Guadalupe Grande. 4 of his poems in his memory

Guadalupe Grande, poet Madrilenian, essayist and criticism, he died in Madrid as soon as he began this 2021 because of a heart disease, with 55 years. Daughter unique of poets too Felix Grande and Francesca Aguirre, with her ends an outstanding literary lineage. In his memory, goes this selection of 4 poems belonging to his work.

Guadalupe Grande

Degree in Social anthropology from the Complutense University, throughout his career he participated in literary events such as the First Ibero-American Poetry Show and the Medellín International Poetry Festival, or the INVERSO Madrid festival. As a literary critic, she worked in El Independiente, El Urogallo, Reseña, or El Mundo, among other newspapers and magazines.

He also worked in the communication area of ​​the Royal Theatre and was responsible for the poetic activity of the José Hierro Popular University, in San Sebastián de los Reyes.

In 1995 she was awarded the Rafael Alberti Prize by Lilith's book, and also published the poetry books The fog key, Wax maps y Hotel for hedgehogs.

4 poems

The ash

Inventory Dictionary
list precise number
computation of a language
that we can't understand

I say that there is no forgetting;
there is death and shadows of what is alive,
There are shipwrecks and pale memories
there is fear and recklessness
and again shadows and cold and stone.

Forgetting is just an artifice of sound;
just a perpetual ending that goes
from meat to skin and from skin to bone.
Just as the first words are made of water
and then mud
and after stone and wind.

Instant

The trail

We are a matter of strangeness
who was going to tell us
that we have suffered so much
But our memory does not burn
and we no longer know how to die

Memory of life,
memory of days and life,
knife that opens the world
spreading some guts that I can't decipher.

Memory of the afternoons and the light,
you light up the look
you are the implacable lookout,
the severe compass, the prison witness
that knots time in its dungeon.

What are you looking for, memory, what are you looking for.
You follow me like a hungry dog
and you tend your pitying gaze at my feet;
sniffing, pernicious, on the way
the trace of the days that were,
that they are no longer and that they never will be.

The rags of bliss clothe you
and desolation has made you cautious;
memory of life, memory of days and life.

Next to the door

The house is empty
and the scent of spiteful hope
perfume every corner

Who told us
as we stretched out to the world
that we would ever find
shelter in this desert.
Who made us believe, trust,
-worse: wait-,
that behind the door, under the cup,
in that drawer, after the word,
in that skin,
our wound would be healed.
Who dug into our hearts
and later did not know what to plant
and left us this pit without seed
where there is only hope.
Who came up next
and he told us softly,
in an instant of greed,
that there was no corner to wait.
Who was so ruthless, who,
that opened this kingdom without cups,
without doors or meek hours,
without truces, without words with which to forge the world.
It's alright let's not cry anymore
the afternoon still falls slowly.
Let's take the last ride
of this wretched hope.

Sources: El Mundo — Poems of the Soul