This is the beginning of "Criaturas en la aurora" (Creatures in the dawn)
You met the generous light of
Among wild flowers you picked every morning
the last, the pale eco of the great
You drank that crystalline bright
that, with the purest hand,
says goodbye to the men behind the
Reading this, used to so much *WhatsApp* and*twitter*, it could be said that these words were pronounced by a hominid ancestor that lived in a much earlier epoque that the actual reigning cretinism.
Well, not that much early.
The author of these words was called Vicente Aleixandre, Spanish poet born in Seville in 1898, associated with the so called “Generation of 27” and Literature Nobel prize in 1977.
After reading the verses of Aleixandre I immediately felt a succession of resounding hits that were not intended to the gut or the chin. No, the verses of Aleixandre hit other unsuspected parts of the human organism. Studently, a beam of light can open your tendons and the left leg femoral biceps. Similar feelings I experienced when reading Dylan Thomas, a welsh poet.
Yes, solid hits that connect with the truth.
Poetry, as philosophy, are basic elements of reality. In other words, they are practical elements for the construction of a sensitive world. Poetry is random science, a way of knowledge that helps us visualize some light points of the everyday reality universe. In this sense, the latent of Aleixandre is to humanize the mystery or a way of proximity to the remoteness but also a fraternal talent of company.
Aleixandre is a poet that aims to understand the enigma and celebrate it with the pureness of a morning dew that would have blossom from its forehead. The detached man sweats and becomes anguished but it only needs to get closer to the poet with his bright dew, he only needs to touch with his hand the forehead of the poet so that the human night becomes less dark and scary.
Aleixandre loves the planets, the big leave of the palm tree, the rumor of the stream, the remoteness of the starts, but doesn’t love them in the usual way in which the common mortal will love or feel these things.
Aleixandre loves the planets as living houses that wait for us with the smoldering fire. As the planets of the poet have painted walls, portraits of the loving ones and velvet that can be touched.
Aleixandre is the telluric and cosmic poet at the same time, is the humanizer of nature’s magnificence, that’s why he wants to touch the sun as if it was blond hair, that’s why he wants to kiss as human chic the cold face of the moon.
Let’s hear the poet one more time:
If ever you could
have said what you didn’t.
In this almost perfect night, near the dome, in this cool summer night.
When the moon has burned;
burning the chariot; the star sank.
Reading these words, we seem to see in our memories our beloved person - that man, that women - with whom we were in a cool summer night with our lips pounding, silencing our offering, our hope, our pain.
That beautiful night in which kites were crossing the sky brightened by thousands of stars. A sky that was sending the earth the secret of love wrapping the people with hugging rainbows.
But the thing that was pounding in our lips, that thing that we were scared to pronounce, that thing that we never wanted to discover ended up breaking in our trembling mouth. And the moon burned, a swan, a lemon, a Seat Leon burned…. and the burned star fell in our feet while we were playing, without feeling, the body of the one we love.
Let’s trust that soon the new tv show that is preparing the oligopoly of the fooling televisions, like, Big Brother, and other reality shows ends up its emissions with a meaningful poem.
For example, with this poem that says:
What is poetry? You ask
as you fix on me your pupil with rheum stupefy due to the tv
What is poetry! And it’s you who ask me?
Poetry… it is you when you leave the tv and start reading.
You are poetry, reader