Today's Poets (I)

Although I am from the poetry of before; although I prefer to lose myself in some verses of the great Neruda or my "adored" Bécquer, I do not stop recognizing that currently there are poets who leave me with a "Oh" on the chest; with a sigh suspended in the air that makes me think that poetry, true poetry, the real one, fortunately still, has not died.

I'm going to start by giving names and mentioning about each of them some poems that transport me, that make my skin crawl, that come to me, that tell me everything and at the same time they say nothing ...

Surely some names sound familiar to you, others not so much, and others, you may have heard them in passing. Perhaps from this moment on, you too will start to lose yourself in his lyrics.

Moon Miguel

Moon Michael, of the youngest poets I follow, was born in 1990 in Madrid. He works in journalism and publishing. She is the author of the books of poems «Be sick" (2010), "Poetry is not dead » (2010), "Sterile thoughts » (2011) and «The sailor's grave » (2013), among others.

www.lunamiguel.com

I leave you with a poem that moves me, from his latest book "The stomachs":

Definition of the belly

Everything is between the breast and the vagina. Everything important

It is and will continue to be although perhaps the clouds are gone

and there is only grass, a lot of grass, hidden under the carpet.

The pet is me. The pet takes itself for a walk

in an act of quiet rebellion. The pet does not know summer.

The pet eats itself in an act of love. The pet

It has organs, and they are all between the chest and the vagina.

How we could define the belly. How

the rib cage hides other gray matter. Stomach

it is between the breast and the vagina. Further or closer than the nerves.

Further or closer than the love of the pet.

Everything lines up and there is grass. A lot. Lots of grass.

Louis Seville

Luis Sevilla still doesn't have any books on the market, I honestly don't know why. He is one of the best current poets that I have read. Have techniqueHas beauty in its lyrics, it has melancholy… Is blogger, the ones from before, the ones he wrote almost daily because writing was his life. Be sure to visit it here: http://lacasaenpenumbras.blogspot.com.es/

While I leave you with a small preview: The poem 3 of its "Beautiful broken lovers":

A little flood is falling

I haven't heard from you for days

Although well thought out, it may have been weeks.

You always lose track of time

When something is present.

You hear the rain

And smoke comes out of a recent coffee.

This morning is too dark

And you are too clear.

Your mouth still painted red

Your blue dress above the knee.

Your black heels that I never take off.

You are not here but you still read me one of those insignificant poems

That they always are when you're naked in bed

And there is no reason to write a poem.

Just hear you

Like a light melting behind the eyes that close around your mouth.

I think of this office where the papers are scattered

And everything seems orderly

In which I wish some things could be ripped

Like when clothes

Or the dryness of a road flooded with water.

We may be sick looking for us without moving, I think

While a sip of coffee

And the phone rings and I lose myself,

Although not forever

Inside the gray work that takes me away from wherever you are in me.

Ana Patricia Moya

Born in Cordova in 1982 she studied Labor Relations and has a degree in Humanities. I define her as an «all-rounder», since she has worked as an archaeologist, librarian, jeweler, private class teacher, documentary manager,… She doesn't stop studying and trying to find a life like the rest of the motals. She is the director, coordinator and editor of the Editorial Greenland (non-profit cultural project specialized in digital publications). I leave you with one of his poems:

Poem by "Bites of Reality"

This is how I see you, dear working women,
simply by having a pussy between her legs:
cleaning up the shit that others leave behind,
charging half of what a man charges,
supporting the justice of macho roots,
hiding your merits behind their backs.

And, with a certain dread, I tremble at the thought
that as your present will be my possible future.

For the moment I stay with them ... In future articles, there will be much more: many more that deserve to be read, many more that deserve to be published over and over again, many more that should never stop writing ... Thank you for each and every one of your letters!