Born in 1980 in Granada, Spain, Fernando Valverde is a journalist and poet. His latest of four books of poetry, Los ojos del pelícano, was awarded the Emilio Alarcos prize for poetry. Valverde has also received, among others, the Federico García Lorca, the Antonio Machado, and the Juan Ramón Jimenez awards. As well as having been translated into several languages, Valverde’s poetry has been published in many countries including Mexico, Italy, Colombia, Argentina, El Salvador, and United States.
A sick city is a cold winter,
a winter as cold as pain in still air,
a corner is a verse,
a hurricane an eagle,
August a lie.
Things are never as they seem.
Lorca is the quiet moon
on the red pond,
Neruda an animal
that twists and cries.
Not even the poets.
Borges took time’s audacity,
Vallejo never read Cernuda,
Cernuda never wanted a look
that could save him,
Miguel Hernández carried
a gun in his hand,
and Alberti, who was a bird
blue as the waves…
The painful poems are everyone’s,
the reason of days is inside you,
time doesn’t understand existence,
and the city is still sleeping,
everyone is sleeping…
The night is a place to forget.
Fog hardly ever settles,
the ships that sink are cities
at the bottom of the sea
the music is the echo of a place deep down,
the words are a chest that hold
the part of you that wants to be a bird.
And there’s a place that trembles,
the trembling places are landscapes,
landscapes resembling September,
letters that are patience,
wind directions that attempt
a goodbye when it’s October
and nothing resembles the balance
of what you have loved.
Death is an instant that is already ours,
the cold a reason to feel
the heat of others.
Nothing here seems its opposite,
this pain, so simple, is a desert.
Translated by Liam Walke