Poemas Sueltos

When the voice of an authentic anointed one emerges, Bernardo Castro

This is the resume of an exceptional writer.There are many poets plunged into silence forced by circulating, circumstantial generations, those that coexist in their environments, that are entrenched in poetic and political powers.There are splendid poets who, without making themselves known, move away from the worldly noise of the cosmos that subjugates many with its honey and its siren songs, and flee to take refuge in the light that verse lavishes, one day life or circumstances give them to you. Within reach and you begin to read his verses, listen to his poems, his unpublished notebooks fall into your hands, and there amazement emerges, admiration grows, this is the case of the poet I bring up because of this book.

But, it is not my opposition to a political tyranny in all spheres, of which I come to attest here, or yes, the tyranny that brings us closer to the edge of this well, are the verses of Bernardo, from his book "Poems loose" that he wanted to give to the reader under the label La Orilla Oscura Ediciones.

Bernardo writes as what he is, a chosen one. With that visceral impulse that characterizes him, distancing himself from all the generations that grow and multiply in his adopted village, he does so from silence, personal and national, and he is aware of it. She lights his candle from the darkness of a country that is corroding and undoing everything within it, and the poet sets off alone, accompanied by their voices and his music.

He is a poet who, although he has not grown alone, alone feeds his fears and joys, he has managed to gather a clan of close friends, with them he sustains his literary and musical fire, the pillars and the house. He is already becoming an essential voice.

It is not easy to wrap yourself up with books, with the fibers and vibes transmitted by friends who from time to time drop by the home to feed that rare fire that is coexistence and friendship, between drinks, cigarettes, songs, difficult conversations, after-meals like anyone else. Coffee is drunk quietly so that the neighbor does not assume any conspiracy, and baseball is talked about, to confuse the quarrelsome, and poetry is read aloud, and the hubbub of music, and some dinner comes up to tune the stomach in difficult times for a country that languishes and suffers all possible miseries in an immense field of concentrates that march to the rhythm of zombies.

The great talker that Bernardo is, in his verses he contains himself and draws from them only the elixir, that anomalous oil that sublimates the ear that he reads, the eye that listens, and gives it to us with all the screams in the neighborhood.

This is a different, authentic poet. There is in his metaphors a recondite investigation into the personal and collective pains that afflict and distress that republic that no longer belongs to the universe but to the arteries that support the poet's body in rebellion.

There is a harsh and raw lyricism here, of an exceptional spell-maker, who with frank beauty expands and makes us tremble with fear and devotion, as if we were surprised by the sublime fluttering of the butterflies that populate the pubes of teenagers in love.