Poets of the world...
"Poets of the world...
Our art has never been populous.
We have never been more than Sophocles:
tragic poets,
victims of our own prisons.
Esproncedas of this Spain that drowns us;
Byron and Bécquers,
breaking language boundaries.
Killing language barriers,
believing in a host of utopias,
fantastic and childish,
that could only exist in our minds.
And that's why this world needs us.
Because after each war, only the writings of the dead survive.
Because Homer is the true hero after the Iliad:
without him there would be
no powerful Achilles,
no brave Hector;
neither lover Paris,
nor tragic Helena.
We are the last bastion behind the ranks of the battle squadron.
We are the army of feathers.
The fencers of the ink,
who visualize their objective,
to immortalize him among the leaves.
We are the "once upon a time", and the endpoint.
The beginning of the epics,
and the scriptwriter of each troubadour.
Poets of the world,
we are the true heroes after each spell of love;
words of Neruda,
and the true art that strips the heart,
and shows what's here, under the chest...
The original authors of the "semper fi",
and the "per secula seculorum".
Let no one despise us.
Marines and Hollywood stars exist thanks to us.
For what I call you today, brave;
today I shout with pride and audacity,
that we are the true heroes
after every beautiful story
that precedes us throughout history.
Poets of the World!
We have created our prisons
but in the best style of Valladres and Andrés Cepeda.
So, encourage.
We are the last bastion,
and while it finds war we will prevail.
And if today we die
our letters
will scream louder
than all blood!
Poets, our art has never been populous..."
After the Big Bang
(by Gata Cattana)
"Poets of the world...
I have come to ask you to join me
in the last gesture,
the final, the never again,
the verse or life,
to invite you to rebel against this
unreasonableness that exiles us,
to which you flatly refuse to
the unproductive lament
or to silence because of fear.
Poets of the world,
the time has come to stand up
like a thundering tsunami
that sweep the streets
and plow the pipes and rivers...
Leaving behind evidence,
perhaps the last trail
of hope alive.
The time has come
to put an end to sad and self-satisfied poetry,
to lick one's wounds and nurture resentment,
to sell advice, and for me I do not have one.
We have to celebrate.
We have to get out of the caverns
not like frightened gangs
but like the heroes we were.
Because we were and time will prove us right.
And because where there was always is.
I know that in you there is something of innocence,
that still, sometimes,
when nobody sees you laugh like children
and you sit down to converse in the fire
and they continue surprising
and dazzling
the stars,
and sometimes,
even,
you have felt the happiest from the earth.
This is what must be told.
The time has come to engender
the happiest of songs to fight the rear.
We must put an end to defeatism
and sterile lament,
with ombliguism
and ruthless cynicism.
Comrades, you have to end sad poetry definitely.
Even if
you have to kill me
for
that. "
The first text is original of my authorship.
The photographs of the first text are all original.
The model is my friend Paola A. Barrios.
The second text is the work of the late Gata Cattana,
originally written in Spanish.
The photographs in that text belong to the author's official sources.
All rights belong to her.
Posted from my blog with SteemPress: http://elnefelibato.timeets.xyz/2018/10/02/poets-of-the-world-after-the-big-bang-prose/