Marta Sanz wrote The Cultural last week: I was just sworn in a poetry prize. I read poetry books that recommend silence and others are guessing. Leo haiku and Orphic texts, earthquakes, romantic and metaphysical. Verses civilians and identity. Heptasílabos and heroic verse, sonnets to ceiling tiling and bathrooms. Leo trough, hoe, basin, objects of a village that no longer exists. Transcendent poems and humorous poems, the most proud. I read so many metaphors that we no longer hear: night, lake, fog, mist, meteorologists metaphors that give the party with the lights out. I think that reading poetry is no longer worthwhile or maybe I'm getting too letraherida. I wonder what I'm looking at the poems. I correct myself: I enjoy reading putting in place of the writer, but without practicing this form of piety that is disrespectful. Suddenly, I stand before an image of the sad, someone hits a cricket in a box of Nivea, cares for, feeds him, sees him die. I learn that I like poems that are neither surly an open book and enclose them within a crypt. The poems that sound like poems only to a point.
For what I am going to add some more ...
For what I am going to add some more ...
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