• JUAN MARQUÉS

Updated Friday,17March2023-11:36

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Until recently, in the context of Spanish poetry, it was common to hear that you had to choose a side, which, apart from sounding very ugly, seems especially inadequate from the current situation: what we rather find today is that each young poet has to choose his war, because it is no longer a question of knowing to which aesthetics or school each one ascribes, but whether or not they really are poets and what they want to do with their words. It's no longer so much about quality as it is about nature.

These eight poets are poets and form with many others a resistance to the barateo in which, judging by the poetry sections of many bookstores, the genre has become. Post-hermetics like Javier Fajarnés coexist with neoclassicists like Luis Bravo, who is the emperor of hyperbatos, and the gymferrerian Aitana Monzón sees her culturalism, so colorful, along with that of Laura Ramos, even more smiling and more naïve. María Sánchez-Saorín reinvents eroticism in her poem, and Rocío Simón demonstrates why she lives this course in the Residencia de Estudiantes, with a creation grant. Juan F. Rivero advances in his own path, masterful, and Manuel Mata, my great weakness, always takes gold out of nowhere, makes the empty overflow.

It is only a very small sample, but it gives the note well. They are not all that are, far from it, but all these shine and, surely, will continue to shine.

María Sánchez-Saorín.Natalia Hernández

SEXTING

MARÍA SÁNCHEZ-SAORÍN (Murcia, 1999)

You say "your hair"
and the possessive traces a tunnel
from your tongue to my root.
You write to me,
so we are silent.
Silence, as in music, is necessary in language:
tonight I learned, for example,

that my lips are called in your mouth "your lips".
You name my sex,
your voice rests on it like a hand.
Everything you name suddenly shudders.
Like the gods in the sacred texts
of every civilization,
you make and create with words.

Aitana Monzon

SA CALA / NECROPASTORAL 1

AITANA MONZÓN (Tudela, Navarra, 2000)

The brief breath of the ocean.
An expansion towards nothingness and from here
to see the plastics. The slight walk
that the fish carries. be enough flesh and enough
beauty. A sea
that tries to say goodbye to the human.
It's July.
It was July once over your heart.

Manuel Mata.Dennise Vaccarello

LOVE

MANUEL MATA (Vilagarcia de Arousa, Pontevedra, 1992)

Love
is a horse.

Almost love
are two people
disguised as
horses
who walk weird.

Laura Ramos.Lucía Vega

RICHARD ESTES WATCHES LIGHT BOUNCE OFF THE METAL SURFACE OF PHONE BOOTHS

LAURA RAMOS (Avilés, Asturias, 1996)

[...]
Do you know what a telephone booth is?: it is the same as a city drawn with square and cardboard but does not join points with cement joins points with cables. It is a hanging neural network: from building to building people's lives roll silently. Now it is no longer the same because there are frequencies that do not hang but fly direct from satellite to satellite; too complex. How such a contraption is possible: it is, because of the gap caused by desire. Do you know the story of Antonio Meucci? Between Mr. and Mrs. Meucci there was a gap. A hollow known as rheumatism. A bedridden wife and an office floors below. We don't talk about Florence because the Meucci family resided in New York. Let's say Meucci hadn't been in love with his wife. Let's say his wife hadn't been sick. Gaps only exist if we invent them. Necessity invents the hole. Heaven how you are too much work in the office. Meucci created the phone to bridge the gap between obligations and love. Don't worry then I sing you a piccola ninna nanna.

Juan F. Rivero.Rocío Dávila

JUAN F. RIVERO (Seville, 1991)

If in the immense forest of pain
a tree
were born planted in another life, long ago, for me,

if the relentless ascent
to memory
were cut short andthe ghosts I have been were to return
,

if I left someday
without the words and
even if you called, I would not know how to answer you,

Remember that there was a time
when I was happy

and that I loved as a child all these things
on their way to destruction.

Rocío Simón.Ismael Marí Salcedo

COLLECTS

ROCÍO SIMÓN (Seville, 1997)

His much confinement prevents him from enjoying his Celestine moçedad

but it is precise
the uplifting
stone enlarges and risessuggest a joint
or a stem
out the very
thick nectar inside lobes carry the pleasure
and throw me throw open them
yes

they explode happy and hidden
now funny pomp
Thus lay a long
mane down and pendants
look at each other and pendulate
and their much body
prevents
joy

Javier Fajarnés.Jaime Galindo

ESSAI

JAVIER FAJARNÉS DURÁN (Zaragoza, 1997)

Written at midnight.
It splits the day and the words.
Someone says minuit to make it sweeter
and fit the poems through the door.

Yes in the black, a ghost crosses me on tiptoe,

he is afraid that I will grab him.

Inside and many,
yeses like him.
The rest of the lights are lies.

Luis BravoJ.M.

ROSES UNDER THE TREES, 1905 (GUSTAV KLIMT)

LUIS BRAVO (Madrid, 1994)

What humility would they dare to wear
when they were born among the always surplus Baroque
? How much milky acidity could be drawn from the tight sigh
in her little by
little absorbed blood that enclose the breasts of a
lady
carried to mortal love, to the last?
Is it magnificent that they build thorns
and celebrate the sleepiness of the site in the sun?
Is there more than just fever in their corollas?
Who collects the worlds that hang
or those petals that went to
the grave where the passer-by, out of charity,
at least in German a few verses
could be left to cover his name?

According to The Trust Project criteria

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