a
WOMEN
you see that are not empty, that does not have standing, they are the ones that hold any city, all cities. With the marriage, motherhood, widowhood, with the beats, they carry with this world, this Saturday night where they laugh a little in front of a glass of white wine and some olives. Infumables bear husbands, boyfriends intractable coma with parents, with children suspended. Smoke more than men. Lung cancers have become sick and have to be beautiful. Put creams, creams are a tyranny. Perfumes and fine stockings and panties and hair and makeup and shoes that torture. But age. Do not leave women behind himself nothing, children, at best, children who do not remember their mothers. Nobody remembers women. The truth is that we know nothing of them. I see them sometimes on the streets, in shops, smiling. They expect their children to after school. Work everywhere. Enclosed housewives in kitchen overlooking courtyards. Women smile, as if life were good. In many countries stoned. In others violated. In our country are abused to death. Work outside the home, and work at home, working at fish or in factories or in bakeries or in bars or bingo halls. We do not know what to think when they die at the hands of men.
1977
bare feet of Patti Smith on stage, while his hair hides his face anemic horsey. Lips Jimi Hendrix beds: a poster of his in a ruined town of Aragon. The bathtub where he glub glub Jim Morrison in Paris. The Shoes of the 43 who wore Janis Joplin. The crash that caught the modern peoples of Spain listening to Pink Floyd, when the future did not come. The hairdresser dehydrated David Bowie. Peace, drugs and the word airplain Jefferson. The life promised us as Bob Dylan put his hand on Levi's by Joan Baez. All the voice of Lou Reed and glorious twentieth century Frankenstein. The Vespa
ME TONIGHT LONG
long. A first flight at the end of the world: Africa, Asia, America, all deserts palms, big dinners at great ocean liners. One night in Oslo, one in Santiago de Chile. One afternoon in Beijing, one in Kiev, squeezing the world until the last drop of life. Tonight I'm off. Hotels, taxis, bars, houses, cities of the earth, I will you. One morning in Tokyo, one night in Cape Town, heat, fire, unrest, thirst, around the world, tonight, I'm leaving tonight. Temples, museums, toilets, flags, ladders, lost neighborhoods, streetlights killed in horrific cities. Beaches, fried calamari, the poor, the rich, nothing, the mud, the sun, the moon. This world. It is not bleak. Blue skirts of the waitresses in the hotels. Clouds from the narrow window of the plane, God above a cloud, resting below the oceans inert belly full of whales, squid, turbot, sardines sad adrift of vicious transparent fish. Tonight I will travel in a giant airplane, the speed of blood, I see this world that is dying, nations under my feet dirty, prisons, governments, languages, homelands, and I up, next to God next to the sun and worn souls. I love the moral stench of this wonderful world. Tonight I'm off. Much love in the damp air. Much happiness in heating. Many holiness in the eyes. Tonight I'm off.
LITERATURE
Foot Frank Prague where Kafka lived, and their black ties and hats and shoes. Wiry hair of James Joyce, whose hand burned Dublin. Lovers of Luis Cernuda, laughing behind their backs. Shakespeare's wife, old and adulterous. Green eyes and squinting of the head nurse of the clinic where he died Nietzsche. The hand of woman who took the spoils of pique Ramón Valle-Inclán and tossed out the window. Gustavo jumping Syphilis Madrid cruised Adolfo Becquer. Syphilis identical but stroll through Paris by Charles Baudelaire. The Lord's Prayer which reads Rimbaud's ghost in a morgue in Marseille and God who is deaf. The Lord's Prayer that says Jorge Manrique before releasing the hand of his dead father. Quevedo's laughter while evacuated in a corner of Madrid, while the world bouncing in the gallbladder as a green stone. The mother drop of Flaubert. Larra's autopsy, his young cerebellum. The meat of the mask of Fernando Pessoa. The photo of the father of Dostoevsky in the wallet of Lenin. The big head of Rubén Darío, as great as their fear. The garlic soup every night tide Manco de Lepanto with his good hand while watching hand away quietly. The hundred kilos dry exhibits Oscar Wilde by the cafes of Paris with pride withered. The hand that howls of Pablo Neruda. Cela's body served garnished with ministers. The grand parade of all-time solitude, loneliness, and his words, literature.
5
NEW YORK
9
a recent phenomenon in the universe
life is the vanguard, the only interesting thing happened
in that sky of icy rocks (three hundred degrees below zero)
or burning rocks (three hundred million degrees ) in the last
billion years, enslaved rocks, doomed to turn
in this absurd monument, turning to anyone because no one saw.
I take Walt Whitman in the heart, the giant heart,
I said.
thirst is killing me.
slept with the window open, and as I say, all this poem
I said aloud,
said paradise and resurrection, demon and strength of the
resurrection.
And I could not say anything more but was in love, much love
much power in the head, power, power, power.
universal turning rocks over there in the heavens, empty and criminals.
Much love, love, love, love. Hey, I love, that's all.
I was very happy and I lay life.
tomorrow and I shall raise around there.
Hey look, look what's this? Life. It's life.
* Letters and comments
selection
by Leo Lobos - Francisco Vejar
Note Poem edition 1: News, contemporary world, violence against women, against women. Recently named as feminicio, visionary. "Resurrection" is a book divided into seven parts, beginning at the Mac Donald's on the Plaza of Spain in Zaragoza and ends with nine poems of "New York", numbered and untitled. In between are many things around the world Vilas, full of criticism, irony, tear, between complacency and provocative visions of the urban world. Indeed, a topic requires at least two occasions, such as "The Swimmer" I love the beginning of "You can swim in Puyarruego." But Manuel Vilas spoke of many things: of the cashiers beautiful, bars, a city bus as the 42, suburbs, villages Aragon, a trip to Venice, characters who write a sort of biography as Doug Yule, "a guy who played, / / \u200b\u200bwhen everything was running, the Velvet Underground", reflects on the literature, as seen in "Michaud" (I think it refers to Henri Michaux ), where he speaks much of what falls in Spain disgusting Joyce and "Ulysses" speaks of Kafka, Ezra Pound, Cernuda (which pays homage to "anyone speak of the land"), songs, Lou Reed, Patti Smith ... The world to offer Manuel Vilas, essentially, is known, and even this narrative procedure, which resembles a little, especially in the poems in verse-a lengthy verses of Walt Whitman in "Leaves grass "and poet Charles Bukowski, by the way they look and construction as narrative.
editing Note Poem 2: contemporary idols, twentieth century, and again Manuel Vilas gives a fabric of pop culture, rock and roll and hard rock of fear, an international selection of the elite of British popular music and American late twentieth and early twenty-first century. This certainly would include Charly Garcia, Nito Mestre, Gustavo Cerati, Andrés Calamaro, and and the more of the south America. Manuel Vilas (Barbastro, Huesca, Spain, 1962) impeccable and implacable poet, essential, magnificent, dazzling, intense sarcastic, corrosive, lively and so many other things that these lines can only point, the overwhelming character from which raises the poet speaks in the poems of Resurrection XV Award Jaime Gil de Biedermann of the Provincial Segovia, Spain, editorial Viewer Collection of poetry, Spain, 2005, an evocative and poetic daring proposal and a state of consciousness in which we recognize.
editing Note Poem 3: is interesting to see ourselves as part of the end of the world you want to scoot Manuel Vilas, like me, the choice has to do with this empathy that the poem offers. Many Chileans also unaware of the condition of the physical remoteness of the territory they have always lived in the reading produces a series of very special relationships and partnerships. (Please exercise reading the poem aloud, can be read at a middle voice is not necessary to scream, to hear someone read for example: I know long tonight ...). He says the English critic Francisco Díaz de Castro: "Both in urban prints, Zaragoza, Madrid, Venice Venetian anything, the New York that the book ends, etc .- as in the endless tours organized by the basic metaphor of the homo viator ("I'm crossing the land, tells the gas station), as well as his unique tribute to literature and music that has been nurtured, Manuel Vilas exciting happens to be dominating a torrential very effective ("All those people in which I convert to avoid death, / to revive and laugh and love"); composes a wry chronicle of his generation "English life," satirizes certain solemn lyrics of different fur and, especially, from the conclusion and from the complaint, says a vehement vitality is decisive and which finds its most extensive and nuanced expression the nine poems of "New York": "I was very happy and I lay life. / tomorrow and I shall raise around here. / Hey, look, look, what's this? Life. It is life. "
editing Note Poem 4: new idol of world literature, literature excluding China, Indian, Oriental and Ezra Pound. Pablo Neruda Foundation and this verse on the hand of Pablo Neruda howling, as a reader are images that come to my mind in association, in the constellation of authors to whom he refers to the English poet Manuel Vilas. The loneliness of the creative, serious, life, loneliness and words how are you. Asked - What does it mean for you to win the prize Gil de Viedma?, Manuel Vilas replied: "I love it. "Pandemic and blue" by Jaime Gil de Biedermann is one of the greatest love poems of the twentieth century and one of my favorites. Of it interests me a lot of passion clarity, accurate representation of the feelings, his great intelligence and his ability to speak the truth in a nutshell. The award gives me great satisfaction with the poet's name, which marked my learning, and the prestige of the prize, which also be published in autumn Viewer, a legendary editorial. "
editing Note Poem 5: And it tells us more to the question Does your differences between writing prose and poetry? "It is not easy to answer that. The prose is more analytical, can articulate a more thoughtful discourse and narrative again. And poetry is song, exaltation, music. " Already know what you write? "I try to write every day, even just a letter. I need a lot of discipline, I tend to hack around, but I think now, after much searching, after many attempts, I can answer: I write for the love of life. And I have the certainty that great literature is celebration of life forever. "
edition from San Pedro de Atacama, Chile. March, 2008 by Leo Lobos.
