Daniel’s Other Sea
To think about Daniel’s poetry is something that transports me to the field of Dionysian disorder, to the word which revolutionates, and what first comes to my mind is piles of manuscripts and reports.
The soul of Daniel’s poetry is just, and solely, a manuscript in its sacred materiality, in form and content, inextricable siamese twins connected by their central nervous system.
What is a manuscript in Daniel’s work? A piece of wood craved by nails, found by the river in the south of an island. A pile of written paper, carried under the arm and finally lost in a bar. A briefcase full of paper cuts, drawing’s pieces and notes. Copies of images and texts in rough and powerful collages. Ordinary, and even so, stolen pens. Overlapped papersheets, stained by drink, smoke, paint or any feminine aromatic. A key that cannot open any door. Jacket’s pockets that contains only the useless. Clothes that don’t match. A lot of letters in blue, juxtaposed on white paper, on brown paper, to wrap up bread; useless proofs of badly printed pictures, ruled sheets detached from student’s notebooks. Other letters typewritten now in black in old and heavy Remingtons, which are disposed on tables filled with meaningless objects, full of fatty material and grease, disform sticks, incense, overflowing ashtrays, dust and fur, a lot of cat’s fur, togas and drops. Other tables with poorly-closed, dirty drawers, spotted by dried paint and clogged with prosaic objects. Now on the radio, new words that it drags to the sea―to this sea’s bottom, where a spider just wants to sleep. The Sargasso Sea.
Daniel’s manuscripts put together the odd ones, the singular ones, the averse ones; the common word has place only in ailing, febrile phrase, transformed in pulling-the-trigger word. To capitalism it offers the noble trade of bread-making; right after sticking its tooth like a word’s predator, it caresses the grandma’s bald head. By night, Daniel walks alone in the streets, among manuscripts, but by dawn he’s ready to hold the first good cause he meets. Las madres, los viejos, los niños, those who have no name―they all will be taken care of in his dreams of vigil. An urban poet of collective friction, an aware observer of history’s cloaca, of old buildings and theirs sharp, pointy angularity, doors, counters, latrine and sawage. The nature trated by his poetry is just the civilization’s edge, the humanity’s frontier; the dead turtle in the beach serves as a Buñuel’s table; the poet walks into these suburbs of soul seeking what remained of the being. The flowers of a desolated Buenos Aires. “But one who hear us doesn’t hear our voice. One hears our words. And then loses oneself on the labirynth of language.” Daniel follows a rough, acid track, opened up by poets like Arthur Rimbaud and Antonin Artaud. This path is crystalline and incandescent in the text Flor sobre tronco inmóvil―“un puñal que atravesó el corazón de la poesía”.
His recent publication, O Outro Mar [“The Other Sea”], a work with only ninety-nine pages, contains a lot of the poet’s life, in a complex and multiple texture. His poetry, his parents, his cats, the prose, the friends, four other poets translated, his dive in las madres, his desertion from military service, Florianopolis, Buenos Aires, the river, the sea, his flight on the radio, the sound of his piano, the shared wine, the splitted bread. A body in form of book―organic, moving; its reading reproduces in us the lights of physiology; inspires (poem), expires (prose), chews (word), salivates (metaphor), swallows (picture), vomits (history), spits (reality), sniffs (city), weeps (sea), and in the heart (love and courage). A book that lets us unsettled because it tights our skin and stresses our muscles.
I found in his poetry an extreme and singular ethics on treating a text, denying certain words, rescueing many others. Daniel is a moralist in the sense defined by Jean Genet: libertarian, but conscious that we have nothing to set us free of. Our tragedy is circular. Its long and curse fingers, as well as its body standing over the paper or the piano, perform with accuracy the task of sacrificing everything that is not as heavy as the sea.
Onor Filomeno
The soul of Daniel’s poetry is just, and solely, a manuscript in its sacred materiality, in form and content, inextricable siamese twins connected by their central nervous system.
What is a manuscript in Daniel’s work? A piece of wood craved by nails, found by the river in the south of an island. A pile of written paper, carried under the arm and finally lost in a bar. A briefcase full of paper cuts, drawing’s pieces and notes. Copies of images and texts in rough and powerful collages. Ordinary, and even so, stolen pens. Overlapped papersheets, stained by drink, smoke, paint or any feminine aromatic. A key that cannot open any door. Jacket’s pockets that contains only the useless. Clothes that don’t match. A lot of letters in blue, juxtaposed on white paper, on brown paper, to wrap up bread; useless proofs of badly printed pictures, ruled sheets detached from student’s notebooks. Other letters typewritten now in black in old and heavy Remingtons, which are disposed on tables filled with meaningless objects, full of fatty material and grease, disform sticks, incense, overflowing ashtrays, dust and fur, a lot of cat’s fur, togas and drops. Other tables with poorly-closed, dirty drawers, spotted by dried paint and clogged with prosaic objects. Now on the radio, new words that it drags to the sea―to this sea’s bottom, where a spider just wants to sleep. The Sargasso Sea.
Daniel’s manuscripts put together the odd ones, the singular ones, the averse ones; the common word has place only in ailing, febrile phrase, transformed in pulling-the-trigger word. To capitalism it offers the noble trade of bread-making; right after sticking its tooth like a word’s predator, it caresses the grandma’s bald head. By night, Daniel walks alone in the streets, among manuscripts, but by dawn he’s ready to hold the first good cause he meets. Las madres, los viejos, los niños, those who have no name―they all will be taken care of in his dreams of vigil. An urban poet of collective friction, an aware observer of history’s cloaca, of old buildings and theirs sharp, pointy angularity, doors, counters, latrine and sawage. The nature trated by his poetry is just the civilization’s edge, the humanity’s frontier; the dead turtle in the beach serves as a Buñuel’s table; the poet walks into these suburbs of soul seeking what remained of the being. The flowers of a desolated Buenos Aires. “But one who hear us doesn’t hear our voice. One hears our words. And then loses oneself on the labirynth of language.” Daniel follows a rough, acid track, opened up by poets like Arthur Rimbaud and Antonin Artaud. This path is crystalline and incandescent in the text Flor sobre tronco inmóvil―“un puñal que atravesó el corazón de la poesía”.
His recent publication, O Outro Mar [“The Other Sea”], a work with only ninety-nine pages, contains a lot of the poet’s life, in a complex and multiple texture. His poetry, his parents, his cats, the prose, the friends, four other poets translated, his dive in las madres, his desertion from military service, Florianopolis, Buenos Aires, the river, the sea, his flight on the radio, the sound of his piano, the shared wine, the splitted bread. A body in form of book―organic, moving; its reading reproduces in us the lights of physiology; inspires (poem), expires (prose), chews (word), salivates (metaphor), swallows (picture), vomits (history), spits (reality), sniffs (city), weeps (sea), and in the heart (love and courage). A book that lets us unsettled because it tights our skin and stresses our muscles.
I found in his poetry an extreme and singular ethics on treating a text, denying certain words, rescueing many others. Daniel is a moralist in the sense defined by Jean Genet: libertarian, but conscious that we have nothing to set us free of. Our tragedy is circular. Its long and curse fingers, as well as its body standing over the paper or the piano, perform with accuracy the task of sacrificing everything that is not as heavy as the sea.
Comentarios
Publicar un comentario