Raúl Castro se ha ganado el derecho a ser Presidente

Silvio Rodríguez: "Raúl Castro se ha ganado el derecho a ser Presidente" El cantautor, quien durante los últimos quince años fue diputado de la Asamblea del Poder Popular de Cuba, aseguró que el gobierno de Raúl Castro continuará con "el proceso de auto-reflexión". El cantautor cubano Silvio Rodríguez dijo hoy en Guatemala que Raúl Castro, "por su trayectoria, se ha ganado el derecho a ser Presidente", al tiempo que hizo votos para que termine con "la visión cerrada de la economía". "Por razones físicas Fidel Castro no puede seguir al mando y ha dejado las riendas de la Revolución en manos de Raúl Castro. Yo no lo veo (a Raúl) como su hermano (de Fidel). Da la casualidad que es su hermano, pero para mí es el revolucionario en que más confianza hay", precisó Rodríguez. Rodríguez, quien durante los últimos quince años fue diputado de la Asamblea del Poder Popular de Cuba, aseguró que el gobierno de Raúl Castro continuará con "el proceso de auto-reflexión" iniciado por Fidel dos años antes de dejar el poder. Este proceso, precisó, que ha sido "una especie de consulta popular" en la que "la gente cuenta qué es lo que encuentra mal en el país", ha dado como resultado "un replanteamiento de las estructuras gubernamentales" de Cuba. Algunos de esos cambios, aseguró, se empezarán a realizar en las próximas semanas, pero otros "que dependen de nuestro desarrollo económico (por) algunas limitaciones que hemos tenido producto de una visión cerrada de la economía", llevarán algún tiempo. "Yo espero, y muchos cubanos esperamos, que se rectifique esa visión cerrada de la economía, aún siendo un país socialista, y que se libere, en la medida en que se estime prudente y necesario las fuerzas productivas de nuestro país", subrayó. Para mejorar la calidad de vida de sus ciudadanos, añadió, Cuba necesita "más y mejor producción", por lo que un cambio en la economía del país "es algo que esperamos todos los cubanos que queremos la Revolución, pero que también somos críticos con nuestra realidad".

La minificción de Jorge Etcheverry: un juego verbal entre géneros

Magdalena Ferreiro “Primero los gatos, subdivididos en: claros y obscuros, sinuosos (persas) y arrepollados (con frío)”. Así empieza la “Enumeracion de animales” de Jorge Etcheverry. Allí se distingue entre osos “de verdad” y otros “con lengua de pañolensi” y se nos invita a ver una lámina uno que, de existir (y muchos desearían que así lo fuera), debería mostrar el asombro de una muchacha que ve brotar de su vientre una mariposa. No es la muchacha (y muchos también preferirían que así lo fuera) la que integra la taxonomía, sino la mariposa, cuidadosamente clasificada “según su comportamiento y origen”. Pero la lámina no está por ninguna parte, excepto tal vez fuera del libro. ¿Dónde? No en el mundo real, (si algo como eso existe), sino en uno saludablemente distorsionado y lúdico al que nos invitan textos como éste. Las ocasiones de visitar ese mundo son raras y preciosas. El sapo que describió Juan José Arreola, que despierta en primavera y descubre, tal vez apenado, que no sufrió ninguna metamorfosis, o el dinosaurio de Augusto Monterroso, que aún sigue allí cuando alguien se despierta (¿Quién?) nos ofrecen, como este texto de Etcheverry, salvoconductos a esa realidad que se entremezcla con la poesía para complicar la vida de quienes se dedican al análisis literario. Según Clara Obligado, los textos de este tipo “Recorren todos los géneros, todas las técnicas: se apoyan en otros textos, tejen vínculos con otras formas: son juego, poema, sentencia, bestiario, chiste, novela, fábula y hasta aviso clasificado”. En resumen, y por continuar en el reino animal, podríamos agregar que se retuercen como anguilas. En el prólogo de su Antología del cuento breve y oculto, del año 2001, los compiladores Raúl Brasca y Luis Chitarroni confiesan haber incluido en ella “fragmentos de dudosa entidad cuentística”. Es que la minificción aparece frecuentemente enmascarada en libros de poesía, que han sido tradicionalmente el lugar de lo no tradicional. Si es raro, piensa el lector de cuentos “normales”, seguro que es un poema en prosa. El lector de poesía clasifica menos y tal vez disfruta más. No diré que el poeta disfruta más que el resto de los escritores o de la gente, ya que ése es un punto aún en investigación. Y adelanto que las conclusiones se ven lejanas y neblinosas. Por suerte. Pero el lector que se acerque a estos textos con una actitud abierta, descubrirá matices especiales de entusiasmo literario. Escribe Etcheverry: “Los centauros cortaron en dos los verdes campos cultivados. Luego dejaron en la tierra ablandada por la lluvia la fuerte pezuña de sus cascos. Al otro lado del mundo, claras mujeres de formas amplias se estremecieron con un temblor secreto”. Este fragmento del texto titulado “Cierta sed” fue publicado originalmente como poema en prosa, pero se sostiene por sí mismo y, como los centauros, deja huellas narrativas. En la contratapa de A vuelo de pájaro, antología de Jorge Etcheverry que incluye varios de los textos seleccionados para esta ponencia, se habla de “los poemas que integran este pequeño volumen”. De hecho, las minificciones del autor clasificadas como tales han sido sólo las seleccionadas para su publicación en antologías del género, como Cien microcuentos chilenos o MicroQuijotes, ambas preparadas por el académico chileno Juan Armando Epple. Es el caso de “La bolsa”, que aparece en MicroQuijotes y que deja el territorio de lo que podríamos considerar un minificción clásica para internarse en la crónica. “Si alguna vez esa bolsa aparece llena de explosivos, documentos o drogas, en cualquier aeropuerto, en allanamientos, en posesión de terceros, etc., quiero dejar constancia de los acontecimientos”—escribe el autor. Según Luis Correa-Díaz, de la Universidad de Georgia, ese texto “actualiza ‘el pequeño Quijote que todos llevamos dentro’, aunque más bien se trata de un pequeño Cervantes”. La minificción de Etcheverry, híbrida de nacimiento, se va de lo literario, mete las narices en lo periodístico, se da un baño de poesía y regresa por caminos narrativos. Confunde y encanta, a veces en tono de crónica y otros en tono de leyenda, como se aprecia en estos fragmentos de “El Rebelde”: “Él era el más justo entre nosotros, el del iris claro y las pupilas obscuras y profundas, donde todos nuestros secretos podían ahogarse, todas nuestras fiebres enfriarse. (...) Alguien dice que no existió nunca”. En el prólogo de Cuentos breves y extraordinarios, probablemente la primera antología del género en lengua española, editada por primera vez en 1953, Jorge Luis Borges y Adolfo Bioy Casares señalan: “Lo esencial de lo narrativo está, nos atrevemos a pensar, en estas piezas; lo demás es episodio ilustrativo, análisis psicológico, feliz o inoportuno adorno verbal”—concluyen. Y tal vez ése sea el secreto de la sobrevivencia de la minificción, ese género siempre algo marginal a los grandes movimientos literarios, pero de buena salud “as time goes by”. Un género que invita a viajes algo inquietantes, como éste, que propone Jorge Etcheverry en “Jornada”: “Entre una pierna y otra pierna habrá una madeja negra y en medio de ella brotará una fuente de agua y más abajo habrá una cueva que indica el camino a los infiernos. El vientre será combado y húmedo. Saliendo de la enmarañada selva de cantos rodados y de algas, aplastando batracios y apartando serpientes encontraremos la depresión del Ombligo y luego de muchas lunas veremos las montañas, de las que brotan sendos chorros de leche. Pero nunca podremos alcanzarlas ni menos volver atrás”. En resumen, se trata de quemar naves desde el primer momento. Y, por qué no, también hasta el último. Referencias Borges, Jorge Luis y Adolfo Bioy Casares (selección y prólogo): Cuentos breves y extraordinarios. Buenos Aires, Santiago Rueda, 1967. Brasca, Raúl y Luis Chitarroni (selección y prólogo): Antología del cuento breve y oculto. Buenos Aires, Editorial Sudamericana, 2001. Correa-Díaz, Luis; et al, “En torno a los MicroQuijotes editados por Juan Armando Epple, una lectura compartida” en www.puc.cl Epple, Juan Armando (selección y prólogo): Cien microcuentos chilenos. Santiago de Chile, Cuarto Propio, 2002. Epple, Juan Armando (selección y prólogo): MicroQuijotes. Barcelona, Thule Ediciones, 2005. Etcheverry, Jorge: A vuelo de pájaro- Miniantología personal. Ottawa, Verbum Veritas, 1998. Obligado, Clara (selección y prólogo): Por favor, sea breve. Antología de relatos hiperbreves. Madrid, Páginas de Espuma, 2001. Internet: www.escritores.cl www.poesia-sexo-marihuana.com www.puc.cl

Vitral con pájaros de Jorge Etcheverry: la poesía fotografiada a colores

Zaira Espinosa Decía William Blake: “la eternidad está enamorada de los frutos del tiempo.” Esa misma idea se distingue en Vitral con pájaros, poemario de Jorge Etcheverry. Versos eternizados que revelan sentimientos y espacios del modus vivendi de nuestra sociedad actual entrelazándose con el origen de una voz poética de lustros atrás. Para Etcheverry, además, el tiempo es paralelo al espacio. Canadá-Extranjero-Chile-hoy-antes-ahora. Vitral con pájaros es una selección de poemas que el mismo autor confiesa son de otras épocas. Sin embargo, cada uno de los textos se aproxima al presente como parte de una contemplación pausada y minuciosa de las relaciones humanas, el paisaje urbano y la bitácora viajera. Según Ethel Krauze: “la poesía más que conocimiento del mundo, es experiencia entrañable, visceral, una manera de estar en el mundo”. Aproximarse a la poesía de Etcheverry es verlo estar, por lo que más allá de una simple identificación de palabras e imágenes, la lectura resulta una apreciación fotográfica de la voz del poeta. Foto uno (El paisaje del tránsito vial y emotivo) Camino a un lado de Jorge Etcheverry. Conversamos, pero no se si al conversar él también retrata el derredor con las palabras que aún no se escriben o se pronuncian. Eso mismo sucede en las reuniones, en la mesa, reposando un tema con el vino tinto. Una mirada silenciosa recorre el lugar, el trayecto. Luego hay un momento en que los retratos suenan como un ferrocarril que se aproxima, cito: “…todos los hombres y mujeres/ sentados en el bus/ que conscientemente se anulan/ debajo de sus trajes y gafas/ los empleados, los intelectuales de barba/las mujeres funcionarias de rasgos angulosos/ y ojos pálidos/ que aprietan las piernas/ y ponen la frente lisa del día de negocios/ luego de la noche sexuada/ y el olor de la noche”. El tono de la imagen es de una cotidiana mañana-tarde-antes-hoy-aquí-allá, cualquier sitio urbano, cualquier tiempo, ambos con la cara impedida de otro rasgo que no sea indiferencia. Un tono graduado de silencios; un tono en altavoz, cuando el poeta quiere señalar las partículas flotantes entre miradas. En los poemas: “En el bus”, “Épica cotidiana”, “Caminos de la tarde”, “En el centro”, “Y la gente” se distinguen las imágenes coloridas de invierno, el sol primaveral, el deshielo de las relaciones humanas, la capacidad para apreciar esa “Nueva Jerusalén de tarjeta postal” que define el lugar que aglomera inmigrantes en el transporte urbano, sus lenguas y sus facciones. Etcheverry usa un lente de alta definición verbal, cito: “Y afuera del bus las calles/ impolutas vacías/ stark, drab, empty/ los edificios de concreto…/Y quizás valió la pena/ entonces/ venir a dar aquí/ y de repente, callado,/ sorprenderlos/ escucharlos, verlos/ y es que un poco / en cierto grado/ esas incontables masas allá abajo /allá lejos/ en el sur se concretizan como un rayo de sol/ en estas circunstancias”. Fotografía del exilio, una estampa trazada de evocaciones. Como en sus poemas: “Los viejos de Chile” o “Kale borroka”, el aquí-hoy se ensancha a un aquí-norte-sur-hoy-ayer-mañana. El interior se exterioriza en una impresión de todos los tiempos. Alguna vez fue sur, otras norte, las masas son viento que circula. La poesía, ventanal abierto, permite al viento correr. Por eso, diríamos que Etcheverry contiene en su pluma, o mejor dicho, teclado, el universo auténtico de la percepción que el lector identifica y asume a sus experiencias de vida como exiliado u otra calidad extranjera en país blanco, bien nutrido y de buen ver, Canadá. Foto dos (Escenario de poetas) En Poética de lo sagrado de Oscar Wong se reitera la idea: “la poesía, a través de la palabra, traduce los sentimientos en imágenes”. Etcheverry es poeta que retrata su oficio y lo satiriza, cito: “…tratando de condensar el universo/ en una estrofa, /reflejarlo en un objeto, /y a la vez guardar el paso /con la corriente de la realidad/ No es fácil /Me pregunto por qué gano tan poco /…me consuelo /pensando /que el trabajo de Cristo /era mucho más importante /y más difícil /y que lo crucificaron”. Para Etcheverry, escribir es un gran trabajo, domar a una “bestia”, sentarse en un café, esperar un ataque de verbos y confrontar indemne, esperar una lluvia que desborde las aceras de agua y salir a transportarse en la corriente. El retrato, o caricatura en su defecto, se convierte en eslabón que une ritmos e inventa testimonios de poeta, como en “Antipoema para restarse a beneficio”, cito: “los poetas que leen/ son todos pésimos /Conozco a todos los músicos /me sé sus canciones de memoria” Para Oscar Wong poesía es: “revelación, sensibilidad, emoción”, para Lichtenberg poesía no es como un lente para ver a los demás, sino un espejo; para Juan Agustín Goytisolo es el medio para cambiar el pulso, el ritmo de la historia; para el poeta nicaragüense Ernesto Mejía Sánchez: “escribir un poema es como recordar el futuro” , para el español Gabriel Celaya es “poesía-herramienta, a la vez que latido de lo unánime y ciego”, Xavier Villaurrutia veía en la poesía manos metálicas, compañía para hablar a solas; poesía según Salvador Díaz Mirón es: “pugna sagrada, ansia infinita de lo imposible”, Eliseo Diego dice que un poema no es más que la felicidad. Poesía para Jorge Etcheverry es “estar parado en una vereda”, sentir el curso de la vida, la metáfora tiene vientre, es insomnio, la noche tiene alas violáceas, reservar espadas en su funda, un animal con sus garras preparadas para desgarrar, una semilla en algodón. Etcheverry escribe la poesía con la mirada que domina el pulso de las calles, casas, personas. En la poesía de Vitral con pájaros, reitero, la imagen es nítida y sus colores destacan, cito: “El hecho es que cae la noche /no, no cae /pues ella no es ella, en verdad /no pájaro no doncella alada /para que pudiera caer desde lo alto.” Collage (Las mujeres) Mujer-musa, el norte-sur, la llama-sangre, la poesía-aire que se inhala, como los recuerdos que también a veces matan así como el humo del cigarro. La mujer en la poesía de Etcheverry, mata y da vida, ejerce las imágenes, las sobrepone del olvido. Vitral con pájaros contiene retratos de palabras-mujeres, sobre mujeres que sonríen dentro de esas palabras. Vemos a Etcheverry imaginando, percibiendo las sirenas, las divas, las amigas que ya no están (“Despedida”, poema dedicado a Yvonne América Truque q.e.p.d), a madre e hija que crecen sin parar de alma y sueños (La Gabriela grande y la Gabriela chica). En “Oda a una mujer enferma de la tiroides” Etcheverry evoca un deseo rojizo, monocromático, cito: “Me gustas /por tus ojos claros /y tus largas piernas paganas /Déjate crecer el pelo /y consume en las mañanas /levantándote del lecho/ comprimidos recetados /(tiroxina) /y que tus tobillos /y los dedos de tus manos /adelgacen /Sólo entonces serás mía”. La imagen adquiere textura, es un paisaje y al mismo tiempo un canto. Vitral con pájaros, es una obra de gran contenido visual en su lenguaje, sus palabras son fieles retratos del escenario de vida que el poeta Etcheverry capta con su pluma, nos transfiere más allá de una época, de un estado de ánimo, de un espacio urbano. Etcheverry vuelve la página en lienzo, y a cada palabra le da un rostro, hasta que tantos rostros, sonrientes-impávidos-tristes- aquí-allá-ahora-risa-llanto y mirando hacia el lector, son la poesía.

CANTO I (de una versión de "Hablativo Agente"

I Día húmedo. Bueno para escribir Mucho más alto, no sé donde Un opalino deshecho de galaxias una eléctrica entraña de pescado La lluvia combate a morir a los relojes, se derrumban enormes aludes de sonido. Buen día para conversar Toda la ciudad muerta, todos los lechos ocupados, todas las calles vacías, todas las calles húmedas Así como en tiempo de gran calor, de gran exuberancia. Los hombres se pierden gritando en la espesura, repleta de reptiles acalorados y de pájaros.....no sé.....con el sol sentado en la nuca, sobre los hombros. Olvidados de sí mismos se ponen pañuelos al cuello Desde los dormitorios obscuros. Sólo una luz plomiza baña la cara de los objetos. Los detalles se ocultan como los moluscos en la arena del fondo. El techo envuelto en sombras, que retrocede. O se desvanece -con medio cuerpo desnudo-la parte superior- fuera de las frazadas-fumando quizás, quizás considerando la sinuosidad de los músculos--en el reposo--la enorme longitud de las piernas, que no conocen el sol, el brusco brotar de las manos, la inesperada delgadez de las muñecas, la longitud del sexo Las palpitaciones del corazón bajo de un milímetro de papel arroz--pronto a romperse y partir aleteando alentando--parece--asegurando otro día de fatiga, para ampliar la ronda de los días--días de fatiga--el vuelo circular de los pájaros, al sol, gritando: días, días de fatiga. Nuevamente: Días. Días de fatiga Vamos por la floresta verde, sus anchas hojas, sus arañas de patas zancudas Y no acertamos a pensar en nosotros, en nuestras mujeres--la mujer de sol, bajo el sol Y consideramos, nuevamente, cada detalle que viene de afuera "la lluvia" Y los hombres borrachos de calor en la floresta. Y la mujer húmeda en la lluvia II El buscador que marcha por el campo, estudiando cada brizna de pasto, cada cambio de matiz en el terreno Con los primeros relámpagos, y tiene que terminar antes que se desate la lluvia Y por cada brizna de pasto hay una gota de agua, fecundándola así como en la costa el agua salada hace vibrar los matices de las rocas Déjame pensar en nuestras interminables calles, blancas, vacías... Como cuando estamos por dormirnos )Cúal es la fuerza que elige y sustituye las imágenes, si somos todos espectadores? Como los militantes de distintas tiendas políticas, pero que sustentan una común ideología que interiorizados en el mecanismo de sus respectivos aparatos -se saludan --Se conocían de niños-. Se están conversando hasta caer de bruces sobre la mesa, dormidos hasta el alba III Cada brizna de pasto una gota de lluvia, para que la fecunde. Bajo el sol. El conocedor, un potro de ojos facetados, dilata las fosas nasales. Las arañas destilan cierto líquido. Bajo el sol. En las hojas húmedas de la floresta --Con un pañuelo al cuello, fumando. El techo envuelto en sombras se aleja o se diluye. Como en una eléctrica entraña de pescado. Considera la sinuosidad de los músculos, considera la longitud del sexo. La mujer de sol, en la noche, ebria de calor, como la noche Como cuando estamos por dormirnos y )Cúal es la fuerza que elige y sustituye, que fecunda y marchita? Si nosotros no somos espectadores? -La mujer húmeda bajo la lluvia -borracha de calor en la floresta. La mujer de sol considera desnuda la sinuosidad de los músculos. Afuera nuestras calles, blancas, vacías. Considera las concavidades en la sombra. Cálida sombra. (Un elemento nuevo: El vino! (Un licor de luciérnagas! Las palpitaciones de las savias que corren por las venas de las grandes hojas de la floresta. Prontas a romperlas y fluir, alentando. Para ampliar la ronda de los días. Y se comunican a través de todos los matices, de todas las briznas de pasto. Caen los primeros relámpagos. Y la mujer húmeda busca al buscador antes de que se desate la lluvia IV -Con el sol sentado en la nuca, sobre los hombros, por un camino que sigue cada cambio de matiz en el terreno. Como un reptil acalorado y como un pájaro...no sé...luchan, los militantes de distintas tiendas políticas. Bajo el sol. Olvidados de sí mismos se toman mutuamente del cuello. Un corazón rompe un milímetro de papel arroz--y parte aleteando, alentando, asegurando "ya se terminaron los días de fatiga"--el otro bebe vino y cae de bruces sobre una mesa hasta que llega el alba. Y parte, aleteando, alentando "ya se terminaron los días de fatiga", asegurando, "para no ampliar la ronda de los días, días de fatiga". El vuelo circular de los pájaros, cuando gritan, en torno al sol, como un eco: días, días de fatiga Sobre los propósitos abandonados, toda la ciudad muerta Sobre los hombres que se pierden gritando en la espesura, repleta de reptiles acalorados y de pájaros Sobre los dormitorios obscuros, bajo el sol Sobre los moluscos que se ocultan en la arena del fondo Sobre los militantes, caídos de bruces en la mesa, hasta que llega el alba. Un licor de luciérnagas Sobre la mujer de sol y la húmeda mujer bajo la lluvia Sobre nuestras interminables calles, blancas, vacías Sobre los seres; moluscos y cangrejos, sobre mujeres, militantes. Y hombres que fuman en los dormitorios, ()Falta alguien?) arañas de patas zancudas y pájaros Y sobre estas palabras: Parece. Días, días de fatiga. No sé. Terminemos.

Jorge Etcheverry/Gonzalo Millán: Two poems and an interview, Trns. Ana Henríquez, Contemporary Poetry IV.4 (1982): 48-72

Ahimsa Es la era de las palomas. Describen círculos interminables acechando a los negros cuervos de la guerra. El viento arrebata el sombrero del físico y lo hace rodar por prados en cierto modo líricos. En el mes de los gatos los días son más cortos— y nunca tuvimos menos tiempo para hacer lo nuestro. Déjame hablar un poco, detener mi carrera unos momentos. Vengo del Este. He visto estremecerse las paredes de todas las ciudades — he visto cuervos mareados sobre trigales maduros. He visto la sangre de los rebaños que se derramaron sobre esos mismos trigales. Y te lo cuento. Esta es la hora de los predicadores solitarios y apresurados. Es el tiempo de Salomón. Es ahora cuando el maestro baja de su cumbre y se une a la multitud arrastrando su rueda de oración. Será mañana cuando arrecien las escaramuzas. Será entonces cuando termine -mi letanía, será muy tarde para dar cuenta de los adoquines rojos de la calle. Ahimsa It is the year of the doves. They describe interminable circles, stalking the black ravens of war. The wind carries off the physicist's hat and makes it roll through somewhat lyrical meadows. In the month of the cats the days are shorter — and never did we have less time to ourselves. Let me speak a while, halt my journey for a few moments. I come from the East. I have seen the walls of all the cities quiver and quake. I have seen dizzy crows over ripe wheatfields. I have seen the blood of the flocks that were scattered over those same wheatfields. And this I say unto you. This is the hour of the hurried and the solitary preachers. It is the time of Solomon. It is now that the master descends from on high and becomes one with the multitude dragging his prayer wheel. It will be tomorrow when the skirmishes become more furious. It will be then that I end my litany, it will be too late to tell of the red cobblestones of the street. "Ahimsa" by Jorge Etcheyerry, trans Christiana Shantz. Copyright 1981 by Latín American Children's Fund. Gonzalo Millán: Jorge, you say that you belong to the School of Santiago, the least well known of the poetry groups which emerged in Chile in the sixties. In what year was the School of Santiago born? Jorge Etcheverry: Around 1966. It really began as a group of friends who later started working in poetry and in theoretical studies on poetry. By 1967/68 we decided that we had a series of things in common and therefore baptized ourselves the School of Santiago. GM: Where did the group have its origin and who were its members? JE: Well, we met at the Pedagogical Institute of the University of Chile where some of us were studying philosophy and some literature. The members were Naín Nómez, Erik Martínez, Julio Piñones, and myself. Alexis Monsalves participated occasionally. GM: The book The Escape Artist closes with a poem entitled "Epitaph for the School of Santiago." When did the School of Santiago die? JE: This was meant, in part, to be ironical, and it also was an opportunity to speak about the members of the group who live here in exile, about the situation in which we find ourselves and the changes that have taken place through the years. It also means that this is no longer a time for manifestoes and positions of principle. That had already been done and is still considered valid in a way. On the other hand, it is also a recognition of a time when we were working together and had a common identity. There are certain similarities in our work. GM: Which were the main activities of the group? JE: The group became known as such in an interview in the daily La Nación in 1967. Afterwards we published an anthology in the magazine Orfeo under the title "33 nombres claves de la actual poesía chilena" (33 Key Names of Current Chilean Poetry) . As a group we published in both Spanish and Geman in the Swiss magazine Humboldt. In 1968 we appeared in a television program, and we held a series of poetry readings. The active period of our group ended in 1970. Allende's victory that year marked the beginning of an intensive political process in our country which temporarily removed most of us from literary activities. GM: What distinguised the School of Santiago from other groups of young Chilean poets of that time, such as Trilce, Arúspice, Tebaida? JE: I would say, first of all, that we wanted to write poetry which would somehow not fit into the accepted framework of that period, poetry with long verses, abundant imagery, allusive poetry, poetry which attached great importance to rhythm, which wouid intercalate different voices and which would be fragmentary in some way. The basis for this kind of poetry may be found in the heterogeneous character, the mosaic form of our South American capitals, and a certain impossibility of synthesis. Let us say that the finished, round poem, the one-image poem tries to tell of a totality which cannot be synthesized. The only possibility left then is that of referring to this totality through simultaneous and diverse languages. GM: Would yours then be a fundamentally urban poetry, as opposed to the "neo-lyric" tendency in the poetry practiced by some members of other groups outside the capital? JE: Yes, but without rivalry or condemnation. There are, In fact, several reasons why our kind of poetry was not the one preferred by other authors, or the most widely read, or the one with the greatest critical acclaim. I might add that this situation has been changing lately. In the material that has been reaching us from Chile we found that some poets seem to be doing something similar to what we had been trying to do then. GM: Perhaps this is the case not only in Chile. An example would be the infra-realist movement founded in México by two young Chilean poets who now live in Spain, Bruno Montané and Roberto Bolaño. I think that their poetry has certain affinities with the style of the School of Santiago. What is the connection between this group of poets and contemporary Chilean poetry? JE: Well, rather than thinking of figures in historical terms we let ourselves be guided by ways of writing. And for almost all of us the way of writing of Pablo de Rokha was important: long paragraphs, strong, rhythmically charged, and a fragmentary conception of the poem. One might say that de Rokha's poetry consists of one long poem to which he has added and from which he has taken away. After that, our preferences even led us to link up with a certain type of classical language, such as that of Aeschylus. He uses a paragraph which belongs to neither prose, nor drama, nor poetry, but has elements from all three and a very strong rhythm. In contemporary terms, we were attracted by the North American "beat" poets, especially Ginsberg. On the other hand, we were also interested in Lautréamont because of his prose writing, which places him at the margin of the traditional genres. Some of Beckett's short stories are imbued with a similar aura. Ellot also had some influence on us. Pound was of interest to us because of his work with intertextuality or a plurality of languages. I personally was also quite interested in Rimbaud and Perse. GM: The anthology in Orfeo which you mentioned before was a kind of anthology-manifesto, a catalogue of preferences. Do you remember which Chilean poets were included in it? JE: Well, we wanted to show post-Neruda poetry, but in particular a tendency which we felt was a precursor of our own work and which we then regarded as the poetical path. The selection opened with figures such as Humberto Díaz Casanueva, Rosamel del Valle, and Eduardo Anguita, and continued with Mandrágora, a Chilean surrealist group. Those were the poets to whom we attached the greatest importance. I also remember that at around that time we were reading the first publications by Juan Emar which corresponded in prose to what these poets were attempting to do in poetry. Others were Nicanor Parra, Gonzalo Rojas, Carlos de Rokha, Enrique Lihn, Gonzalo Millán, Manuel Silva Acevedo, and other young poets of whom I don't really know what has become of them. GM: For years you were a student of philosophy. Did those studies influence your poetry in any way? JE: Yes, so far as the tendency towards rational judgments is concerned, a certain control of structures and the technical language .of philosophy, and the implicit conception of the world which usually determines the vision of some voices in the poems. But all this is not taken altogether seriously; instead it was regarded as just another element in the situation of a character in the poem who thinks about the universe, politics, sex. GM: Do you see any relationship between your poetry and that of Humberto Díaz Casanueva, another poet with philosophical training? JE: I see no formal relationship. I also think that his is more a metaphysical poetry. When I read his poetry more than ten years ago, I found it interesting, but then came the Allende government during which time I practically ceased all literary work. And right afterwards carne the years of exile during which I have been writing a decidedly committed poetry which I have been reading at recitals, which appeared in journals such as literatura chilena en el exilio and Revista de la Casa de las Américas, and which is completely different from the poetry of The Escape Artist and is not included in that book. GM: Coming back to the formal characteristics of your poetry, which could also be applied to the School of Santiago, do you agree that one of them would be the lack of distinction between genres, between poetry and prose? JE: Sometimes, in the most extreme case, there is a lack of distinction which is, in a way, programmed and fundamental. I remember making a somewhat pretentious statement in the manifesto which appeared in Orfeo: "Here exists neither poetry nor prose, here exists only the word, potent, undifferentiated, naming the world as a whole, trying to make it over as in the beginning." GM: On the one hand we have this lack of distinction between poetry and prose, and on the other the use of the long verse—you call it a paragraph. To what extent is this long verse connected to North American poetry? You already mentioned Ginsberg, but I am also thinking of Whitman and Crane. The use of the versicle is common to all of them. JE: It vas common to many of the poets preferred by us then. Rimbaud, for example, in Season in Hell, which, to me, is the prose poem elevated to its highest expression, Lautréamont, Perse, Xenophon among the Greeks, old de Rokha, etc. Among the North Americans Ginsberg is the one who impressed me most because of his ability to maintain a poetical level by using paragraphs in which the metaphorical element is often completely absent and which deal strictly with the problems of daily life. In order to achieve this, one has to have a great rhythmical and syntactical strength, a long breath like the one that sustains some of Kerouac's novels from beginning to end. Sometimes I have also utilized a variety of automatic writing. Many of my poems are written in an immediate and definitive manner and when preparing the final copy years later I try to stick as closely as possible to the original text, even though the meaning of some images may have been lost. GM: I would like to remind you that there is a Chilean poet of the generation directly preceding yours who is characterized by the use of the versicle. I am referring to Enrique Lihn. Do you see any relationship between Lihn and the School of Santiago? JE: Well, I quite liked his book The Dark Room. There was a long verse with great strength, but it is practically the only book by Lihn I liked. Lihn also seems to focus on one theme. And in some of our discussions at the time we said that thematic poetry as such was an exercise in poetic composition, which is not to say that I am denying the fact that a great deal of my poetry is thematic. Another poet I forgot to mention when we were referring to the use of language other than poetic language (such as philosophical language) is Gonzalo Rojas in Contra la muerte (Against Death) . This book impressed me when it first appeared. GM: Some critics might express certain misgivings about this kind of poetry, for example calling it confused because of its thematic excesses and incoherence. On the other hand, it also gives the impression that the length of the versicle or paragraph is not determined by the breath, and that the cut-off point is arbitrary. JE: It is precisely because, had we pursued a tight rhythm and thematic coherence, we would once more have fallen back into a poetry which falsely presents to us a totality which we intentionally wish to avoid. Our position in the Orfeo manifesto was the following: There is no possible synthesis. This also conforms to the point of view that the Third World countries have no history, no destiny, no physiognomy; that those who have physiognomy, destiny, history, and therefore the possibility to create perfect closed objects, are the Europeans. GM: Your opinion is that fragmentation, thematic dispersion, the lack of identity and purpose would properly express the countries of the Third World? JE: In some way they would at least correspond to the attitudes of the elites. I do not deny that in spite of being committed to the cause of revolution I have received a certain culture and education, and that I therefore belong to a social class which I must describe as elitist. I cannot reject this culture and social class because they have formed me. Otherwise I would be falling into a false folklorism. Now, as far as complete and long-winded sentences are concerned, I have a poem, for instance, in which the following image appears: "The horse of the inconceivable Third World proletariat breaks into a gallop, loosing the reins from the hands of the elite." It seems to me that at certain moments the kind of reality which I try to present calls for sentences where rhythm, image, and conceptual content must be present simultaneously. To me, the ideal poetical phrase is one in which these three elements are present and interlinked, but unfortunately I rarely achieve this. GM: The sentence you quote has many reminiscences of de Rokha, don't you think? JE: Probably; this is why I have mentioned de Rokha repeatedly. GM: Perhaps we could now proceed to the book itself. At first sight the vision it conveys is a chaotic one of revolutions, war, social and political problems, an explicit opposition between hawks and doves. Could you elaborate on that? JE: I would have to refer to my political commitment which begins In 1965 and has continued, with differences in form and degree, to the present, and also to the fact that I have experienced relatively important political events from within, as just another person. This explains why the poetry I call political and which is also found in The Escape Artist offers neither apology nor praise. It consists of a view from within a situation, the thoughts, attitudes, and needs of men who experience the situation from within but elevated to a kind of typical character, a petty bourgeois like myself. Somewhere it says: "The city youth of the fair brain and facile mouth no longer lets his locks wave in the wind, while from the adjacent streets he examines the best way of taking the fortress by siege." In some way this is a self-portrait. GM: What has been the significance of exile in defining the political vision which appears in your poetry? JE: Generally speaking, I would say that exile has allowed me to obtain a better overall view. It has made me think about the relationship between developed and developing countries, and it has made me experience dependency a little, in that I have had access to the opposite pole. I find that it has been a useful experience. Coming back to literature, exile has led me to write essentially political poetry and it has also allowed me to understand that the initial enthusiasm we felt for some foreign authors or theories was naive. This does not mean, however, that I have abandoned my previous poetry. I continue to write it, but in a somewhat changed form. GM: Would this opposition between the thematic poetry common in Chile and the School of Santiago which does not aspire to synthesis, not be equivalent to Umberto Eco's opposition between the open and the closed work JE: Ultimately yes, but I would say that our poetry is organic and thematic in some way. The theme does not focus on a particular object or anecdote or situation, but presents "states of things," states of consciousness, situations which are somewhat generalized, or sometimes even atmospheres. GM: Would this mean that there is no submission to time and place, as in the poetry you call thematic? JE: I would say that our poetry does not cease to be subject to time and place, especially longer poems such as "Central Flower." But, as I said before, what is at stake here is the creation of "states of things" where various themes are linked together. I recall, for instance, a poem entitled "A Caucus of Quail." First there is a conversation between friends, then a girl appears, this is followed by an imprecation against poets who write poems with well defined themes, a mention of the proletariat of the Third World, a dinner at my home, the distinction between ethnic groups and allusions to the luxury of the developed countries, a voice which praises poverty as an authentic way of life, an allusion to the customs of immigrants, a mention of Chileans and what is happening to them in their countries of exile, of the multitudes who attack Parliament Buildings and that these things concern us, but we are walking in a street, there are the observers who watch us walking in a street, and finally an attempt to lay the foundations for this type of poetry together with an allusion to the need of hiding the self of the speaker. I think that all this, through I do not know what mechanisms, has something that makes it possible to create a situation, a "state of things." A certain thread runs through it. GM: Don’t you believe that the term "pluri-thematic poetry" might adequately describe this kind of poetry? JE: Yes, I think so. GM: We said that at the collective level the vision of the book is a vision of war, a conflictive vision, be it class conflict or conflict between nations. On the other hand, you pointed out that in the poem "The Winged Dog," a kind of manifesto, one of your concerns is "the rabble of the equals and the others." How do you see these relationships? JE: As problematic ones, prone to all kinds of accidents. As an exchange of conceptions of the world. As fondness, hate, a mixture of all these things. GM: Within the context of human relations there is one that appears over and over again, the erotic relationship. How do you see the relationship between man and woman? JE: As problematic as well, but at the same time as a source of Paradise and Hell, as a possibility for encounters between human beings. But in the relationship with women there are other aspects apart from the erotic one. Woman may be a companion in daily life, a companion in struggle, a companion in knowledge. There is a series of poems such as "Dawn" where this appears. It is the wife, the beloved, who is referred in "Gnosis." GM: It is curious that to the masculine voice in the poems the woman plays an ambiguous role. I think that in the book the masculine image par excellence is that of the warrior, a genitally and martially potent man. In this sense the woman appears in a role where she is either passive or threatening this virility, a siren. JE: Yes, there are, in fact, several poems where this is the case. Woman as Paradise and distraction at the same time, as a time of calm and as a debilitating threat, woman as an enigma,. the interlocutor who frustrates understanding, etc. It is curious, yes. I would say that through these poems one can form the image of man as warrior, but with certain weaknesses, a thin warrior who tires easily, generally fails, and smokes. He talks quite a bit, he actually talks a lot, and he does not go beyond the prevalent view of women in a male World. GM: You also draw the distinction between "true men" and "true women." Who are these "true men" and "true women"? JE: In the case of this poem which was written in the sixties, the true man would be the one who carries out the tasks of a warrior which, in this case, would be equivalent to the revolutionary political struggle. And the true women would be those who offer men the possibility to rest so that they can once more resume the struggle, which is a very traditional position. GM: Woman as the warrior's repose. JE: Yes, but there is also something like a confrontation, because the end of the exaltation of war corresponds to the reign of women and calm. I know that this is very traditional. GM: Yes, it is Ulysses' return to Penelope. You are aware, then that this vision is totally at odds with the current feminist struggle for the emancipation of women? JE: Well, yes. In "Central Flower," a poem that deals with sex, there is the statement, "no longer with us is the detailed intervention of OBJECTS FOR EVERY-DAY USE, the enumeration of THE BEAUTIFUI, THOUGHTS MAN WOULD LIKE TO BE." This book does not attempt to be idealistic in any way, or to propose a system of ethics, but to record a certain "state of things"; and unfortunately it must be said that in the Latin American Left, and perhaps above all in the Chilean Left, the status of women has not really undergone any major changes, some very specific circles excepted. Both the traditional myths and the traditional behaviour of men towards women in bourgeois or historical societies continue to find acceptance. GM: Well, we know that change in the traditional sex roles is one of the goals of revolution. You were speaking about sex just now. I see in some poems that the sexual relationship becomes metaphysical at certain times. Some poems, for instance, reminded me of Tantric or alchemic sexuality. Especially when you are speaking of the sexual relationship as equivalent at the cosmic level to the marriage between sun and moon. JE: Sex is, of course, given great importance, but it is no less true that there is also a recognition of the fact this dimension is not always identical. In "Gnosis," for example, we simply have a couple discussing the habitual problems of a couple in a somewhat remote manner. "Fragments" says, "I would not fall into the error of attributing to you metaphysical properties. Now that the angels are crestfallen and it is time for many imprecisions." A potentially transcendental situation of love or sex is treated ironically, in a way. GM: Would you agree with the idealized vision of women and love of the surrealists? JE: I would say that in the final analysis no, in absolute terms no. GM: We noted that there is an obvious political concern in your poetry, but in coexistence with these references we find images belonging to the occult or having obvious mythical echoes. How can these two realities be reconciled? JE: I think they can be reconciled on the basis that a certain education, certain influences and tastes, and a certain growth environment must be assumed. I do not believe that a petty bourgeois, just because that is what he is, should have to amputate a part of himself; one can be a petty bourgeois and still be with the revolution—there is no need to repudiate one's upbringing. As Sartre says in one of his dramas: "Some arrive at the party and bring their ties, others bring their wives." People are forever talking about Liberty, Equality, Fraternity of the French Revolution, or about bourgeois democracy, but they really become universal only with the arrival of socialism. Pursuing this thought, which, to me, is European, one might also say that it ultimately lacks validity, but I like it and use it in this poetry because it somehow means something to me. GM: You would say then that the revolutionary, a man of transition, need not repudiate the images of his past? JE: No. I would say that in order to be a revolutionary it is necessary to do things, to carry on some kind of revolutionary activity. Paradoxically enough, I find myself among members of Chiles political elite, which maintains a certain cultural level and yields quite a bit more than, for example, a hum-drum, square militant who has totally purged his consciousness of all elements supposedly extraneous to Marxism, but whose objective action and subjective efficacy are minimal. Finally, revolution is not a means to achieve purity, but a way of transforming reality. GM: There would be no ideological conflict, then. JE: I start from the basis that all men have ideological conflicts in a greater or lesser degree. Even this book here is quite contradictory. If one says, for example, "We will not enumerate again the irksome needs they dictate to me from the newspapers, the text books and history books," and later, "Something else, let's say it straight. We celebrate the Revolution on every page," this may sound quite contradictory, but the speakers who appear in the poem are really fictitious, and on the other hand, we all have many facets. Different facets, different and often contradictory versions have flown out of me, without my trying. I also believe that Latin Americans are more contradictory than other people: on the one hand they struggle for the Independence of their continent and for the creation of a culture of their own, but at the same time they are faithful followers of either the European Marxists, or the European poets and writers, or the European theoreticians and linguists. GM: Something that attracted my attention in this context is the image of the political leader in the book. It seems that the political leader is comparable to other elitist figures like the wizard, the teacher, the wise man. Is that not a Messianic view of both spiritual and intellectual leaders? JE: Yes, but one should also remember how leaders like 0'Higglns and Manuel Rodríguez are shown even in Neruda's Canto General. It Is very difficult for the petty bourgeois of the sixties to represent leaders other than Ché Guevara, Turcios Lima, Douglas Bravo, Fidel Castro, Hugo Blanco, Inti Peredo. We are somehow accustomed to this type of heroic figure. But I would also say that the non-representation of the people as a revolutionary whole is present as a problem area In this book, as in the following passage: "In other places men resume with renewed vigour the just struggles of the poor: disguised in fezzes, under wide-brimmed hats, scanning the future through the yellow slits of their eyes," or, "In Latin America the rancor of the people grows, pressed and shoved against the unassailable waste of the cities. They are witness to the burning of forests, to the clearing by fire of wheatfields: 'Nevermore shall we be able to attempt to construct a universe based on leaves of grass." I admit that culturally speaking and from my educational background I do not have the necessary elements to represent a revolutionary collective, although I do have the traditional elements which can be found in Homer and much earlier in Gilgamesh to represent the personal hero who directs a people. This is much more within our reach, whereas the other possibility has not yet been done, or is very difficult to represent, for me at least. GM: There is a very ancient archetype, that of the twins, of whom one is the hero and the other the poet, the artist who records the heroic deeds of his brother and thus offers him immortality. Do you think that the wizard, the wise man, the seer of your book are masks of the poet? JE: In the final analysis perhaps yes. But sometimes the versions of the archetypes get a bit mixed up and I tend to say, for example, "The wizard gropes for his cartridge belt, makes an inverted gesture with the back of his hand." Here we have a wizard with a machine gun. GM: This seems interesting, this vision of the wizard as leader, the shaman as guerilla, archaic and modern, magical and practical. JE: Yes, as you say, this is an archaic image based on the figure of the shaman; I realized it after writing these poems. It is curious that even without putting much faith in depth psychology, which assumes a static consciousness (there is a certain baggage of fixed archetypes which repeat themselves), the shaman functions as a symbol of transcendence; like the bird he points more toward a transcendent way out than toward a project which can clearly be reached. This corresponds to our situation In Latin America. We know perfectly well from what we as peoples, even as a continent, want to escape, but it is not clear to us where we want to arrive. This is why the revolutions In Latin America are so unpredictable and diverse, the Cuban case, the Nicaraguan case. What wlll become of El Salvador? What will be the future of Chile? I would say, however, that utopia as a theme is absent from the book. GM: Yes, I agree with you. There is no goal. There is something else I would like you to confirm. In the figure of the prophet I can feel echoes of Zarathustra. What significance did Nietzsche's work have for you? JE: I remember reading quite a bit of Zarathustra when I was 16 or 17. In "A Drowsiness of Birds III" there is an allusion to Nietzsche: "Old tabbies lying on cushions reliving the words of Weininger the poet, of Schopenhauer the prophet, of Nietzsche the soldier." These are women who completely assume the role that has been assigned to them by a male—dominated society. Nietzsche the soldier is the one who carried this concept furthest. Zarathustra as a work of literature influenced my adolescence. I am, of course, not enthusiastic about Nietzsche's conception and have nothing to do with it at the present time. GM: Going back a little, I don't know whether it would be derogatory to speak of an elitist vision in the book. I wonder whether you would accept that? JE: No, I don't accept that because I think that these are not complex poems, in spite of the fact that they might appear so. I find that they are simple poems. They do not require a hermeneutic reading, as it is called these days, an interpretive reading going from the text surface to the bottom. A simple reading, close to literal, is enough. There is not much hidden symbolism. In "Central Flower," for example, there is a guy who in fact says, well, I would like to be free from this burdensome need of sex, but if we are in this, we are in it. Although the basic attitudes of the characters might be amplified, distanced, their attitudes are common, they are emergency judgments, combat judgments on the possibility of one or the other action, on the physical condition, the political situation, etc. GM: Was Sartre's work important with regard to this problematic vision of one's fellow man and the female to you? JE: It was important at some time, around 1966 and 67. Later I no longer liked his concepts. He proposes, for example, the separation between consciousness and body (in-itself vs. for-itself) which looks to me like Christiantiy carried to the extreme. I don't accept that. Raising, as Sartre does, the problem of commitment at the personal level, in these times when entire nations assume it just like that overnight as in El Salvador or Irán, disqualifies his thought as far as I am concerned. GM: With regard to this problematic relationship with the Other, I see in some way an application of the phenomenon of Darwin's natural selection, which you mention, to human reality. I am referring to the final part of "The Winged Dog," where human conflict is expressed in animal terms, for instance the struggle between classes and species, the cow, the pig, etc. Do you think that this is the case? JE: This poem was written here in Canada, but the nicknames as references or allusions allow the space to be defined as Latin American. Here and in our own countries we have an animal struggle for survival, since survival is always threatened by need and want. In other words, in spite of the class struggle, it is experienced, abstractly speaking, as the contest between one man and another for work, but in concrete terms it is experienced in the enmity and competition with one's fellow man. This book does not provide formulae, but shows an existing state of things. GM: Do you think that this animal presence, a real bestiary, is emblematic of different human lineages, as in medieval heraldry where an animal is the incarnation of certain attributes which man adscribes to himself? JE: Yes, I think so. In this context, I learnt through a friend about Chinese astrology. There the signs of the zodiac and the years of birth are all represented by animals, each of which has its own characteristics. I think that this is a natural or unconscious way of achieving imaginary characterizations which are representative of certain kinds of people. GM: There is really a proliferation of animals in the book, and I don't think that they are there gratuitously, but that they have an emblematic function. For example, the birds, crows, doves, bees, frogs... JE: I think that if we compare some texts among themselves their specific function will become apparent; the bees, for example, represent the mental and physical state of struggle, aggressiveness., combat. The birds have traditional positive meanings depending upon the height of their flight, their wingspan. They also have a function relating them to the witness, especially in the poems of "A Drowsiness of Birds" where they are endowed with a perspective which permits they to cover large areas. As far as the quail are concerned, this has to do with something my father-in-law used to say, that he was the father of twelve quall. Hence the title of this poem, "A Caucus of Quail." GM: You also use the image of the pelican in the traditional sense, offering its breast to the voracity of its children. What does the cat represent in this heraldic bestiary? JE: The cat is an animal I like. It adopts a sometimes negative, sometimes positive function, and in the odd poem, but not altogether seriously, it is assimilated to God. GM: There is a poem entitled "Cat-woman"; on the one hand you identify the cat with the woman; it is the model of love, and on the other hand it inspires Orpheus. JE: It is because of my preference for cats. There is always something mysterious in cats, something sordid and dark, something cruel and serene. And it has always been linked with women. GM: In the opposition between cats, these wise insomniacs, and the sleepers, I perceived the presence of a gnostic idea of existence in some poems, this idea of life as a numbing dream from which one must awaken through knowledge. JE: Well, the gnostic texts did, in fact, interest me and I believed that I was seeing some gnostic reminiscences in Spanish American literature. But I think that two views of dream are present in the book: gnosticism where dream is equivalent to the absence of consciousness, to darkness, to degradation, and a conception we might call shamanic where dream is the opposite, the possibility of transcendence. The presence of the former is greater in the book. GM: The shamanic vision of dream is related to surrealism. You mentioned Lautréamont and I am thinking of Nerval, who was also admired by that movement. JE: Yes, I think so. Dream, for me, has been a source of speculation. GM: One of your literary interests is science fiction. There is an apocalyptical climate in some poems of the book. Which World is experiencing apocalypse there? JE: I would say that it is the stressful World in which the speaker, a combatant. lives. But it is not clear what will happen after the apocalypse, it is not clear whether the speaker will survive or perish. GM: But you go past the uncertainty. I remember a fragment where a character wanders among the radioactive ruins of a city. JE: Yes, I think it is in "Gloss." Red Flowers appear there. There is a certain hope there. The red flower is a rather obvious symbol. In "A Drowsiness of Birds" there is also a reference: "Soon the city will be entirely of crystal and every step will dress in lead-grey—Then will be the hour of purity." All these references allude to how the forces of the revolution will liquidate the old order and make purity possible.

Presentación de textos míos en la revista virtual Francópolis

Présentation des textes de la SÉLECTION DE JUIN 2005 n*27 Reprenez votre souffle avant de lire Noir de Jorge Etcheverry, poète chilien dont les œuvres ont été publiées dans son pays natal, et aussi au Mexique, aux États-Unis, à Cuba, en Espagne et au Canada, où il a élu domicile. Juliette Schweisguth aime « le rythme de ces phrases si longues comme des pointes de fuite mais qui retracent la vitesse du train» Dans Poissons, Jorge Etcheverry déballe son jeu de métaphores « qui construisent et donnent corps et rêve à ce texte belle tenue de l'écrit j'ai un peu de mal avec ce style mais je le sens très bien travaillé, je sens qu'une écriture vibre vraiment, et un univers... » (Juliette Schweisguth) Et avec D'en haut, du dedans, Jorge Etcheverry nous amène dans le ventre d'oiseaux métalliques, comme une invitation au voyage. Cela tombe bien, c'est bientôt l'été !

poema de Aldo Novelli con adecuados pájaros y audaz referente

el preguntón descolocado a L. Lamborghini el tipo preguntó por los pájaros desposeídos por las patas de esos pájaros que se lavan en la fuente. preguntó por los pájaros hambrientos por el pico de esos pájaros gritando 'no pasarán' en esta tierra piquetera. por los pájaros poéticos por las manos de esos pájaros escribiendo papeles sin fe ni sudor. el tipo preguntó por los pájaros por el vuelo de esos pájaros pichones que se embolsan la cara para escuchar la voz de Dios. preguntó por los pájaros por los ojos de esos pájaros al ver la íntima luz de una niña vejada por el patrón. por los pájaros por las alas de esos pájaros cuando sangra el ano de un niño violado por la respetuosa santidad. el tipo preguntó por los pájaros y se fue volando. // un furibundo abrazo de viento patagónico. //a.n.