Resignation & Other Poems: Ángel Guinda

Angel GuindaÁngel Guinda (Zaragoza, 1948) received the Premio de las Letras Argonesas in 2010. He is the author of poetry books Vida ávida, La llegada del mal tiempo, Biografia de la muerte, Toda la luz del mundo (edited in thelanguages of Spain and the European Union), Claro interior or Poemas para los demás, La catedral de la noche ; of a work on poetics, Arquitextura; of the short essay collections, El mundo del poeta, el poeta en el mundo and ¿Para qué sirve la poesía? (unedited); and of the manifestos Poesía y subversión, Poesía útil and Manifesto No.

His work has been studied by Manuel Matínez Forega (Ángel Guinda: pus espendoroso del cielo and Un claustro romantico) and Germán Labrador Méndez (Letras arrebatadas: poesía y química en la transición española). He has been featured in Poesía argonesa contemporánea, Antología consultada (Antonio Pérez Lasheras, Mira Editions, 1996), Metalingüísticos y sentimentales, Antología de la poesía española 1966-2000: 50 poetas hacia el nuevo siglo (Marta Sanz Pastor, Biblioteca Nueva, 2007), 4 gatos: Otras voces fundamentales en y para la poesía del siglo XXI (Augustín Porras, Huerga y Fierro, 2009) and Avanti: Poetas españoles de entresiglos XX-XXI (Pablo Luque Pinilla, Olifante, 2009).


Catedral de la Noche, Ángel Guinda

La Indigente

The needy

Like an ant expelled from its colony,

Has no fixed course.

Its home made of cartons

stumbling upon a star’s landing.

Only the air embraces it.

In each path walks an illusion.

Around its empty gaze wander the trees.

Scarcely the visit of a viral procession.

The thirst feels cold; the hunger, dry;

and it hears the murmurs of the sea in the surrounding traffic.

Its hands are the pecks of the sparrow,

the pigeons and the flies.

(It reminds me of the poet:

all that it has having nothing

that is not chimera.)


 

El Poeta Pregunta Por Su Muerte

The Poet asks of his Death

Will I die horizontally, vertically?

Delirious, conscious, unconscious?

Do I have to die slow, suddenly?

Do I commit suicide, die a criminal, rebelliously?

Indifferent, in the cold or the heat?

Will I die falling sick, flailing?

Or must I die a permanent death?

At home, in the hospital, alone, amidst people?

Will it be immediate or stretch out?

Gentle, brutal, irefully?

Or looking death in the face?


 

Dimisión

Resignation

 …dying is a silence that has to be heard.

Josefina Vicens

 

Tired of rotting in a granary,

ÁngelGuinda is going, he is leaving,

or better said, breaking away

from the immense ticktock of the clock.

 

Looking to finish the journey:

facing a ramp sloping

in its final stretch, challenging;

without faith, nor fatigue, help, nor baggage.

 

Ruined by love for the human being,

tired of yelling to all the hells,

bleeding embraces for his heart:

 

the sea in one hand, in the other,

the mute sun with all its winters

that anticipates his resignation.


Los Muertos

The Dead

The hands of absence reach far out

until they reach the land of the dead:

the dead that enliven us,

the dead that kill us,

the dead that will come visit us,

the dead that are alive,

the dead that call out to us,

the dead that die again,

the dead that await us in death.


Brújula

Compass

Time dissolves

like smoke in the air.

The world is lined with disappearances.

Slow is the fall of fog,

slowly fall I with her.

The earth darkens in its crusade against the storm.

Open window to the country, shines light on the truth.

Take me by the hand and tell me what encloses

the barbaric beauty of the abyssal fish.

Reeking of frustrations,

stun the verdict with concerns.

Thanks to you, below the nebulae,

lost in the body,

I rediscover my soul

and I am

the luminescent fish

that guides my insides till the last.

No longer do I go into the night, the night has entered me!


Postrimería

The Last

I’ve tread the line of dusk,

I hauled it by the hair.

But the night falls, but the night falls.

But the night falls

and it stays.


TiempoContado

Counting Time

Like the insomniac counts one by one

the drops falling from a badly shut tap.

Just like, with the fingers of one hand,

counts a child the years he has completed.

Like that, because I have little time,

I want to count the time I’m left.


About author

Vipulya Chari
Vipulya Chari 1 posts

Vipulya Chari holds a Master's degree in English literature and studied Spanish at Instituto Cervantes, New Delhi.

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