Antonio Gala dies. Selection of poems to remember him

Antonio Gala is dead. We remember him with these poems

Anthony Gala has died at 92 years old in Córdoba this Sunday. Poet, playwright and novelist, was admitted to the hospital due to complications in his delicate state of health. Born in Braces, Ciudad Real, moved in his childhood to Cordova and ended up being one of its most illustrious neighbors.

With an extensive body of work that also includes several awards, including the National Theater Calderón de la Barca by The green fields of Eden or Planet by the crimson manuscript, there are many more Antonio Gala successes with titles like those of Petra Regalada, Intimate enemy o Andalusian testament in poetry and, above all, novels as Turkish pasion o More all garden (with corresponding film versions). And as a columnist, his column in El Mundo, the embrasure, was one of the most read. We remember it with this selection of poems.

Antonio Gala — Poems


I needed so much for you to love me
that as soon as I arrived I declared my love to you.
I took lights, bridges and highways from you,
artificial clothes.
And I left you naked, almost non-existent,
under the moon and mine
To the Sumerian princesses,
when they were burned with glittering jewels,
their young teeth still shined;
their skulls were broken before their necklaces;
their eyes melted before their medals….
Under the moon his teeth still shined,
while I possessed you naked and mine.


How to eat without you, without the pious
habit of your wings
that refresh the air and renew the light?
Without you, neither bread nor wine,
neither life, nor hunger, nor the juicy
morning color
They don't make any sense and are useless.
Out there is the sea
out there, in the world, you are.
Eating you without me:
your hunger, your bread, your wine and your morning.
Me here, before the opaque tablecloths
and the bitter drink
before dishes without flavor or colors.
I try, yes I try, but how
eat without you, or for what...
You have taken your smell of the forest
and the taste of life.
Outside are sea and air.
Inside, I alone in front of the set table
who has lost his voice and his joy.


Hush, lovers, and occupy the lip
with the kiss do not utter idle words
while searching for your heart
in another chest, panting and poor
like yours,
already at the edge of dawn.

When I first owned you
they played matins
in the Convent of the Mercedarias.
The darkness of the air shook
sudden upset pigeons.
Hesitantly the soul smiled,
Without understanding why, around your waist.
And then, to the newly opened bedroom,
lutes and praises were entering
that my soul repeated with pride
gently in your ear.

Hush lovers and get busy
the lip with the kiss.

while i kissed you

while i kissed you
you fell asleep in my arms
I will never forget.
your teeth showed
between the lips:
cold, distant, others.
You were already gone.
Under my body followed yours,
and your mouth under my mouth.
but you navigated
by silent seas in which I was not.
motionless and silent
you swam away
maybe forever...
I abandoned you on the shore of your dreams.
With my meat still warm
I went back to my site:
I am already mine, distant, another.
I recovered the disguise on the sand.
"Goodbye", I told you,
and I entered my own dream,
my own dream
in which you do not live.

Mediterranean coast

My belt tightens your waist,
and your smile, my heart.
We fly over the untold islands
and our passing the clouds dissipate.
How to return to the kiss the harmony
without shortness of breath?
How to plan the shared night
after so much absence?
Only the air is our ally
because our desire is for pure air.
When we descend to earth
the wings shall continue to beat:
the air of the wings
is our only support
and the wings of the air our bed.
Rivers flow into blue seas
as the sea flows into your chest.
embrace me in your wings
so that another air does not touch me
but your breath, from which I live and die.
under the impalpable sky
made of light and wait,
embrace me, my love, with your wings.
Hold me over the corrupted
sacred city of men.

Antonio Gala - Sonnets

It's time to take flight

It's time to take flight
heart, docile migratory bird.
Your present story is over
and another writes its strokes across the sky.

There is no time to feel the inconsolation;
life goes on, urgent and transitory.
Change the goal of your trajectory,
and tears the deep veil of tomorrow.

If the feeling, more disobedient,
the natural imperative is denied,
rise up you, versatile and brave.

Your trade is daily and decisive:
while the sun shines, you will be hot;
as long as life lasts, you will be alive.


The time in love drank in your mouth
and curdled it with the kisses of a dove.
Your neck is chaste, on the gold it appears
just for the cherished gold.

Lunado the hair, the heart lunado,
blush just from the scent air.
Ritual poppy your torso takes
and takes you away from the blue-green sea.

Your honey gaze, burning marsh,
the old light with the new lights
-newly awake and already tired- alia.

Victory hurts you, and meekly
you carry your destiny of love,
delicate and bloody life of mine.

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