October 27, 2020

Leopoldo María Panero, unpublished | Babelia


“I’ll be a monster, but I’m not crazy,” Leopoldo María Panero told Babelia during an interview in the psychiatric hospital in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. Monster or crazy, the author of The last man He was above all a torrential poet who left a trail of unpublished texts at his death – which fell on March 6, 2014. Two years ago they were published, in edition of Túa Blesa, The Ibiza papers 35 (Bartleby), a volume that brings together essays, translations and a complete collection of poems: No, we are neither Romeo nor Juliet nor are we in medieval Italy, written between 1968 and 1971, a period in which the author newest He also published one of his fundamental books: This is how Carnaby Street was founded. Now it is his turn, hand in hand with the publisher Huerga and Fierro, to The lie is a flower. Unlike other posthumous texts, this time it is not a first-time book but, in the words of the author of the edition -Ángel L. Prieto de Paula-, a “unitary, finished and exempt set” that the poet gave to his editor three years before he died in Las Palmas.

Leopoldo María Panero, unpublished

The collection of poems, which arrives in bookstores this week, also has a preface by Davide Mombelli, who begins by acknowledging the difficulty of reading Panero regardless of his character as an author. damned. “After all,” Mombelli writes, “it was he who insisted, throughout his fateful life, to cultivate the image of a tormented vate in his poetry. The condition of the cursed poet is to make a work of art out of his life. And literature and life, in Leopoldo María Panero, are one thing. In the first place, because his writing is essentially autobiographical, no matter how often the ego tries to hide behind various rhetorical or stylistic expedients such as the objective correlate, the collage, the neo-avant-garde ludism or the textual quotation. Second, because the human being Leopoldo María Panero was established, before writing a single verse, mainly of literature, while from his childhood he was surrounded by books and writers. For him, being a poet was a kind of predestination, or condemnation ”.

I

And Wendy told him what your name is

And an elephant collapsed on the page

And an elephant flew to the amazement of fallen children

Old age of the verse

The heinous shadow of ruin

Of the ruin that scanned the verse

Like a curse

Like silence

Like the horror of being alive

About the page

Which, as I said on another occasion, is

Like a gray paste that spreads

This is the poem, like a caterpillar crawling on the page

And the truth, as in the Greek tragedy, is the end of the play

The eggs, the balls

Like a mask and like a wine inside

How to drink in silence and be afraid of man

Ah you Zohar, book of splendor that you hate man

And you spit on his bald head

The atrocious syllable of the grotesque

That spreads over the page

As on a bed

Or a nightmare to live again

Only the page knows the horror of life

The horror of being alive like a worm

Begging the page for life to cease

For the man to howl and, as I said on another occasion

There is no more crown of thorns

That the memory that makes you howl, as they say they howled

On Golgotha ​​the two thieves

And the poem is a coffin so as not to dream

And at the entrance of the poem is written: forbidden to dream

Ah your eternal dream that you sculpt the poem with your nails

Forging a spectrum

For the second coming!

IV

O you tree from which the dark fruit of man falls!

The fruit that never had roots

And what are the mice going to eat?

Trembling from my hand

From my hand that runs thirsty

Dreams of semen

The mysteries of sex

In which, as in a cradle, man lies

As in a tree from which a nightingale hangs

Hanged to silence and dark as disaster

And darker than death

And my body will burn in the flower of disaster

Where Peter Pan lies

Having ruin as the only love

And as the only lord the disaster

And as the only company the desert

What was the worst labyrinth for Borges

The worst of heroes, Joseph Brodsky said so

And let the silence be worse than death

Worse than the poem’s grave

Where a man lies

XV

Men I called, no feces (Diogenes the Cynic)

Like i said in my movie

How alone are the crazy

Talking to the loon alone

And burned by the voices of men

Who spit mercilessly on the grave

As if they were men.

XLI

Because man is just a word

Of which philosophy does not speak

Because the man is really only vile and ruin

Of which neither philosophy nor poetry speak

I have based my cause on nothing

There is nothing and no one above me, Max Stirner said so

Oblivious to the other

Spitting on life

On the ashtray on which a man dies

Destroyed by poetry.

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