I was one of those young people who lived through the English transition uploaded to a motorcycle, who liked to read poetry, cross borders and rejecting everything that smacked of cassock and barracks. With these coordinates life was predictable that my readings were never politically correct, and like many people my age I embraced with enthusiasm and devotion turned verses of Rimbaud, Verlaine and Baudelaire, the howls of literary beatniks, the dissolute and effervescent songs Dylan, Cohen or Brassens, exorbitant opened my eyes to the new German cinema Italian neorealism and the nouvelle vague, because we wanted to inherit Spain smelled of mothballs and forgotten by all sides.
I was twenty in 1979, and courage necessary to go against or die, to love and build few remaining outstanding speed. And one day of that year, a common year that started on Monday in the Gregorian calendar, someone brought a book of poetry that we went from hand to hand, an anthology entitled "Metanoia," a English poet then unknown to us, unusual, close despite the age of thirty-five years separated us, called Carlos Edmundo de Ory, born in Cadiz founder of two literary movements: Postismo and Introrrealismo, who said he was a librarian and lived his particular self-exile in the French town of Amiens.
poems from that book, despite years sounded again after we moved away from the stale and narrow landscape drawn by the then official English contemporary poetry. His verse play with our sensibilities, we filled with emotion and tenderness carnal and opened doors that allowed us to move in that unique poetic journey, demolishing stereotypes and chains. He was one of ours: "I have thirst for sewer / and blessed beer" (1). To make matters worse the book closed with a kind of photo-collages that had nothing to do with the aesthetic conventions to which we have used the manuals of literature, and a kind of epigrams under the name "Minimum (meteorites)," we recalled the street graffiti with which we used to decorate the gray streets of that Spain taciturn.
The curator of the edition, Rafael de Cózar, I met him years later, but never was lucky enough to dive into the deep sea was probably Ory in his eyes, that look of sleepless nights and loneliness dire. I never shook the hand of the poet, and shared poetry, wine and memories the man of the meteors, I can not speak of his friendship, his person, but man's poetry, was able to transform and change as ours, those angry young men who saw the light in his verses that allows cross roads still hidden and painful. Complicity read every one of his poems and books, we went from that little by little we came across. Us with them became a passion, a passion not easy, because for years the editions of the poems of Carlos Edmundo de Ory, for some strange reason, it was difficult to achieve in our city.
The book stores from the old Valencia were our main arsenal, there were digging up one after another, almost all of his books: "Lee without fear," "Poetry 1945-1969", "open poetry" Diary "," Technical and crying, "The flute prohibited" "Energeia", "Garbage" or "Mephisboseth in Onoue. Among the words he devoted his mentors and prologues, and Félix Grande, Jaume Pont or Rafael de Cózar and friends as Juan José Téllez, was making me a rough idea of \u200b\u200bthe caliber of an author whose human dignity like a glove fit with our rebellion and determination not to be and that he touched and was required.
In the spring of that year, that group of young enthusiasts with fancies of a poet, decided to edit a small literary magazine under the odd name of "Bananas" our peculiar homage to the eponymous film by Woody Allen and a provocation in order to good taste and literary conventions of the time. To advertise the magazine published a card in the back of which could be read one of the meteorites de Ory, which proclaims our poetic adventure, "Learn to be collective, to be anonymous" (2). Then came life, and as one would expect, we were checking to each time and place. Devotions resistance became the dreams gave way to nightmares and suddenly the world became smaller, "Man is an animal that lies" (3).
The magazine disappeared two years later, in 1981, but the verses of Ory, their little-big lessons were and remain today a reference point, as we believe that turning to the letter and just stands with feet of clay . Now I think the poem is well distillate Ory, Ory and makes the poetry more livable. In reading I still find the same freshness and vitality that had on me the first time I read it, like good wine his poetry not only resists well over time, but improves and acquires new shades with age. The Ory I read today, thirty years later, exudes humanity and reminds me that "At night one should sleep alone" (4), so you, Carlos Edmundo, you're surely one of the heavens and you already know the error of our verses, is feeding dreams, and prays for us, pro nobis Ory
stabile
Uberto (1) "Spain mystical" page. 222 "Metanoia", edited by Rafael de Cózar (Ediciones Cátedra, Madrid 1978)
(2) "Minimum (meteorites)" page. 312 "Metanoia"
(3) "Minimum (meteorites)" page. 314 "Metanoia"
(4) "Minimum (meteorites)" page. 312 "Metanoia"
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