• Literature: What do writers write and read in times of the coronavirus?
  • Blockade. The Spanish publishing sector is paralyzed: suspends the launch of news
  • Crisis. Theaters, cinemas and museums expect to suffer an extra month of quarantine when the state of alarm ends

Nine Spanish poets from different generations face the disturbing reality that Covid-19 imposes on the planet. Poetry is one of the best spaces for meeting and reflection. Also a tool to establish new areas of communication.

Culture has become one of the most fertile territories to endure as a society (and individually) the state of alarm decreed more than 20 days ago by the Government. And the restlessness that this brings along. Poetry is no stranger to what happens, but it also harbors hope. What's more, the best poetry is always an excellent grounding with the immediate .

Felipe Benítez Reyes, Ada Salas, Manuel Vilas, Ana Merino, Lorenzo Oliván, Mariano Peyrou, Joaquín Pérez Azaústre, Marwan and Xaime Martínez are some of the most significant voices on the poetry scene in Spain. Here they display their unpublished verses, to accompany the readers , to walk together looking for corners of light.



Now we know that life is eating with a friend on a terrace, going to bookstores, sunbathing, watching a movie in a cinema, getting lost on an unknown street, taking a train.

So when life returns, we will ask for fewer things.

And now I remember full restaurants, weddings, parties, trips by bus, by plane, in the subway.

Nostalgia for the sales of all the shops and markets in Spain, my great country, my poor tortured and humiliated country.

When this is over, I don't think we'll ever give a formal kiss again. All kisses will become powerful, strong, big, sexy and wild kisses.

When life returns, you will see me handsome and elegant, as always.

When she returns, because she will return, she will find me well disposed and on order.





-Now, yes, so sharp-

I hear -your song: that light-


the city

in the middle of a forest.

They hardly say anything

of death

they say:

I am


I am here again.

I go to your window then

they say:


between the horror


the beauty.



we are like the others, but we see some lines running through it all

separating everything

how the ground moves, the memories

stuck, falling or scattered on the ground

things smile and threaten us, mix

the stars and people's faces

you don't feel sad because it doesn't contrast with anything

I once saw the field

I wanted to be alone in the world

full of voices

they have children we

we are our children

we walk on our tracks

and we have no legs

and we are many

walking on just two feet

and we get rid

from listening to all of us inside



This swirling present

of invisible drops,

of tiny poison,

of distant whispers.

Puzzled calendar of repeated days

who intuit the enigma

of the fragility that inhabits us.

What awakens that idea of ​​full thinking,

the yearned for energy,

the solar dream of alchemy,

make up the formula of heaven

and find your answer

in the laboratories

and break this spell.

Felipe Benítez Reyes.INÉS REAL


Installed in the loneliest purity of pain,

in uncontaminated territory

where nothing but pure pain lives,

like a vanished identity

that has taken the air away,

What does he dream of?

Edges that come together,

spinning lethargic spirals,

an abyss to the abyss ...?

What narrative rules your dream?

In your troubled sleep, what happens?

What is inside each one that belongs to no one?

In this clinical asepsis, in this full moon out of nowhere,

What can you dream when there is only left

the loneliest purity of pain?



Touch has a memory (John Keats)

Just the heat

melts the properties of the bodies.

And it's also the heat

a subtle form of identity.

The heat of brushing against each other

models, in movements

curved, the self.

What form of vision is on the skin

What is sought in the skin of those whom you love?

The words are turning around:

silence does not inspire,

the center is useless axis

and the inside doesn't work.

Your passion passes alone

for the superficial:

for touching surfaces

throbbing, vibrant and fiery.

Memory has the touch.

The skin - today more than ever - is the deep.



The road is good

and l'añu enteru ta estáu de snow

and no higher seique

no N! Never no higher! chew nature

conspire against you to keep the sense of shame

and no requexu, almost no higher,

a metal flower makes a poem:


(what you think you will

They are in the plumes of feather dusters from the pampa).


The road, steep,

the whole year is full of snow

maybe at the top

no! Never on top! although nature

conspire against you still retain a sense of modesty

and at a bend, almost at the top,

a metal flower opens a poem:

Flash of lightning

(what you thought faces

they were the feather dusters of the pampa).

* Author's translation



I'm taking dad to the hospital,

he's having a hard time breathing.

It's 9:35 p.m. on Wednesday, March 25.

The streets are corridors of geriatric.

Fear takes real shape

it fits in my family.

My father is fighting against the air

in a hospital room in the south of Madrid.

My brother is a nurse there,

he will take care of it, we tell ourselves,

looking for luck in misfortune.

But nothing is easy

distress is a rubber band,

fear, a test tube,

I live in one of Goya's very black paintings.

Hope is just a strange utensil

that today I hold in my hands,

time a slow train that does not want to cross the landscape.

I am the child who cries for the pain of man

that he can't hold his father's hand.

The branch is strong, life, a fish going upriver,

dad recovers.

How not to think about them,

where they got hung up

like a jacket in the last conversation

with a relative from whom they could not say goodbye?

Hope is just a strange utensil

which is held in the hands.


(Flight Algiers-Madrid, March 31, 2020)

Tell a parent to get on that plane

without looking back.

That the important thing is him, that he thinks of him,

and not in the good and laborious angel

who tried to slide over the garden

of happy hours, with its haze of terror.

Tell the strongest father that nothing is strength

from his always happy voice tell him that he guards it

prevails over the minutes and must decide

come back to life or kill yourself later.

Tell a parent to forget that little hands

today they were able to get on the last flight

and face the battle of daylight hours.

Tell a parent to pray.

And to dream consular words of protection

because there is no time to write your novel

of parental authority.

Tell the father that one day the true eyes

of the men who write their love geography

they will meet again in a distant fire

According to the criteria of The Trust Project

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