By Joan Margarit Consarnau
Si tuviéramos que designar un heredero de los angeles poesía clara y difícil de Salvador Espriu y de los angeles poesía bondadosa e intensa de Miquel Martí i Pol, Joan Margarit sería, sin duda, el elegido. los angeles dureza y, al mismo tiempo, l. a. ternura del refugio contra l. a. intemperie que es su extensa y reconocida obra poética lo sitúan entre los poetas catalanes más valorados por l. a. crítica y los lectores.
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Si tuviéramos que designar un heredero de l. a. poesía clara y difícil de Salvador Espriu y de los angeles poesía bondadosa e intensa de Miquel Martí i Pol, Joan Margarit sería, sin duda, el elegido. los angeles dureza y, al mismo tiempo, l. a. ternura del refugio contra l. a. intemperie que es su extensa y reconocida obra poética lo sitúan entre los poetas catalanes más valorados por los angeles crítica y los lectores.
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Extra info for Todos los poemas (1975-2012)
Don’t tell me that he went up in smoke like Daddy’s cigar! He didn’t blow out like a match! It is special being here at Easter with the Cross they built like a capital T. The ceiling is an upside-down rowboat. I usually count its ribs. Maybe he was drowning? Or maybe we are all upside down? I can see the face of a mouse inside of all that stained-glass window. Well, it could be a mouse! Once I thought the Bunny Rabbit was special and I hunted for eggs. That’s when I was seven. Now it’s really Jesus.
Later, after the party, after the house went to bed, I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy, watching your picture, letting the tree move in and out of focus. The bulbs vibrated. They were a halo over your forehead. But you did not move. I continued to watch, forcing myself, waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five. I wanted your eyes, like the shadows of two small birds, to change. But they did not age. The smile that gathered me in, all wit, all charm, was invincible. Hour after hour I looked at your face but I could not pull the roots out of it.
Maybe he was only hiding? Maybe he could fly? Yesterday I found a purple crocus blowing its way out of the snow. It was all alone. It was getting its work done. Maybe Jesus was only getting his work done and letting God blow him off the Cross and maybe he was afraid for a minute so he hid under the big stones. He was smart to go to sleep up there even though his mother got so sad and let them put him in a cave. I sat in a tunnel when I was five. That tunnel, my mother said, went straight into the big river and so I never went again.