Photography: José Hierro. ABC. (c) Clara Amat.
To the Madrilenian Jose Hierro It is considered one of the great contemporary poets Spanish-speaking and today it is 19 years since he left us. Also next year will be the centenary of his birth. He belonged to the so-called "Generation of the half century" and his work contains social and committed themes with man, the passage of time and memory. New York Notebook y Joy are two of his most important publications. He also won some of the most prestigious awards such as the National Prize for Literature, the 1957 Critics Prize, the Prince of Asturias Award or the Cervantes. Goes this selection of poems in his memory.
José Hierro - Poems
Summit
Firm, under my foot, true and sure,
of stone and music I have you;
not like then, when every moment
you woke up from my dream.
Now I can touch your tender hills,
the fresh green of your waters.
Now we are, again, face to face
like two old comrades.
New song with new instruments.
You sing, you put me to sleep and you cradle me.
You make eternity of my past.
And then time strips naked.
Sing to you, open the jail where you wait
so much accumulated passion!
And see our old image get lost
carried away by the water.
Firm, under my foot, true and sure,
of stone and music I have you.
Lord, Lord, Lord: all the same.
But what have you done with my time?
Inner joy
In me I feel it even though it hides. Wet
my dark inner ways.
Who knows how many magical rumors
on the dark heart she leaves.
Sometimes its red moon rises in me
or recline me on strange flowers.
They say that he has died, that of his greenery
the tree of my life is stripped away.
I know he is not dead, because I live. I take,
in the hidden kingdom where he hides,
the ear of his true hand.
They will say that I have died, and I do not die.
could it be like this, tell me, where
could she reign if I died?
Sleeping soul
I lay down on the grass between the logs
that leaf by leaf they bare their beauty.
I let the soul dream:
I would wake up again in the spring.
The world is born again, again
you are born, soul (you were dead).
I do not know what has happened in this time:
you slept, hoping to be eternal.
And as much as the high music sings to you
from the clouds, and as much as they love you
explain the creatures why they evoke
that black and cold time, even if you pretend
make yours so much life spilled
(it was life, and you were sleeping), you no longer arrive
to reach the fullness of his joy:
you slept when everything was awake.
Our land, our life, our time ...
(My soul, who told you to sleep!)
El enemigo
He looks at us. It is stalking us. Within
of you, inside me, looks at us. Cry out
without voice, full heart. His flame
it has fiercely in our dark center.
Live in us. He wants to hurt us. I enter
inside you. Howl, roar, roar.
I flee, and its black shadow pours,
total night that comes out to meet us.
And it grows without stopping. Takes us away
like the October wind flakes. Bush
more than oblivion. Scorch with coals
inextinguishable. Leave devastated
days of dreams. Hapless
those who open our hearts to him.
Like the rose: never ...
Like the rose: never
a thought clouded you.
Life is not for you
that is born from within.
Beauty that you have
its yesterday in its time.
That in just your appearance
your secret is kept.
Past do not give you
its haunting mystery.
Memories don't cloud you
the crystal of your dreams.
How can it be beautiful
flower that has memories.
The hand is the one that remembers ...
The hand is the one that remembers
Travel through the years
flows into the present
always remembering.
He points nervously
what lived forgotten.
the hand of memory,
always rescuing him.
The ghostly images
they will solidify,
they will go on saying who they were,
why they returned.
Why were they dream meat,
pure nostalgic stuff.
The hand is rescuing them
of her magical limbo.
Evening light
It makes me sad to think that one day I will want to see this space again,
return to this instant.
It makes me sad to dream of breaking my wings
against walls that rise and prevent him from finding me again.
These blooming branches that throb and break merrily
the calm appearance of the air,
those waves that wet my feet of crunchy beauty,
the boy who keeps the evening light on his forehead,
that white handkerchief perhaps fallen from some hands,
when they no longer expected a kiss of love to touch them ...
It makes me sad to look at these things, want these things, keep these things.
It makes me sad to dream of looking for them again, looking for me again,
populating another afternoon like this with branches that I keep in my soul,
learning in myself that a dream cannot be dreamed again.
Source: A low voice