Zardoya shell was a Chilean poet born in Valparaíso and settled in Spain and today a new anniversary of his birth. Esta es una selection of poems of his work to remember or know it.
Zardoya shell
From Spanish parents with roots in Cantabria y Navarre, Sea Shell moved with them to Spain when I was seventeen. From Zaragoza they went to Barcelona and ended up settling in Madrid, where it started Philosophy and Letters. But a Library Science course took her to Valencia. It was around this time that he joined an entity called Popular culture Through which he organized cultural activities and a library. It was also when his poetic career began.
Over time, zardoya he also wrote short stories and film scripts, as well as teaching and translating. Later studied Modern Philology and received his doctorate in seasons University of Illinois.
Some of his works are: Crying domain, Under the light or The heart and the shadow (with which he won the Female Poetry Award. Other works were The gift of the seed, Altamor: Manhattan and other latitudes.
poems
Last dream
What dream is yours?
(The golden poplar?)
What are you dreaming about, asleep?
(The bottomless waters?)
Who goes for your night?
(The birds alone?)
Does the earth weigh you down?
(The waves? The joy?)
Or do you sleep without sleep,
without crying, in the dust?
Then only
Only when silence demands you
that you speak intimately,
with everyone, with yourselves inside,
write what it dictates.
Urgent, the words, one by one,
will sprout in the sentence
like flowers or beloved music
that silence is not possible.
A dialogue will be or confessions,
then only,
that will fill spirits with bliss
or pain without a name.
The renewed pleasure of knowing us
human creatures
able to pour the blond oil
necessary speech.
Alabaster desert
Alabaster desert,
white dunes,
last night they were dream.
It was a polar journey
endless…
Large blocks floated
like aimless ships,
adrift, yertos.
Seagulls, boobies — birds
they kept yelling at them.
I don't know if i was walking
because of the white snow.
But, alone, sliding,
I came to a center:
it was the axis of the world,
frozen mystery
The word is my only homeland
The word is my only homeland.
This living word that I spill
blue and red, gray, or black and white,
yesterday and today, tomorrow, so many years.
The word is my only homeland.
It is the only bread that I eat every day.
I chew hard crust, soft crumb,
golden candle that kisses the lip!
I pour it through my eyes, over my face.
Crying is born from the deep heart.
The syllables ooze all the soul,
the sediment of wedged silences.
Almost naked
Almost naked,
Looking at what i write
before your eyes?
That distant point
who was looking at you,
luminous pupil
that then i saw you
from his dark chamber
so I could
today contemplate you
with intimate tenderness
of renewed childhood?
It does not matter that I doubt:
you smile at me Enough.
Identity documents
Identify your books, documents!
Who am I, ay, they declare as cédulas
signed by the judge, by the mayor.
For you they answer questions
someone asked inquisitive.
They answer for your actions and your dreams.
In a square they wait in silence.
In a quiet corner and on the trains.
At the quiet table that serves you,
where you eat your bread and also read.
Its unpublished pages speak for you.
And they are not a reward or alms
that by forgetfulness you leave for someone,
for a lonely being that searches
yellow papers, indelible
writings, very old confessions.
Would it have been better to burn them
and then throw the ash at them
and leave no memory of your name,
of what you were in verse and life?
Hand them over to the wind and scatter them?
Nothing has happened like this ... Your inscriptions,
engraved by ink in some lines,
they won't last maybe or they'll be dust
of voracious woodworms and Time.
Your identity is trashed or misused.
The signs of your soul are inscribed
in every verse of yours ... every page
your unmistakable signature has already signed ...
Relatives future today await
that voice they don't hear yet.