Poetry
I have been writing and reading poetry since my early twenties, it always meant a deep connection to my inner landscape and its symbols. It always opened my heart to the world, reminding me of the liquid form of reality.
Poetry awakens us to the magic that lives in everything, gives us a chance to connect beyond thought. Through the senses and the imagination, we can dive into the waters of the personal and collective psyche, and extract the truth, beauty, wonder and bliss of the experience of being alive in this world, in this time.
Poems contain many voices, that do not necessarily need to be traced back to their origin, but simply allowed to flow, like the currents of an ongoing eternal river, that will never dry out. Poems are little excerpts of an alchemical process inside of us. They can reveal to us what we thought covered, they can show us what lies at the center of our vision, they are magic because they speak their own language, we, as poets, are simply the mediums, the channelers, the shamans, who allow the wisdom and truth of their nature to come to life in the shape of language. Poems use language their way, they are not bound to structure or grammatical rules, language in here recovers a very powerful and innocent state, it generates empty spaces, in which the word can exist. It allows the word to explode in a thousand meanings, unbounded to personal interpretation, it frees meaning, and opens up a crack from which to descend to the depths. Poetry is an experience of the limits, where destruction or infinite openness occurs, providing an internal experience in its writing, that can bridge consciousness with its formless eternal shape. it also allows us to inhabit the unknown and learn to live longer in the mystery. Gottfried Benn said, "The poem is already finished before it begins, it is just that the author does not yet know what text he will give to it."
My own experience writing poetry has led me into teaching this approach. I currently teach regular classes for three different groups, some of them have been taking part in my courses for six years. Through the years, I have developed a method that I have called "poetry of the instant". As I have always considered poems to be sons and daughters of the instant. In class, we always write, and we do not edit what we wrote. We train with exercises and creative proposals, in order to be ready and able to deliver instantly the poem. I also guide the students in the process of reading the poem out loud, a necessary act for the poem to come into life and for the poet to relate to its spirit, and to the voice/s that exist in it. Every poem that is written in the sessions is read right after. I also encourage the participants to feedback on each other's work using the positive feedback approach. Most of my courses are offered in Spanish, but I do have some open for English speakers as well. They are always aimed to any person that feels called to it, no need to have any previous experience with writing poetry. If you want to find out more about these courses and classes, click here or go to the TEACHING page at the menu.
In a way, we are diving into submerged areas, and dressing what we see/feel/sense with the material of this art: words and language. In a way, writing poetry is a mystical experience, because you are placed in front of the impossible, and you gently jump into it. Words know of us much more than what we know of them, as poets we enter the word, like we enter the ocean, and we pierce the word, until it shows the crystals that lie in it. This mystical side of poetry is for me what makes this art a spiritual experience I had always enjoyed very much. Poetry has opened my inner and outer eyes, and has helped me to embrace the infinite love of this life and beyond. For this I'm so thankful to her, for this I'm still at her service, for her, I sit and write, for her to guide me and show me the way. It's a prophet with no name, an infinite source, an inexhaustible well, the gift of innocence in action, the sound of the eternal river, the melody in the throat of the bird, the liminal state from which silence speaks, the unfrozened landscape of the self melting into the lips.
My poetry writing path has been mostly self-taught, but I had as well many teachers from which I have learned and received, and still do, infinite inspiration. I'm talking about Natalie Goldberg and her creative writing method, Federico García Lorca (my favorite poet of all times), José Ángel Valente (whose understanding of poetry really shaped my view and experience), Antonio Gamoneda, Maria Zambrano, Alejandra Pizarnik, Miguel Ángel Bustos, Maria Negroni and Chantal Maillard to mention the most influential. The poetry and writings of these authors has deeply influenced my poetry and the way I relate to it. Each one of them opened a whole landscape to which I have been taken into.
Most of my poetry is written in Spanish, one of my mother tongues, below you can read a few of them (only available in spanish). May you enjoy them.
♥
No es tu palabra, es tu canto quién sabe excavar las fosas muertas y hablar de igual a igual con los dragones.
Así que cantamos.
Todas las voces, son ríos en la niebla, partículas invisibles de la misma cosecha. Frutos de un parto. Lluvias, que lavan el pensamiento.
Cuando sientes que todo se descalza lentamente; los paisajes, las palabras, las personas, las cosas, el tiempo y el espacio,
puedes hacer alquimia escrita.
Puedes encontrarte en medio de un grito
y aprender a señalar su lugar exacto. Aquí.
La mirada nunca duerme. Ni con los ojos cerrados.
Bajo los párpados cerrados. Están las flores que perdimos.
Escribir es hacer ese jardín con las manos.
La imaginación y la experiencia convergen abriendo un idioma que desafía las leyes del propio lenguaje. Que abre en él una falla por la que se cuela el conjuro. Que te dice, nos dice,
nos devuelve silencio y belleza.
Soy poesía.
Me llamo rastro de fuego.
Pozo que desata los nudos.
Cerca de las tumbas brillan las cerezas rojas,
acostadas a la espera de que alguien las devore.
Yo hilo el amanecer, tú te abres como un surco,
como un manantial. Manantial perdonado.
Como un dorado papel volando
hacia el centro de la montaña
la quietud de mis labios, abre los bosques
al fuego que todo lo empaña.
No hay sonido que no esté presente
ni fórmula matemática que explique el viento.
Dentro del agua las formas desaparecen,
arrastrando círculos borrados a tu memoria
caricias y costuras que no puedes ver.
Alzate frente a tu propio abismo.
Alguien lavará tu cadáver y te dará manos
que te ayudarán a beber.
SOMBRA
Al acantilado de la infancia inmerso en la sombra
consciente de su luz, le regalo mis ojos
mi laurel nacido junto al viento suave.
Todas las enseñanzas se extinguen,
menos las huellas que dejaste en mis manos.
No había nada dentro de la luz. Solo vacío
que no se puede medir, es como un camino de agua
extendiéndose por valles blancos.
Saliva convierte mi desierto en fuego.
Saliva me salva. Me traga y dice todo lo que otros callan.
Puse los ojos sobre el mundo,
y todas las sombras que habitaban en el agua, se elevaron.
permiso
nos dieron
cielo la luces
que el camino
gasto
hasta hacernos
De roca
un hambre
latir
como bosque
que me bruma
que me condensa
como rayo informe
de tu única llamada
paisaje,
vengo a tu puerta desnuda
y en tí desharé el verso
de los tiempos venidos como el oro
hasta mis tobillos de ángel
y mi luz de plata excavada
Mamá me trajo un pájaro
pájaro azul de nieve
el alba se caía
como un témpano de hielo
sobre los ojos
abiertas las manos
hacia el mar que las recubre
una honda palabra
sucumbe su fuerza en ella.
El poema se va secando,
como cielo de verano.
Como mundo de fotografía.
y los cráneos de la luz
lloran el silencio
y el agua lenta.
Cuanto hubiésemos bebido
de aquel viento invisible
si hubiésemos sabido
arder más a conciencia,
Si el centro del espacio
hubiese sido la quietud
de nuestro mundo.
Las ramas que crecen en el fango
los sueños de recogimiento y silencio
el cristal anclado en las alas, que aprendieron a subir.
Kilómetros y kilómetros de agua vertical
nos sostienen el cuerpo sobre la tierra.
una luz, que desaconseja el miedo a la caída
una profeta vestida de hojarasca
Inviernos bajo las baldosas.
rosas sobre las losas
losas en las tumbas
tumbas que abro
tumbas donde bebo
el agua de la que seré.
Flotaban los vientos
mientras los huesos se deshacían
la luna buscaba una mano
pero ya no había mano
ni niebla
ni lenguaje
ni palabras para partir
¿Como se nace desde una memoria que no recuerda?
¿Como se forman unos ojos que no conocen el cielo?
Lo desconocido es un vínculo
que todavía no conoce su sangre
Tú, caminas en su sonido
como una más de sus hijas,
libre y sucia
hecha de truenos
y ceniza.
Destinada a los frutos maduros
que la boca del pájaro devorará,
bañándote en la sed,
como una rama
felizmente abatida.