Thus, "the hermit" Juan Gil-Albert called the poet Malaga Alfonso Canales, high pain that has left us. He wrote in "Notes spontaneous" put in front of the Valencia edition Song of the Earth . I edited Lindes, poetry notebooks, an excellent collection that was released here in Valencia, what's memorable poems of Cesar Gil-Albert and Simon, in the seventies, the right hand of Ricardo Bellveser, Pedro and Ricardo Bessó Arias.
One of my first books of contemporary poetry that I bought with my little nest egg of a young man, was precisely the poems Channel, Port-Royal , edited the collection The Bard. My copy still retains the stamp of the library where you bought: The Idea, Estamañería Vieja, 11. This library disappeared disappeared as those years but still the pages of the book, and follow in the footsteps of his readings, and yellow edges.
attracted first-time young man who garabateba verses in the pages, the striking carmen meditative, existential and spiritual teacher Malaga:
The
same ray of sunshine that warms my knees
cloisters joins me dream, to `tame
shadows of the temples is now brown with identical
Light: the light of this
hour. Not the one in which a mob of followers
marred King
a way of faith, nor the
Thursday
Thursday past or future.
God draws to himself those who trust
and despairing. A
us we have to choose the wide gate
or the eye of the needle, which
always enough light to guide the thread
also, of course, he was attracted to of land that he associated with his poetic inclination, in idyllic way to see the land, the land of his family, that Malaga childhood and adolescence, first love, discovery light, the sounds of the waters of the ways of composing the meanings of this life, giving voice and line from poem to privacy.
poems that were followed which was regularly known to us the author, showing his tireless search, passionate writing: Royal sites, Andalusian Requiem , sabbatical year, port, Song of Earth, etc. Unemployment in the latter because for me is one of its most excellent findings. From him I copy this poem that comes to mind:
(So die the death, as things die
all) when no one knows about me or even
yourself, earth, save anything of mine who has
illation with life
I had,
be alive again. No need to order
times await, each
one in your blood carries
that purpose. As pottery sherds
yours cooked, the great fire makes
(a delusion that encourage
tenaciously) to look in new ways,
safe
their own strength. But the pitcher is broken
of both go to the source
of hope, and everything ends badly
a day or a night
when an oversight
(not sure from whom)
container has Cabado to give what could
to: contours, colors, or liquid
provided.
It takes a little longer, as are classifiable
helmets that allow
rebuild
lines teachers, details
decoration or the same grounds
than wine or oil
left. And the shadow
eventually reaching
irretrievably
mind, but not the cold loneliness
: at the end
to give back the borrowed
, dark
workshop where they began to form
these verses hurt ,
be no death.
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