Other verses: Prose on poetry of some poets of the latest turn-of-the-century
Poetry is an arrow inside history where the tradition of reading and writing knits and unknits. That is its policy, the policy of literature is the literary war. Besides, it is its ethics. Along these readings I explore a set of Argentinian lirical works of the latest turn-of-the-century; frankly, t...
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| Formato: | Artículo publishedVersion |
| Lenguaje: | Español |
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Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidad de Buenos Aires
2021
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| Acceso en línea: | https://revistascientificas.filo.uba.ar/index.php/matadero/article/view/13108 https://repositoriouba.sisbi.uba.ar/gsdl/cgi-bin/library.cgi?a=d&c=matadero&d=13108_oai |
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| Sumario: | Poetry is an arrow inside history where the tradition of reading and writing knits and unknits. That is its policy, the policy of literature is the literary war. Besides, it is its ethics. Along these readings I explore a set of Argentinian lirical works of the latest turn-of-the-century; frankly, this thread is almost all “rioplatense”.
The poetry I deal with is dark and close, elliptical; it does not explain why everything is exposed; it is naked language. That is why, to read it is to read the unexpected, what has no foreseen destiny, what changes us and makes us uncomfortable, without a way out, with no return.
To read this poetry is to fail both socially and culturally, is to leave, to get rid of the institutions, even, besides, on top of this, of the interpretation. This poetry leaves us alone because nobody wants to be left with no (pre)judgement; this poetry thinks only just when it writes. It is a mechanism, a way of functioning –Meschonnic says, the poetry does not keep nor saves any grammar unity. It is the highest objectivity of the author´s subjectivity. And the other´s subjectivity has to be borne because they have to be embraced as subjects, tolerated in their repetitions, their sing-songs, their reasons. Luis Thonis used to say that reading is feeling anguish, recognizing oneself, and, at the same time, walking away endlessly. |
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