Rose Chacel. Anniversary of her death. selection of poems

Rose Chacel he passed away on a day like today of 1994 in Madrid. His work is framed within the Spanish literature in exile after the Civil War. Born in Valladolid, was almost unknown for many years and recognition came to her already in full old age. Among her works in prose are Icada, Nevada, Diada, novels before time, essays like The confession, an autobiography Since sunrise or a trilogy composed of Wonders neighborhood, Acropolis y Natural Sciences. With several awards such as the Spanish Letters Award in 1987, the title of doctor Honoris Causa or by the University of Valladolid in 1989 to the Gold Medal for Merit in Fine Arts, he also wrote poetry. From her there go these selected poems as a souvenir.

Rosa Chacel - Chosen Poems

The sailors

They are the ones who live unborn on earth:
do not follow them with your eyes,
your hard gaze, nourished with firmness,
falls at his feet like helpless weeping.

They are the ones who live in the liquid oblivion,
hearing only the maternal heart that rocks them,
the pulse of calm or storm
like the mystery or song of an endearing environment.

Apolo

Dweller of the wide portals
where the laurel of shadow hides the harp of the spider,
where the academic slabs,
where the chests and mute keys,
where the fallen paper
covers the powder with fragile velvet.

The silence dictated by your hand,
the line between your lips sustained,
your supreme nose exhaling a breath
like a breeze in the meadows,
by twin slopes running through the valleys of your chest,
and around your ankles a space
pale as dawn!

Eternally, eternally a universe in your image!
With your forehead at the height of your plinth,
Coming from empty arithmetic like cloisters,
of oppressed skies like a flower between pages,
eternally! I said, and since then,
eternally! say.

I kiss my voice, which expresses your mandate,
I let go and go to you, like a dove
obedient in its flight,
free in the cage of your law.

The trace of your norm, in the basalt
of my dark innocence,
the passage of your arrow forever!
And until the end your pride.
About me, only eternal
your mandate of light, Truth and Form.

In a corset of warm entrails...

In a corset of warm entrails
sleeps a star, passion flower or rose,
and there the chaste Esther, the mysterious
Cleopatra and a hundred other strange queens

with fierce gestures and unspeakable tricks
They nest among rustling ivy.
There boils the ruby ​​that does not rest,
plucking their spider melica harps.

There in the chalice of the dark night
her pearls pours the dark nightingale.
There the faithful lion of the day rests.

In your hidden sesame safe
guard the faucet of fantasy
from boiling spring the pure fire.

Queen Artemis

Sitting, like the world, on your own weight,
the peace of the hillsides on your stretched skirt,
the silence and the shadow of the sea caves
next to your sleeping feet.
To what deep bedroom do your eyelashes give way
when lifting heavy as curtains, slow
such as bridal shawls or funeral drapes ...
to what perennial stay hidden from time?
Where does the path that your lips discover,
to what carnal chasm your throat descends,
What everlasting bed begins in your mouth?

The wine of ashes his bitter alcohol exhales
while the glass airs, with its pause, the breath.
Two vapors raise their secret fragrances,
they are contemplated and measured before being confused.
Because love longs for its grave in the flesh;
wants to sleep his death in the heat, without forgetting,
to the tenacious lullaby that the blood murmurs
while eternity beats in life, insomniac.

A dark, trembling music

A dark, trembling music
crusade of lightning and trills,
of evil breaths, divine,
of the black lily and of the ebúrnea rose.

A frozen page, that does not dare
copy the face of irreconcilable fates.
A knot of evening silences
and a doubt in its thorny orbit.

I know it was called love. I have not forgotten,
nor, that seraphic legions,
they turn the pages of history.

Weave your cloth on the golden laurel,
while you hear the hearts hum,
and drink the nectar faithful to your memory.

The blame

Guilt rises at nightfall,
the darkness illuminates her,
twilight is their dawn...

You begin to hear the shadow from afar
when the sky is clear even above the trees
like a blue-green pampa, intact,
and the silence travels
the quiet labyrinths of arrayanes.

Sleep will come: alert is insomnia.
Before the dark curtain falls,
shout at least, men,
like the metallic peacock that squawks its lament
torn in the branch of the araucaria.
Shout with multiple voices,
pity among the vines,
among the ivy and climbing roses.

Seek shelter in the wisteria
with sparrows and thrushes
because the wave of the night advances
and its absence of light,
and its implacable host
of soft steps, the danger...


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