big felix was born on February 4, 1937 in Mérida and it was a recognized writer and flamencologist, whose work includes both prose and verse. He is also considered an important representative of the innovation in Spanish poetry of the 60s. His first publication was the collection of poems The stones, with which he won the Adonai Award in 1963. Two years later he published the novel Streets, with which he was also awarded. This is one selection of poems of his work to remember him.
Félix Grande — Selection of poems
live heads or tails
I miss you
and misfortune succeed misfortune
and to misfortune the cataclysm
all this would attend
with the disinterest of a dead man.
you be with me
and for every wisp of bliss
who intend to snatch us
would advance from my heart
splendid armies of hate.
You can be the atrocious back of my destiny
or my country of meat.
Hell
The irreparable good that your beauty did to me
and the happiness that took your skin
They are like two wasps that I have in my head
putting sulfur where you kept your honey.
Dinner has changed so much! jars of sadness
instead of glasses of alba today has this tablecloth
and that fervor, I wait tonight for it to cook
to serve me a plate of what is left: yel.
The table is strange: I look at it with astonishment,
I eat and drink strangeness and horror and absurdity and sorrow.
All that food miracle is over
After a horrible dessert I get up and name you
which is the last bit of pain of this dinner,
and I go to bed alone like someone going to the torture.
if you abandoned me
If you abandoned me you would be left without a cause
like a green fruit that was plucked from the apple tree,
at night you would dream that my hand looks at you
and by day, without my hand, you would be just a pause;
if I abandoned you I would be sleepless
like a sea that suddenly ran out of shore,
I would reach out looking for them, with yellow waves,
enormous, and yet I would be very small;
because your work is me, grow old with me,
be for my corners the only witness,
help me live and die, companion;
because my work is you, pensive clay:
look at you day and night, look at you as long as I live;
in you is my oldest and truest look.
a snow postcard
When I store in old age
as in a poorly closed sepulcher
i will curse your name
just because tonight
alienated and absorbed in your body
I have wished that you were eternal
And I didn't know whether to hit you or cry.
As the sun goes down
As the sun descends, slow as death,
you often see that street where the stairs are
that leads to the door of your lair. Within
stands a pale man, fulfilled already, remote
half his age; smoke and peek
towards the diverted street; smile lonely
on this side of the window, the famous border.
You are that man; you've been a long hour
watching your own moves
thinking from the outside, with mercy,
the ideas that you patiently deposit on paper;
writing, as the end of a stanza,
that it is very painful to be, like this, twice,
thinking thinking,
the sinuous vortex of looking at the gaze,
like a child's game that tortures, paralyzes, ages.
The afternoon, almost sick from being so far away,
plunges into the night
like a body tired of fatigue, in the sea, sweetly.
Birds cross isolated color space undecided
and, there at the end, some leisurely walkers
they allow themselves to be exhausted by the distance; then
the landscape looks like a mysterious and gloomy tapestry.
And you understand, slowly, without anguish,
that this afternoon you have no reality, because sometimes
life coagulates and stops, and nothing then
you can do against it, more than suffer a suffering,
disoriented and lazy, a way of withered pain,
and remember, neatly,
some dead who were unhappy.
Source: Poems of the soul