking all topics constituted as "platitudes" about the most elusive nebula called Poetry . I refer, of course, the mastery of poetic technique in the form of creating "mental images", but all unconscious ideology about what poetic. A Javier Egea liked to recall that in my book I had noted how this "what " condensed all the cords that used to be embedded in each poem, which encouraged killing each poem contemporary sublime, sensitive, intimate, beautiful. and of course, the purity of the language or hidden feelings (we may add other signs of "what ": the offender, the marginal, etc.). In short poetic as the last room rented by the petty-bourgeois unconscious inside a world monopoly that generated the illusion of "me" precisely because it prevented building "self."
On these issues we talked many times while he was still signed Francisco Javier, and then keep talking and talking before and after they appeared Paseo de los Tristes and Troppo mare. The two poems that I will read / analyze belong to Paseo de los Tristes, a book in which, obviously, Javier tried to finish the fight to grips with his previous poetry. This reading attempts to unify the atmosphere of the book. To be excused, therefore, the failure decontextualized, analyzing them as islands. For me they are symptoms that focuses on the full range of meanings, the meaning Javier Egea tried to give your text. Avoiding any apology and any excess of knowledge I will just give a dry report of this range of meanings.
II. To contextualize historically
this book (and co-textualize both poems) will begin by briefly describing what we might call it the emergence of the ideology of the poetic. Say so it is published in Huelva, by the Hon. Provincial, and on the cover tells us that he won the prize JRJ of 1982 (1). Below is an introduction to the Hon. Chairman of the Delegation, a dedication by the author Luis García Montero A and all that time fighting for different and, as an opening, an appointment of Diego de San Pedro. The book itself (although everything pointed to a lot to the book) is divided into two parts. The first is titled Income and Daily love and the second The Long Goodbye. The extensive final text, "Paseo de los Tristes," title to all the poems. Should begin this brief report noting that the most bizarre in the biographical note is the apparent "silence" of the author from 76 years and this book of 82 (although in 81 displayed scored another title: The traveler ). It is clear that the author happened "something" in the silence of five or six years. It may not be very difficult to explain what happened. Well, in fact, the first major significance of the book is found in the introduction of the Hon. President and contrast that offers face to face the book itself. Significant because the Hon. reproduce here the whole ideology of poetry that we are taught as truth from school to college or family unconscious of everyday life. Ie the Hon. does not say anything different to what we say we "experts" in literature. He says: "The poetic expression, as an exceptional vehicle for the relationship between men, as a contribution of subjective beauty to the creative force." This is a mixture of Adorno and Habermas on language poetry as exceptionally subjective beauty, and as a means of communication. Then the Hon. becomes experiential, based on Leon Felipe, he adds: "The great poetry. born of life experience "(and where is born the way you eat, Mr. HE.?), concluding with a fatherly tone / populist, which is highlighted in the fullest aestheticism to write poetry, all in capital letters. He concludes: "our people, more or less culture, but almost always with adequate capacity to recognize and capture the beauty that comes diaphanous poetry." I thought I was reading Heidegger, and of course, Damaso Alonso. Diaphanous beauty that springs moved me. To be fair in this report I must say it looks as if the whole book was written by Javier Egea against the ideology inscribed in the words of Hon., Which basically is the ideology of all us. The fight against the poetic unconscious, as indicated, may explain the silence of years the author and an overall sense of the book. I thought I saw that the essential metaphor that Javier Egea aims to build the book is fundamentally this: love is impossible in an impossible world. That time of infamy is specified from the second poem: "They, the murderers, / watching the game of love in silence." This poem takes us to a kind of Lorca without lorquismo, ie "dry" by the influence of Cernuda. Indicates the initial appointment of Cernuda himself: "They, the victors ...». Something that also used Gil de Biedermann. In the first poem is a second metaphor also through the book: love is impossible in itself. This is a basic poem but a conceptually confusing, between Quevedo and Diego de San Pedro (which would explain the initial appointment of the book). In fact all the poems "conceptual" show that the author is steeped in the English classics, from the Song and Ballad Baroque to conceptualism. That is, apparently, difficult to use "poetic concepts" in the strong sense that today we talked about it (although the poetry of "ideas" is far more accomplished in the final walk). But if your first cancioneril conceptualism seems baroque or deployment of poetic rhythm and tone of metaphors is amazing. For me, pages 23 and 25 are critical. Here are two of the best poems in the book. Thus erased the differences between the supposedly subjective (love) and the supposedly foreign, strikeouts to get on page 25 his real accomplishment spatializing from the looks to mugs, from afternoon shade in the shadow of Bach "And how much blood / how much death roll among us for tea." The complete poem reads:
Barely looking at us, almost on edge,
as if they had suddenly come
sea or the photographers,
with the dignity that smoke rises
cup in the cup,
alone
or between morning and Bach crouching
hardly look at us we know the sentence
love and how much blood, how much death
rolling between us for tea .
the protagonist of the poem obviously is space. Notice that time is stopped, where only gestures count. But gestures also arrested in themselves, "almost on edge." The relationship of the two characters, the poem introduces almost absent figures is inscribed on the white space, the place "on edge" and devoid of meaning only, "without just watch us. " The objectivity of the relationship is great, if not crossed eyes is because there is something above and in front of them. Say, a third character in the blank: this is how you look at the sea that is how you look at the photographers. The sights are together but there is something, that party which is sandwiched between them, that distance. That forces them to look elsewhere. The relationship between the two is therefore frozen, "as if they were to come soon / sea or photographers." Of course the metaphor is overloaded on purpose. It does not say as if we saw the sea as if we were in front of a photographer. There is a kind of virtual ghostly a kind of surreal game that never leaves the book: the dream of the sea is coming, or photographers in the plural ("such as those surrounding the death?). The space character is populated, however, with a concrete object: the smoke of the cups if present, is not to-come. That smoke-that nothing, does have the aura of dignity in himself, something like life vibrating or something like the bourgeois myth of afternoon tea. The distribution of family or love even more specific in the objectivity of the two cups, inert things as the only living ("the smoke of a cup in a cup"). Smoke that instantly elevates the dignity of the detainee, as a new place interspersed: alone. "Alone" can mean both the loneliness of each as that of the two figures who inhabit the space. Except that suddenly triggers the rhythm of the poem with the disjunctive "or" that closes the first description. Now the loneliness is better understood, which is clouding the possibility of looking, so he repeated the "not just watch us." There's something stronger than the sea, the photographers or the inane dignity of smoke. In fact it is the image of two shadowy figures, as two poachers, "crouching" between diffuse but not least: the light in the afternoon or the music of Bach. The music and the smoke is dissolved in the light to accomplish something very direct. The two figures, the two characters alone, "know." And all personal pronouns (and absent: us) explains why the absence of love and attention: "know." What these players in the space, that frozen instant, you know? Obviously the truth of our world: "We know the conviction of love / and how much blood / how much death. "Why? Only to capture what lurks behind every moment everyday, costing each routine gesture, "how much blood [.] For tea." The daily life is steeped in something we are not ourselves and that, however, paralyzing, pervades: the blood of history that condemns even love. But this blood is exactly the history of each day, the blood of the operation to build the self or the U.S.. Know that our lives turned into juice, which is squeezed from a long time but here it becomes visible only in the glare of smoke. We only smoke (humus) history, but this effect is so strong that we regret and condemn us.
The poem on page 23 is equally impressive. Speak a second fork which is key in the book: the metaphor of the loss of the continuous farewell. I would say that this second branch is crucial. So, again, spatial metaphors, specifically now on platforms or lost on trains. And the ghosting of the loss to be structured to condense on the vision of "your eyes", eyes that are a tunnel but also a source of life, an impossible black tunnel of hope. The poem is this:
The terrible thing is the street single,
the platform as a challenge, missed trains.
terrible thing is not even the pain.
What hurts terribly and shakes
is already
only recourse is to life through your eyes
are a distance almost absurd,
being a black tunnel of hope.
The images solitude of the streets of the platform to say goodbye as a challenge, a challenge to oneself (is able to withstand the very lonely after the bye?) inevitably unfold in the ambiguous, "the trains lost." Who? "Again the two, or a self that is referred to us impossible? There is a continuous repetition of the terrible obsession, something that becomes anaphoric in the beginning of the first four verses ("The terrible thing is not the lonely street [.] The terrible thing is not even the pain") but that is internalized in the fifth verse, same as the pain becomes a living word, like a whip: "What hurts terribly and shakes." And again the challenge of loneliness ("is that it is only"), or again the distance from the bye, which may be temporary goodbye on the platform or the long goodbye forever. Hence the required final correlation between the railway tunnel and the tunnel of the eyes / life or hope impossible. That total darkness to which we referred. Who is going with the train of life, who is left alone in the pain of the street? In the challenge of solitude of the platform, who has seen him go to a particular train as if dragged to life itself? The double metaphor of that particular train and goodbye forever that moves us from the loneliness and pain of the platform of the street. In the Street is where the pain starts to hurt and shaken. The hope has faded into the tunnel. Only there is not an atom of tearing. This is again, as in the previous poem, a frozen moment, the moment from a distance, a distance which, however, seems to accompany it forever. And yet, there is no alternative to that distance absurd.
III.
To put a final note at the bottom of these two poems I add more lines on the contextualization (and co-contextualization) in which they develop and about the times when they were written. I would note only this: the third branch of the book lies in what we might call revolutionary utopia. It is noted that this script looks for another world that is as steeped in Marxism recently. This also obviously falls within the scope of "The other sentimentality" of the early 80's in Granada. Apart from the references to texts fetishes that group (as Gramsci's Ashes of Pasolini, or The Long Goodbye, Chandler), in both senses of the same title. It is assumed that this "Walk" is because that's where the sad passing of Granada burials, but the author's treatment makes it a question on the solitude of dawn and the historical construction of sadness. Perhaps too much emphasis on the credit and the debit side of love, understood as a book of accounts or petty-bourgeois rentier or agriculture. Or perhaps another metaphor bifurcated between the commercialism of every day and love viewed as a commodity between what we give and what we give. The poem that closes the book demonstrates that the author is a poet of long-term, and who knows condense all those forks metaphors to which we refer. That is, the relationship interior / exterior, the impossible love itself, the utopia of a different world and, finally, the aforementioned presence of the platforms and loss, or latency of death. It is therefore not surprising that end the first half with other text of lorquismo "dry." It is entitled "final barracks" and reads: "- Do you know who killed Mr. Egea? / / "I know. / / - Well, say so immediately! / / "I threw the empty / from the dead star / and I have no fear of dying."
fact can be a poet against "what " poetic. One can love life to kill her.
2 .- Wake in vacuum (A final poem.)
I woke up again
between two shades.
There were no words in my memory.
With fingers, groping,
the feeling was:
eyes enemies,
his dry lips,
the map above,
the deep craters, written
hearts with loneliness.
A prisoner
his faithful always looking
shadows my friends all these years. They
,
I stole the light from a dream, no longer
ransom for my kidnapping. Javier Egea
12/abril/1999
Black Shadow Ensombra I
Funny how this poem Javier Egea-a text that I did not get released before his death, "is like Rosalia as a drop of ink to another. Maybe, or course, because it is a poem order. should distinguish between order and final. The order would mean finishing and easy to talk about this poem as a premonition, an advance granted as rotten food for suicide deglutidores Javier almost immediate. Only premonitory warnings annoy me not to mention the previous horoscopes.
masterly This poem is not a game of horoscopes. End and Final charge here two completely different ways. It's like the game of 7 and 5 metric that builds the poem. Almost could speak of a curious "lay", if we think that the lay is always a kind of crying, here becomes a "cry himself, or rather, a dry tears over the loss of something of their own: the loss memory or words. A crying, then, about the emptiness, the loss of words in this memory is a kind of blank wall that is hollow or has been moved. That's what we are told from the beginning of the text. But announcing means anticipating? Only sibyls, sorcerers or weepers death. I think there are no cryptic announcement in any way. Only the presence of this, the key continuous Javier's poetry. A mind that has now become white in his own presence, the moment of awakening. White in the shadows: "I woke up again / between two shadows." The image of the back obviously implies that the presence of white in the shadows has been repeated at other times. But it is only an image of presence, again, and nothing else. I've always said that Javier reached its true poetic-only and only at that moment when he compressed his verses to get their "poetic ideas." The poetic idea is the key to contemporary poetry. To Troppo mare or Paseo de los Tristes, Javier (which Francisco Javier is still signed as a Jesuit and an aspiring Bourbon to the throne) was playing with the sarcasm of the meter and rhyme. Played (as a whole baroque tradition) with the rupture of unity between the line of verse rhythm and rhythm of speech. He was a mechanic of verse sublime (if any Hayles), but still did not know being a "talkative" in his poetry. And poetry "eidetic" poetry does not exist today. You have to know, learn to say things in poetry . We must learn to build "poetic ideas." For example, the fantastic beginning of this poem: the dialectical contradiction between waking life and non-awakening of memory one hand, and between words and other shadows. But above all the wonder of what is silent below: the line that blemish / links the two shadows with the words or memory to make the shadow on white. I mean, you mean, only emptiness. Can you touch the void? Maybe so, where negativity. Feel what? Just groping what should have been a friend and yet has always been an enemy, dryness or negation: enemies eyes and dry lips . The map of life that become deep craters written in the hearts of loneliness. Look at the writings : the poetic idea alluded, is the centerpiece of the text. If hearts are just writing the sunken solitude ( craters), then what good writing? It is not therefore abstract hearts but cursed or useless condition of writing. And then the second "poetic idea" caught in a new dialectic: the central image is the prisoner (again denying any poetic or vital), but a prisoner who is determined, almost like the Count of Monte Cristo, only output without any possibility of escape, revenge. Also because the prisoner recognizes himself as such, it is true . The contradiction is striking. The shadows, sentries, which watch - always looking - are not enemies as dry eyes or lips seemed to let us guess, but actually are the real partners, the only ones: those of many years. This continuous presence of that inescapable. And so the conflict comes to an end. The shadows have always been there have always existed (wonder why both? The father and mother? Or would be too easy to say this? Perhaps life and death?). Presence, therefore, eternally This is configured around the theft of light: "They robbed me / the light of a dream ." A great "poetic idea" again, since it is uncertain whether these shadows thieves of light are indeed "robbers" or if the issue takes us away: the light ever existed except in the light of a dream? But that does not matter. This is not a paradise lost , modeled on Alberti or Aleixandre. You have become accustomed to the shadows and they love us, what we have built, they sleep with us and wake us up to each one: "You do not ask for rescue / by my abduction." If
someone finds a "poetic idea" that best know ooze into our lives, the better. Perhaps only the memory of Rosalie: the shadow that darkens us in life and in this poem of continuous order. Shadow as our double in the mirror everyday.
But it really would be another story, because we all know that (very short time after delivery of the poem) the life of Javier Egea did have an end. Even though he has been the etceteras, how are you pages, for example.
(1) I will quote provided by this first edition, since the introduction , say "official" does not appear in the editions following. And the heart that I present in this short article, that is, the fight against "the" poetic, focuses on the gloss of the words that are offered in this introduction.
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