Antonio Agudelo

ERuiseñor de  Keats

Antonio 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).

DEDICATED TO THE GREAT POET CARLOS FERNÁNDEZ MARTÍN

Photo: Carlos Fernández Martín

DEDICATED TO THE GREAT POET CARLOS FERNÁNDEZ MARTÍN

Brief curriculum note and personal note about my poetry.

Carlos Fernández Martín (Huelva, 1995). He is studying Philosophy at the Hispalense University. He has been the winner of the short story contest of La Semana Negra de Punta Umbría, in the youth category. Included in the anthology The resistance of the lynxes. He has published poems in Quaderns de Versàlia and in Marzagón. Auriga de estrellas is his first book of poems.

 

I understand and live poetry as a bastion of light and dreams capable of withstanding the inclemency of the passage of time. For me, this light is the purity that feeds the heart of the poet and helps him heal in difficult times. In the words of Juan Ramón Jiménez, poetry must combine aesthetic awareness with ethical awareness, and it is for this reason that I believe 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 kind of Platonic charioteer who carries light, but not a merely rational light that strictly concerns 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 lost myself forever in the hidden forest 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 the light of your inside, no
there would be more night for you that you could
reborn in dreams.

 

But I have conversed with death.

 

But I have conversed with death
in 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 burst
with their children's story boots.

 

From "Auriga de estrellas"

CRISÁLIDAS WELL

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

 

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

 

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

 

From "Auriga de estrellas"

PETER PAN IN DREAMS

Between a 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 hook deformed into a swan
that suppurates
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
trembles.

 

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

 

For her, children play.
A golden summer dust lights them up.
They fly through the sand.

 

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

 

From "Auriga de estrellas"

SUNSET

The sunset, by the estuary,
has in its bud of heaven
a soft mauve trail: pain
that is slowly healing.

 

The pain that remains.

 

From "Auriga de estrellas"

I CHOOSE TO SEE THE BEAUTY

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

 

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

 

Love is contemplating the invisible.

As a life form:
choose to see the beauty.


From "Auriga de estrellas"

BLOOD OF SAND

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

 

(The sky 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 in your shoes
and shelters of air between the shells.

 

On the shell of the turtle
I see my shadow swim
churning the ocean with absences.

 

My dreams away from the morning heat,
the dragonfly is dead on my chest.


(Unpublished poem)

Clouds

The clouds are giving way to wisps of soft light that descend choppy, as if they were breathing, slipping through the dusty Venetian curtains with the sting of the new day. That child could still be anyone: from a feared pirate of the seas to the captain of a powerful army ... in the light of a reddish dawn he could even fly over the sky as if he were one of the terns that inhabited the dunes that he loved to frequent so much.


For now, 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. It was worth it to be awake with a certain margin of advance, otherwise his mother could be upset and of course, he did not want for the world to disappoint her as, apparently, his father did. His mother always repeated ad nauseam, as if she were obsessed with reaffirming her position, as the sole and unshakable authority in the house, that her father was a three-to-a-quarter drunk who left them to their fate, a drunk who didn't care wanted to.


You have no father! She said altered 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, of course, 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 mood swings. Despite this, for him his mother was a heroine and not a weak and dependent princess of those who appeared in some stories he had read. Of course, he wanted to be a hero too. But for now, he was just waiting. Many Mondays like that - when he returned to boarding school - he had to wait almost an hour for his mother to arrive. At home they could not afford cars or much less drivers to take him to school. The only option was to go canoeing.


7:58. No sign of their arrival. The boy was in the living room fascinated by the beauty that his eyes discovered. If he focused his gaze long enough, he could see the dust emerging from the ground, which seemed to evaporate like water in a pond. Yet it reminded him of 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 that made him think of his father, who, despite his mother's insistence to eliminate him from her life, had not just disappeared from his own, but rather the opposite. The white sand brought him back to the stories of his grandmother, in which his father, like his mother, was also a hero.


His grandmother always spoke highly of his father. He always told him that since he was a child he had stood out, in addition to his 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 that it was. With time - he said with a sparkle in his eyes - he came to hold a very important position in the British navy. Her grandmother always told her, with the pride of people who have been banned from developing individually and see that death resolved in their children, that their father had traveled all over the world on important missions, very important! No less than in the war –he pointed out with emphasis, opening his eyes.


He fulfills a very important duty, with the duty of fulfilling humanity and making the world a better world - she said more and more sadly, as if she really did not quite believe her words. Your father is a man of the world, ”he continued,“ but he will return.


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


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


They were both in the living room, in a very spacious room, facing the unlit fireplace. It was a room full of paintings of coastal landscapes and with a small shelf full of books, of which one of them, "Coplas a la muerte de su padre", had made a special impression on him, remaining imprinted in his memory with the ease with which popular songs sink into the subconscious. It was a cold night in September, one of the last nights of summer, and one of the last nights he would spend with his 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 English 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's up to you 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 his crutches, he went to the kitchen and, in a short time, returned with a piece of bread and a piece of cheese. He loved to go to his grandmother's house, not only because of the exciting stories that, from time to time, she told him, but because of everything she offered him to eat, many things, among others, the minced fish, the chocolates from Wales, huge cheese sandwiches, etc.


As he left, in the doorway, his grandmother gave him an envelope with money as he used to do other times in his custom to help them financially. As soon as you arrive, give it to your mother. Keep it well in your pocket, little popcorn –he said, stroking her head affectionately. The boy went down the stairs and ran in the direction of the estuary, skirting it until he reached the fishermen's quarter. Gone was his grandmother's house, blurring with each step he took, finally remaining in dust, the dust that he now contemplated from the living room.


As he recalled the stories of his grandmother, covering the blind spots of that room where he had chatted with her so many times, the sun's rays began to enter with more intensity. It was very bright, a kind of summer morning light very typical of southern Andalusia. The day began to roll and that child rummaged through the bookshelf, on tiptoe, distracted among his grandfather's old books. Most were eaten away by time, as well as being pierced by moths that danced from furniture to furniture and used to drop the odd bite as a test. Among other books there was a collection of poems by Jorge Manrique, a book on the Rio Tinto mines, and above all a large collection of Greek classics.


Outside, the melody of the sharpener was beginning to get closer. He used to like it, it encouraged him to wake up and go on adventures, like every child in the process of discovering the world. In such a way, a spark of illusion awakened 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, swaying with the wind that began to rise, insinuating itself 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 in circles while still humming.


That child seemed to have forgotten school; however, a rough sound suddenly broke into their acrobatics. Pluff! it sounded like the impact of a cooking plate, followed by several screams:


- Shit! Shit! You are an idiot child, like your father! Where are you? answers! He kept shouting. The corridor had been transformed into trenches of war, loudly. There was panic.


- 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 turned 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 herself to protect herself. Her grandmother once 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, the entire city, and even the entire world, just like his father. He was more and more convinced of it. I was thinking of going to a city of chocolate and the island of biscuit dinosaurs and the estuary of sweets of all flavors. His mother continued to yell, cursing left and right as she hit him, but he was no longer there, clinging to his precious slate stone, soaring through the skies in a fire-breathing baby dragon.


On Monday of the following week he managed to get hold of the money from the counter and catch the canoe. Along the way he met his friend Javier with his parents. Javier's family was a family of humble origins - a family of fishermen from the town - but they were very close, which always gave him pause. 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 in those moments 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, have you heard? Javier asked with great liveliness in his eyes, full of energy, without waiting for an answer. He continued hastily: a few days ago a British Army soldier appeared on the beach. You told me your father is in the army too, right? He asked again curiously. My father says that remains of the war always appear here, but that a person had never appeared, much less a member of the army, right, Dad? He said raising his head and raising his tone a little.


- 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 shouldn't be carried away by the gossip of the townspeople either. Hardly anyone knows anything. But here the news runs like wildfire.


Surely it will have passed at the consul's disposal - he said reluctantly as if speaking to himself, hinting at a clear negative connotation towards the German consulate. He changed the tone: of course, nothing ever happens here, it's really surprising, right, guys? He said looking at the children smiling, following the game of that mysterious apparition.


This news aroused overwhelming curiosity in the boy. He began to get nervous, twisting his fingers discreetly, below the waist, as he used to do when he met people in the middle. They continued walking in the shade of the juniper trees until they reached the pier and Javier and his family, once there, made a detour to the fish market. While he waited, he wanted to run down the beach toward the boot in case he could still find out something. However, something told him that it did not make sense, so, after a few minutes, he finally contained himself.
After a while he arrived at school. He had an appointment with the principal, who had devoted himself to him since he arrived at the new school. He saw a great capacity in the boy, but he sensed that things were not going well at home and, without knowing why, little by little he got closer to him. It's not really that he had an appointment with the director, he just went looking for him when he had free time, interrupting an intrepid class of dinosaurs and prehistory. His name rang out 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 with him slowly, with the intention of making it easier for him to answer his questions. The boy was looking out the window. The day was closing abruptly, offering a dense gray sky. I hardly noticed. He imagined his father standing on the shore, steady, staring out to sea in his navy uniform.
His consciousness was permeated with clouds. For many questions he asked, no one ever knew how to find the location of the world in which he lived.

 

 

 

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

Selection of links where to buy books, opinions and literary criticisms about the work of Carlos Fernández Martín:

 

https://laisladesiltola.es/


https://www.casadellibro.com/?gclid=CjwKCAjwxqX4BRBhEiwAYtJX7ZE5gY2bqK4LkvLLSZOsjgVGgBHPPKfV16OdLNOD_WlHrrviRq7reBoCj-cQAvD_BwE


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


https://www.amazon.es/Auriga-Estrellas-Carlos-Fern%C3%A1ndez-Mart%C3%ADn/dp/8417352589/ref=asc_df_8417352589/?tag=googshopes-21&linkCode=df0&hvadid=4203556038h&hvadid=4203556038h&hvadid=420355603850&hvadid=420355603850&hvadid=4203556038h = 13546686107911275056 & hvpone = & hvptwo = & hvqmt = & hvdev = c & hvdvcmdl = & hvlocint = & hvlocphy = 9047035 & hvtargid = pla-924647910225 & psc = 1 & tag = & ref = & adgrpid = 96488054579 & hvpone = & hvptwo = & hvadid = 420355603850 & hvpos = & hvnetw = g & hvrand = 13546686107911275056 & hvqmt = & hvdev = c & hvdvcmdl = & hvlocint = & hvlocphy = 9047035 & hvtargid = pla-924647910225

 

https://carlosalcorta.wordpress.com/2020/04/08/carlos-fernandez-martin-auriga-de-estrellas/
(Review of my book of poems "Auriga de estrellas", by Carlos Alcorta)


Selection of the words from the prologue of “Auriga de estrellas” written by Juan Cobos Wilkins: “Biography, song. And the amazement of the discovery, the discovery of the gift: vertigo that attracts and scares, a two-pole magnet. To be known as a poet is to assume a destiny that undresses us with the most disturbing nudity: the invisible ”.

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

El cielo ajedrez.jpg

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Antonio Agudelo

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