Who knows Enrique Bustamante and Ballivián? There are very few who can attest to the author of the Antipoems, a nice book that deserves at least a couple of tests and assessment hermeneutic appropriate. It is true that Bustamante and Ballivián is not a "great" poet, not a Vallejo or Eguren-founders of some of the most vital traditions and substantive poetry in Latin America of our time. His office was not only poetry, also devoted himself to editorial work. We owe it to this side of him the first issue of abolition of death (one of two key books Emilio Adolfo Westphalen) and the first study on the poetry Alejandro Peralta, the bard Puno rated yet profound ways. These books are indispensable part of his legacy. His job was to be there at the right time, to offer and humbly offered as an editor, even without knowing it and, perhaps, perceive not.
art, like any human activity is made up of defects, failures, of hatred, of affection and all that is part of the insignificance of the work. The great monuments, those books (and now I speak as a reader of poetry) rights, are seen in the distance, forming a first truth: that which has the difficult art of creation, the confrontation with the missing word and efficient, free verse but beautiful. From our place in the world witnessed the fatal witness of poetic creation. Not for us to stillness. The appreciation of these works is, it should be, just a hint, no doubt, in our search key. Poetry is also reciprocity and love. In small dimensions, but some minor work, there is also poetry. If major works are perceived towers in the distance, not enough to contemplate. Be approached. Feeling the dry land which is erected, and unbearably heinous that dust that covers everything real. Its geography is ruinous testimony, colorless voice says the pieces of a world eager to resurrection. The minutiae, the accident, the accessory are also part of this great art. How to weigh the true value of artistic work without acknowledging that any creation of man is the product of a circumstance beyond reproach absurd, chaotic, abusive, unreal? Yes, the reality is unreal. It has always been, will continue. His consistency is temporary and random. Every day, new combinations and possibilities, mixed with our desires and hopes, why are not dead?, Why my house is still standing?, Why one word yields to the presence of another? What chance is confused with the cause: that fleeting balance arises incandescent work of art. How many times have we discovered in our mouth an unfamiliar word? Who do we thank? In a world where divinity has been relegated, we are all, each one of us, the living body in the world. This is the first matter of art, the combination that defines their existence: the voice of the dead friend, hate desperate, furious beat of a heart on fire, the splendid half wound to the face. From this arises and, just because the man is an animal in constant pain, just because an animal is still surprised, then back.
art, like any human activity is made up of defects, failures, of hatred, of affection and all that is part of the insignificance of the work. The great monuments, those books (and now I speak as a reader of poetry) rights, are seen in the distance, forming a first truth: that which has the difficult art of creation, the confrontation with the missing word and efficient, free verse but beautiful. From our place in the world witnessed the fatal witness of poetic creation. Not for us to stillness. The appreciation of these works is, it should be, just a hint, no doubt, in our search key. Poetry is also reciprocity and love. In small dimensions, but some minor work, there is also poetry. If major works are perceived towers in the distance, not enough to contemplate. Be approached. Feeling the dry land which is erected, and unbearably heinous that dust that covers everything real. Its geography is ruinous testimony, colorless voice says the pieces of a world eager to resurrection. The minutiae, the accident, the accessory are also part of this great art. How to weigh the true value of artistic work without acknowledging that any creation of man is the product of a circumstance beyond reproach absurd, chaotic, abusive, unreal? Yes, the reality is unreal. It has always been, will continue. His consistency is temporary and random. Every day, new combinations and possibilities, mixed with our desires and hopes, why are not dead?, Why my house is still standing?, Why one word yields to the presence of another? What chance is confused with the cause: that fleeting balance arises incandescent work of art. How many times have we discovered in our mouth an unfamiliar word? Who do we thank? In a world where divinity has been relegated, we are all, each one of us, the living body in the world. This is the first matter of art, the combination that defines their existence: the voice of the dead friend, hate desperate, furious beat of a heart on fire, the splendid half wound to the face. From this arises and, just because the man is an animal in constant pain, just because an animal is still surprised, then back.
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