Antonio Ángel Agudelo

ERuiseñor de  Keats

Antonio Ángel Agudelo

(Villaviciosa, Córdoba, 1968) is a poet, anthologist, essayist, and literary researcher. He studied at the Universidad Laboral de Córdoba. Each new book by this unclassifiable poet who exercises poetry as a priesthood, retired in the solitude of the forests, is an event. In his work, the following stand out: “El Sueño de Ibiza”, (1st and 2nd edition Diputación Provincial de Córdoba, 2008 and 2011), (3rd Ed. 2012, Ediciones Depapel); the anthology “Paisajes Corchúos”, (2009, Provincial Council of Córdoba); “Madreagua”, (2012, Ediciones Depapel); "The Thermal Power Plant. Haikús ”, (2012, Ediciones Depapel); "The Liquid World", (2014, Editorial Celya), which traveled to the Library of Congress in Washington, "El Cielo Ajedrez (2016, Editorial El sastre de Apollinaire); and the bilingual anthology:" El Cielo Ajedrez. Sky Chess ", (2nd edition) translated into English by Claudia Routon (University of North Dakota (USA)," The Athlete from the Abyss ", (2018, Editorial Catorcebis); and" The gold of lightning where the universe ", (2019, Editorial Elvo).

Agudelo has been translated into English by Claudia Routon and into Portuguese by Aurora Cuevas Cerveró. He usually participates in the Cycles "Literary Appointments", of the Provincial Deputation of Córdoba, and "Capital Letters", of the Andalusian Center of Letters, and in the programs of the Community of Artists "Under the Hat, Point and Followed", of Radio Miami (USA).

At the same time, Agudelo has cultivated the essay around the poetic experience with "The initial word, theories of the world". He has been a jury of the prestigious poetry awards Acordes and Vicente Núñez. It has been included in the anthologies: "On foot of peace" (Javier Fernández, Plurabelle, Córdoba, 2003; "La Luna en Verso" (Francisco Acuyo, Granada, 2013); "Mapuche", "Zenobia Camprubí and Juan Ramón Jiménez" (Basque Country, 2014); "Quejío", (Córdoba with Grito de Mujer 2015); and Poetry in the Cellar (Antonio Flores, Ateneo de Córdoba, 2017. He has participated in the magazines: "Noche Laberinto" (Colombia), " Desván "(Madrid)," Soup of the Platypus "," Suspiro de Artemisa "(Córdoba), El volar del flamenco (Cartagena) etc. He has participated in the International Festival" Cosmopoética, Poets of the World in Córdoba (2011 and 20012) " ; in "La Noche en Blanco de Granada (2013)"; in the III International Meeting of Poetry Ciudad de Úbeda (Jaén, 2016); and in the VIII Meeting of Mystic Poetry in the Monastery San Miguel de Escalada (León, 2017) Currently collaborates in the International Magazine of Culture Visit Me Magazine, New York (USA)

DEDICATED TO THE GREAT POET CARLOS FERNÁNDEZ MARTÍN

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Carlos Fernández Martín , (Huelva, 1995). He studies Philosophy at the Universidad Hispalense. He has been winner of the story contest of the Black Week of Punta Umbría, in the youth category. Included in the anthology The resistance of the lynx. He has published poems in Quaderns de Versàlia and in Marzagón . Auriga de estrellas is her first book of poems.

I understand and live poetry as a bastion of light and reverie capable of resisting the inclemencies of the passage of time. For me, this light is the purity that nourishes the poet's heart and helps him heal in difficult times. In the words of Juan Ramón Jiménez, poetry must combine aesthetic consciousness with ethical consciousness, and it is for this reason that I consider that the healing power of the word is such: since it is not only born from the contemplation of beauty and the delight of the senses, but also of the deepest freedom of the individual, of his purest and non-transferable being, of his contextual reality and of the truth of the human soul in relation to the world. Thus beauty, good and truth become an indissoluble unity of meaning, taking flight as a sort of platonic charioteer carrying light, but not a merely rational light that strictly concerned knowledge or epistemology, but a relative light , rather, to self-knowledge, that is, a light of (in) dream that reaches its maximum expression through the poetic word, metaphorical thought and freedom. Hence the title of my book of poems, Auriga de estrellas.

POEMS

THE OTHER ME

If I were to lose myself forever in the hidden jungle of the magnolia tree,
There would be no place where your gaze could park its flight.
And like the wounded lily that gathers its silk tentacles
In light of his inside, no
there would be more night for you than you could
reborn in dreams.

But I have conversed with death.

But I have conversed with death
in the life of another, and does not have
your eyes.

                 Nor quicksilver
of a warm moon on your chest. Just
a continuous beam of light under the frost,
where the giants break
in his children's fairytale boots.

From “Auriga de estrellas”

CHRYSALID WELL

I know the well where chrysalis inhabit, condemned not to emerge
of eternal sleep.
The dark place where snakes writhe
and the child dies.

People say that he did not die when he fell:
which was a slow and agonizing death,
the murderer always returns
to the crime scene.

I do not know, and I do not care.
I live inside the pupae,
in a completely different world.

From “Auriga de estrellas”

PETER PAN IN DREAMS

Between one forgetfulness and another forgetfulness
the matter of dreams runs.
Like fleeting echoes or sudden shadows
up in arms
against the dead form of time.

On a bed of green leaves,
still,
suffers the wound of the deformed swan hook
that oozes
in another wound, like a crack
sling at night.

Peter Pan wants to fly.
And it flies.
But never
never returns.

From “Auriga de estrellas”

I WOULD LIKE TO FLY

The soft light
of the air in me
tremble.

The soft light
of the air in me
stop your presence in the sands of time.

For her, the children play.
A golden summer dust illuminates them.
They fly across the sand.

I would like to fly like those children of eternal light.
Fly out of your hands.
Fly.

From “Auriga de estrellas”

SUNSET

The evening, by the estuary,
has in its bud of heaven
a soft mauve trace: pain
which slowly heals.

The pain that stays.

From “Auriga de estrellas”

I CHOOSE TO SEE BEAUTY

Love is fire on the wounded tongue of the first beings.
Do the invisible.
Mystery.

Pick carefully
the flight debris that still tremble in gold
of the winter poplars where the sun fades, lost,
like a broken animal in the forest.

Love is contemplating the invisible.

As a life form:
choose to see beauty.

From “Auriga de estrellas”

BLOOD OF SAND

My blood is wet sand
dirty, white sand,
scattered across the dunes.

(Heaven is dressed in mourning.

You prefer to go alone
while you shake off your shoes.)

(Unpublished)

I SEE MY SHADOW SWIMMING

There is clear water sun on your shoes
and air shelters between the shells.

On the turtle's shell
I see my shadow swim
the ocean beating with absences.

Away my dreams from the morning heat,
the dragonfly dead on my chest.

(Unpublished poem)

CLOUDS

The clouds give way to threads of dim light that come down choppy, as if breathing, sneaking through the dusty Venetian curtains with the sting of the new day. That child could still be anyone: from a dreaded pirate of the seas to the captain of a powerful army ... in the light of the reddish dawn he could even fly over the sky as if he were one of the terns that inhabited the dunes that he liked so much to frequent.


At the moment, I was just waiting. He had to wait for his mother to give him money to pay for the canoe and to be able to go to school in the city, where he was boarding school. It was worth being awake with a certain margin of anticipation, otherwise his mother could be upset and of course, he did not want for the world to disappoint her as his father apparently did. His mother always repeated to him ad nauseum, as if he were obsessed with reaffirming his position, as the sole and unshakable authority of the house, that his father was a drunk from three to the room who abandoned them to their fate, a drunk who did not wanted to.


You don't have a father! –She said upset many times when he asked innocently, with his big blue eyes, driven by the curiosity so characteristic of children, when he still dared to ask, yes, depending at all times on the emotional state of his mother. Over time, he learned to understand her, or rather to simply adapt to her sudden changes in mood. Despite this, for him his mother was a heroine and not a weak princess and dependent on those that appeared in some stories he had read. Of course, he also wanted to be a hero. But for now, he was just waiting. Many Mondays like that - when she returned to boarding school - she had to wait almost an hour for her mother to arrive. At home they couldn't afford cars, much less drivers, to take them to school. The only option was to go canoeing.


7:58. No indication of his arrival. The boy was in the living room fascinated by the beauty that his eyes discovered. If he focused his gaze enough he could see the dust emerging from the ground, which seemed to evaporate like the water from a lagoon. However, it evoked white sand from the beach, sand curled in the wind, the fine sand scattered across the dunes in a delicate exercise of simplicity and elegance. Imagining this made him think of his father, who, despite his mother's insistence to eliminate him from his life, had not just disappeared from his own, but rather the opposite. The white sand made him return to the stories of his grandmother, in which his father, like his mother, was also a hero.


Her grandmother always spoke wonders of her father. He always told him that since he was little he had stood out, in addition to an innate ability for sports, for his great intelligence, that the teachers always told him that he was a very disciplined and responsible student, very good with other classmates, that he would go far, and so it was. Over time - he said with glitter in his eyes - he came to hold a very important position in the British Navy. His grandmother always told him, with the pride of the people who have been banned from developing individually and see that death solved in their children, that their father had traveled all over the world in important missions, very important! No less than in war, ”he pointed out emphatically, opening his eyes.


He fulfills a very important duty, with the duty to fulfill humanity and make the world a better world - he said more and more sorry, as if he really did not believe his words at all. Your father is a man of the world - he continued -, but he will return.

- Your father will return ... sooner or later he will return, don't worry. His place is here, with you. Their blood is sandy, just like yours and that of your ancestors. He loves the sand of this place, the shredded and shimmering shells on the shore with the falling tides, the oily buoys of fishing boats, the sound of the canoe hitting the dock lurching into the water ... every summer He allowed himself to be enveloped by the spell of this land of infinite dreams, of this arrow of sand, as the people of the town call it. He liked it a lot… especially the estuary, the eternal baths in the estuary every morning… –he said in the past, as if his son was only part of one of his many memories, one of his most precious and unforgiving memories.


Come, come closer, put your legs inside the cold table.


They were both in the living room, in a very spacious room, in front of the extinguished fireplace. It was a room full of paintings of coastal landscapes and with a small bookshelf full of books, of which one of them, "Couplets to the death of his father", had made a special impression on him, remaining imprinted on his memory with the ease with which popular songs sink into the subconscious. It was a cold September night, one of the last nights of summer, and one of the last nights she would spend with her grandmother.


- As a child your father was fascinated by the stories of his ancestors, just like you. Your great-grandfather was one of the first Englishmen to settle in this town. This house may be around fifty years old. Thus, it has been passed from generation to generation, and now it is your turn and your mother –he said with a dull and implausible smile. Your father will return, and that is why you must be here, son, do you understand? instead your grandfather and I must go back to Wales - he concluded.


He got up from the black armchair, resting his only leg on the floor, and taking the crutches went to the kitchen and, soon after, returned with a piece of bread and a piece of cheese. He loved going to his grandmother's house, not only because of the exciting stories that, from time to time, he told her, but because of everything he offered to eat, many things, among others, the fish picadillos, the chocolates that he brought from Wales, the huge sandwiches of cheese that he ate, etc.


When he left, in the door frame, his grandmother gave him an envelope with money as he used to do other times in his habit to help them financially. As soon as you get it, give it to your mother. Keep it well in your pocket, little dove, ”he said, stroking her head affectionately. The boy descended the stairs and ran towards the estuary, skirting it until he reached the fishermen's quarter. His grandmother's house was left behind, fading with every step he took, finally turning to dust, the dust that he now contemplated from the living room.


As she remembered her grandmother's stories, covering the blind spots of that room where she had chatted with her so many times, the sun's rays began to come in with more intensity. There was a lot of clarity, a kind of summer morning light very typical of southern Andalusia. The day began to roll and that child was rummaging through the bookshelves on tiptoe, distracted by his grandfather's old books. Most of them were eaten away by time, in addition to being pierced by moths that danced from cabinet to cabinet and used to drop a few bites as a test. Among other books was a collection of poems by Jorge Manrique, a book on the mines of the Rio Tinto, and above all a large collection of Greek classics.


Outside the melody of the sharpener began to approach. He used to like it, encouraged him to wake up and go on adventures, like every child in the process of discovering the world. In this way, a spark of illusion awoke in him, like a click of the happiness mechanism of his subconscious. He approached the terrace and looking through the curtain, he stopped for a moment in the oleanders of his neighbor's house, back and forth with the wind that was beginning to rise, insinuating himself as a true enigma. Almost instinctively, he began to sing, as if it were a ritual, litanies typical of children's games. He put his hands to his cheeks - in a nervous gesture - and began to run around in circles while he continued humming.


That boy seemed to have forgotten school; however, an abrupt sound suddenly broke into his stunts. Pluff! it seemed the impact of a kitchen plate, followed by several screams:


- Shit! Shit! you are an imbecile child, like your father !, where are you? answers! She continued screaming. The corridor had been transformed into trenches of war, loudly. Panic spread.


-What are you doing that you are not already in school? I heard you, I left the money on the counter!


Quickly, the boy went to his room. His gaze became serious and concerned. He opened the drawer of his bedside table and took out a gray stone that, last year, in summer, he had found in the estuary; and as if she were a loved one, he placed her on the bed and spread the sheets over himself to protect himself. Once her grandmother told her that her bed was a sweet cloud of cotton candy. Above her, he could fly over the most remote places of his town, of the whole city, and even of the whole world, like his father. He was increasingly convinced of it. I was thinking of going to a city of chocolate and the island of the dinosaurs of biscuits and the estuary of sweets of all flavors. His mother continued to shout, throwing expletives left and right as he hit her, but he was no longer there, he was hugging his precious slate stone, soaring through the skies in a baby fire-breathing dragon.


On Monday of the following week, he managed to get the money off the counter and take the canoe. Along the way, his friend Javier met his parents. Javier's family was a family of humble origin - a family of fishermen from the town - but they were very close, which always gave him food for thought. Sometimes he projected himself walking with his father and mother together, recreating that same scene, or going to dinner, or walking on the beach; and now he found himself unable to conceive of his father as the ogre his mother had described to him, but rather as a brave man out of his grandmother's stories.


- Hey, did you hear? –Javier asked him with a great liveliness in his eyes, full, without waiting for an answer. He continued hastily: a few days ago a British navy soldier appeared on the beach. You told me your father is in the army too, right? She asked curiously again. My father says that remnants of the war always appear here, but that no person had ever appeared, much less a member of the army, right, Dad? –He said raising his head and raising his tone a bit.


- Right what, son? –Said the father without paying much attention. Javier repeated the question stammering a little, prisoner of the contained emotion that this event aroused in him.


- Oh yeah. We found him on Friday "the Portuguese" and I in the boot. From what is said it may be someone important, but come on, you should not be carried away by the gossip of the people of the town. Hardly anyone knows anything. But here the news runs like wildfire.


Surely it will have been made available to the consul, ”he said reluctantly as if speaking to himself, hinting at a clear negative connotation towards the German consulate. He changed the tone: of course, here nothing ever happens, it's really amazing, isn't it, guys? –He said looking at the children smiling, playing the game of that mysterious apparition.


The news aroused in the boy an overwhelming curiosity. He began to get nervous, twisting his fingers discreetly, below the waist, as he used to do when he met people in between. They continued walking in the shade of the junipers until they reached the pier and Javier and his family, once there, turned off towards the fish market. While he was waiting, he wanted to run towards the beach towards the boot in case he still could find out something. However, something told him that this was pointless, so after a few minutes, he finally restrained himself.


After a time he arrived at school. He had an appointment with the principal, who had turned to him since he arrived at the new school. She saw in the boy a great capacity, but she sensed that things were not going well at home and, without really knowing why, little by little she got closer to him. It wasn't really that she had an appointment with the director, she simply went to look for him as soon as she had free time, interrupting a fearless class of dinosaurs and prehistory. His name sounded and his companions looked back. They looked like wolves in the dark, stalking him. To tell the truth so much attention overwhelmed him.


He entered a large room full of drawings on the wall, of other children's doodles, and the director began to speak to him slowly, with the intention that he would answer his questions more easily. The boy was looking out the window. The day closed abruptly, offering a dense and gray sky. He hardly noticed. He imagined his father standing on the shore, steady, looking out to sea in his navy uniform.


His consciousness was suffused with clouds. Because of many questions he asked, no one could ever find the location of the world in which he lived.

(Winning story of the short story contest of the Black Week in Punta Umbría, based on the figure of William Martin, of which the jury highlighted: its poetic atmosphere, the originality of its adaptation to the required theme and the sensitivity it shows in the descriptions, also providing a suggestive and open ending ”)

Selection of links where to acquire books, opinions and literary criticism of the work of Carlos Fernández Martín:

Bookshop "La Dama culta", Huelva (Spain).

Blog of the poet Antonio Ángel Agudelo: http://aagudelomartinez.blogspot.com.es/

Antonio Ángel Agudelo
Antonio Ángel Agudelo

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Antonio Ángel Agudelo

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