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Angles del buit | sèrieAlfa núm. 105

   

Image: E. Sepúveda & C. Ferrer / Foto: Juan R. Peiró

 

 

ANGLES OF THE VOID

Lola Andrés

 

(These poems were part of the exhibition Angles del buit by painters Carolina Ferrer and Encarna Sepúlveda at the Centre del Carme de València in 2016.)

 

 

 

 esse in vigilia et eius oblivisci

 

the room lies

cleared

of voice –it withstands

the lymph

of image

 

the figure feels

the density

it listens to the depth

 

 

 

eyes surround it:

marrow: demanding mass

freezes the sobriety

of thought: nothing

can be said

about that oceanic snow

 

 

 

 

 

the room:

 

i recognize the sphere, it does not drive, it lacks of infinite. the closure of the end is fortuitous, it hides the simulacrum, it is gestating the tumult, it secures itself.

 

 

 

[ an intense defeat is perceived. it holds cyclones, caves. the figure is solicitous, however it seems it can not understand, and that subtracts serenity. the right foot advances some centimeters, what's the plot that tells it? what's its right to begin a trembling step? ]

 

 

 

 

 

the figure:

 

would burn. i am a defeated people. i need more thirst to hide myself, to flee from the effort of this song. because my flesh sings, this voice of mine sings while it is destroyed.

 

 

 

it waits for a labyrinth

for the chasm that breaks it

that throws it back into the origin:

be born with a new easiness

track oneself down

use love to trap

the glass that observes it

 

 

 

 

 

[ a line –of light or clarity– highlights a part of the room. perception can be false, in fact it is. the shadow spreads geometrically, giving way to a small darkened triangle. that is what the eyes of the figure see. its mind translates the visual restlessness: how to be inside the image? what matter survives a desire, an instant of perplexity? ]

 

 

 

the look is an edge

the words swallow deep

what an answer

could be given

what a mirage

 

 

 

 

 

the room:

 

i enter. origin or destiny are not important, neither utility. i wound horizons because i capture. the walls pierce me –bowels burst in silence.

 

 

 

it can not repeat what it never said

it will try to explain itself

it is a balloon of rage

there is an ultimate backwater, a joy

around: borderline

of verb: the outskirts

 

 

 

 

 

they remake themselves

they arm

each rebirth is a crack

that could break clarity

both are proud –not

drill / behind / with the decided

murmur of the trail

 

 

 

you fit inside it: haughty

knot / young

line      you are

not

circle: depth,

flashes

 

 

 

 

 

[ winter is an oxide, it is small. there is cold inside. it's not outdoors. it lodges. there is a rancor in the breath, a bitterness that is able to scare the gesture. they understand its softness and shudder. memory will empty the frames of the enclosure: the sheets of cosmos. eyes survive, the structure of the trine survives. be frozen –they would think – into a trace of glows. ]

 

 

 

the figure is

the beating area

within the hollow

of the room / surrendered / insufficient

 

 

 

rest the sadness

on a closed womb:

 

«my wound is open: a fish of blood»

 

 

 

 

 

the room:

 

the edges that i shelter are diluvium. you can, here, move back, bleed the echo you have saved. when i breathe i find the tumult of love. do you recognize it?: emotion tilts, you can mess you up.

 

 

the figure:

 

i collapse since i have voice, i sink into the fragment of the image –that useless interlining. my hands are shaking, i listen to their trembling. i recognize it. it is a source. you say love and you fulfill. i often fall in the same mistake: i mistake signs, i thread shells, i seed foam.

 

 

 

 

 

they are two candles

of air         not even

they are consumed 

they are or

they try

the matter to forge

eyes –speedy womb

 

it is not the magma

it is the ash

what tightens the shape

–the ballast / the insistence

 

 

 

 

 

recognize waves

like water-wires

breathe glasses from

the foam

 

never say

which traces

were light

 

 

slow seed

–chance / nothing

to occupy

the opening of a thread

 

drift like a loud noise

return the impact

in the breast: not to be

origin

 

Lola Andrés (1961, València), graduated in philology. She has received awards such as the Alfons el Magnànim for poetry in Valencian and the Gerardo Diego from the Provincial Council of Soria. She has published the following books of poems: Moléculas y astros, Jocs de llum, Materia, Cielo líquido, Travesía (The third edition with the painter Pere Salinas, 2021), de Uno, Llámala and the plaquettes Pendiente del aire, together with Eva Hiernaux, Poemes (Catàleg i exposició Angles del buit at the Centre del Carme de València with the painters Carolina Ferrer and Encarna Sepúlveda), cómo/sucede, Brecha, and Ho(yo) de hueso. She has translated poets such as Joan Navarro, Teresa Pascual, Jaume Pérez Montaner, Begonya Pozo and Josep Checa from Catalan into Spanish. She has also translated Hannah Arendt's poetry and Rose Ausländer's Màtria from German into Catalan, together with Anacleto Ferrer.

Her poems have appeared in various national and international publications.

She has been included in various anthologies.

She has been part of interdisciplinary projects – poetry, music, dance and painting. She currently directs the Marte poetry collection, published by Contrabando.

 

[Translation: Carlos Izquierdo]

 

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