Izara Batres (Spain)
Izara Batres, Doctor of Literature, poet, writer and professor of Literature and Creative Writing at the university, has received, among other awards, the XXXVI Fernando Rielo World Poetry Prize (2016), the First European Prize for Poetry Clemente Rebora (2019 ), and story and essay awards from El País (2007) and from the Siruela Publishing House (2004). She is the author of several books of poems, narrative and essay: Avenidas del tiempo (2009), El fuego hacia la luz (2011, with a prologue by Luis Eduardo Aute), Tríptico (2017), Confessions to the psychoanalyst (2012) -one of whose stories was included in Best European fiction 2018- ENC or The dream of the firefly fish (2014), Cortázar y París: Último round (2014) and Sin red (2019)
The poet and Time
over the night miracle
of the blue ground,
blinks its eyelids of infinity and sand.
Instants take place, lyres.
Slowly, time closes the book
of light and beauty.
A distant desire, at midnight,
flying through the immensity of fire,
spills into verses.
The poet and time,
like on an erratic quest,
die of suicide,
for excess love of life.
I have seen cloudy sunsets
like the halo of desire
in a brief winter breath.
I have contemplated how a glance
can deafen the rage of the climate.
And your hands have caressed, numerous times,
this patina of oblivion
that offers an ordinary autumn.
Or the first curve of cold,
at the end of a street of New York.
I love you because you get red when the air
has exhaled the last thread of fog,
when there are no more wounds,
and the sky calms the gale of the sea,
after the search.
I have loved many times your splendid strong forehead,
that is not shipwrecked,
the new burst of thorns.
For this and for many other things,
because I have seen the curtain close
without the world waking up and watching the play,
I love your symphony swinging from the chaotic clamor.
When the last star has placed in the rosy dusk
a little bit more fantasy.
Remember the days of light,
while the sea maintains its heartbeat
and the birds fly against the breeze,
towards the origin of the tides.
When the cosmos stop filtering through the hole of the dream,
the howling of nothingness
will deafen the Earth.
Paint the new centenary alphabets
in the rigor of the pause of a bee’s buzz.
Write, in the fusion of the sky and the ground,
the crystallized tempest,
where a comma is tomorrow, the book and the bonfire,
and three in the afternoon, and the touch of anise without rest,
and the caress of the skin
hidden in the other skin.
Remember the lightning that made the theory tremble,
lifting over other gale of sand.
And how, from the open time,
poetry was written,
accessing, between syllables,
the sponge event.
Return the naked beauty of those days.
Draw the image that no one will see,
the passion, the infinite region,
from where truth and pain sprout,
that we are searching for without rest.
That love does not exist anymore at the end of avenues.
Do not forget.
Do not let the moth come in.
Remember the days of light,
when the dreamer invented the cloth,
because the dry fiber of cement
is not porous.