I try to write poetry
I try to say at least one poem
But it's not sometimes
perhaps (?)
believe you have a gift
and not see my tare, the sad hiatus,
the round white eighth note of silence?
why talk then
why make noise
Yes. It is also true that one is not born a poet,
That everything learned (and snatched from life)
It depends a lot on the drive and the desire
That vitalistic and warrior way of saying I am
And I want it.
But nevertheless...
The muses, the genie of the oil lamps...
Does that mystical reality of the poet exist vaguely?
that alien grace that comes from some unspeakable god
and makes him so supposedly enlightened?
No. Out there they say it's not true.
But I watch how the sun goes down there
Behind the green curtain of willows in the background
And it makes me say certain things
The west always seems
More worthy than a simple sunset
By the tiresome way they say goodbye
Of their forms things and
The trill of birds like metal
Bringing from who knows where
the curtain of the night
As if it came to a predictable end, natural
But also, perhaps, miraculous
If nature could speak,
Then I would do it in verse form,
With metaphors, symbols, metonyms
Inspired by some secular sacrament
A sorcery, an instinct for magic.
That realize that deep voice
That many times the poet seeks.
Between the work of the hours
And that light that is the epiphany.
Even so
There is no worse poet
That the one who agrees to have
the light of truth
the genie lamp
The clap
And the infinite consecration.
There are no gods on this earth.
That's why I'm ready to
apologize to the sun and the moon
that reveal to our eyes
all that is assumed
there is manifest.