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Journalism, in addition to being a pbadion for those who exercise it, is also an opportunity to meet people of different natures. Some characters mark us for their contributions to the world, others not for their virtues, but others mark the extraordinary of their personality.
Ricardo Llopesa, writer and uncompromising, is one of those unforgettable characters. not only because of the genius of his work, but also because of the humility with which he behaved throughout his life.
Oriundo de Masaya, lived a large part of his life in Spain. He had the opportunity to meet great writers like Pablo Neruda and Miguel Ángel Asturias, and it was these encounters with the lyrics that led him to give up his medical studies.
When I met him, it was in the context of an International Festival The poetry of Granada and I were surprised by the simplicity with which he appreciated his vast and recognized work.
Among his books we find unpublished poems, complete unknown poems, profane prose and theaters, complete sonnets, personal anthology and picaresque poetry, by Quevedo.
He received several awards and recognitions in Spain and Nicaragua
This Thursday he transcends the material plane and we will remember him with three of his poems
The bottle
I want wine and I request.
Tirso de Molina
I love your long heron's neck,
who looks at the sky with pride,
and your large body without hips.
I love your mind,
where rest my dreams
his sweet nocturnal silence.
With you, I go to bed at night
without stars
and, when I got up,
with the new day I own you again.
Created for love,
you were born from the birth of the fruit
and you are a wind girl.
But I love you, so be named,
indignant, corrupt,
in other enclosures,
by infamous men and women
who violate your bad
when you uncork your virginity.
The days you are away
The Injuries of Discouragement Track My Side
and I aspire to your smooth liquid hand
pole on my lips.
I invoke your name,
I conjure you up at night.
I'm talking about your shadow,
the round profile of your back
and when you arrive,
I recognize the thud
of your glbad steps
on the table
Verlaine
Wine sows poetry in hearts.
Dante
Divine Teacher of Vice and Perversion,
lascivious brother of Pan and Dioniso the drunkard,
son of Apollo, Olympus Nightingale
Villon, oh master Verlaine,
I would have shared
your dirty room on Moreau Street,
old, dirty, ruinous,
District of the Court Saint-François,
very eighteenth century to nineteenth;
I would have shared the wormwood green,
dances in the brothel
with your girlfriend the red-haired princess,
bading poor and cheap,
I liked you.
One day you were visited by René Ghil and Mallarmé
out of whores for a shit bistro,
while you wander with your dirty shoes
without a penny, alone, dragging
misery in the streets of Paris
and this dreadful drunkenness broke your gouty leg.
Your poor mother took her mimes from the city
take care of yourself with devoted maternal joy,
but it did not come back to your miserable little room
and went upstairs to the neighbors' house,
where he died trembling with cold.
Neighbors tried in vain
help you see her die
to the one who was dying of sorrow.
It was impossible.
The old narrow wooden staircase prevented it,
and also your bading broken leg
and your eternal drunkenness
You looked like Silenus in the arms of satyrs
drink grapes that fertilize the soul.
The coffin of your mother, oh divine poet,
Vice-Prince Drunk,
of tents and vagabonds,
He could not get out either.
They had to pull it with ropes through the window
like a huge piece of unusable furniture.
In this dirty room
where everything smelled bad, misery,
to solitude, there, oh divine teacher,
the angel of inspiration descended
and also the evil god of lust
and covered your beast body with its veil.
You ascended the heights and wrote the verses
Exquisite, Sublime, of Fiestas Galantes,
Intimate Liturgies, Wisdom
and the immortal saturnian poems.
Now that I'm looking at your portrait,
yellow, bearded, alone,
marked by tragedy and genius,
your ruffled head of the ancient Socrates
it reminds me of the Earth Epicurean
and I see you as a sacred god,
perverse and libidinous,
who sometimes became Verlaine
to reach the human heart.
To José Luis Parra
In memoriam
José Luis Parra is dead.
For him that the bells do not ring
but the glbades we drank together
at the Malvarrosa Café
and the Cervecería Madrid.
They left, suddenly,
the friend
and more than 40 years of drinks.
I hope your soul
I did not go to heaven,
God would not be fair to him.
Now rest,
just rest
from all of us.
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