The word lets go
(In memory of Francisco Ruiz Udiel)
By Sergio Ramirez
Words Sergio Ramírez, director of Inlay, American cultural magazine, at the funeral of Francisco Ruiz Udiel, our editor, who died tragically last December 31, 2010 .
not usually planned in Nicaragua what one intends to do so early methodical. But Francis had his right side and forward in life, and never stopped asking what he wanted. Whatever it was.
So we agree with much earlier that the presentation of his book Memoirs of water, which was first called Grass April, would on Thursday February 3 this year at 6.30 pm in the Nicaraguan Institute of Culture Hispanic. I wrote the foreword to the book in January 2009, ie two years ago. Then I read that prologue. But first, I insist on the accuracy with which Francisco organized its commitments. This is the message he sent to René González, president of the Institute, about the presentation of his book:
Dear Rene:
then confirmed for reservation of space, I would make the presentation of my book Memoirs of water, on Thursday, February 3 at 6:30 pm in the INCH. Sergio Ramirez and confirmed that he will make a presentation.
That day I also screening two videos that will make Israel Lewites me a couple of poems. So, if possible, I will need the following:
-screen for projection.
-projector.
-Audio (I saw that is).
-If possible a laptop with DVD playback.
-3 microphones (one for the author, one for Sergio Ramirez and one for representatives of the Forum and Inch).
"Three microphone stands for table.
-A table and four chairs to be: Francisco Ruiz, Sergio Ramirez, Cairo Amador (Forum) and René González (INCH)
would let you know the requirements yet to ask me Moisés Gadea I imagine not as difficult. There will be three songs.
From its accuracy to plan things, I can vouch because we worked together very closely. Francisco was a picture of my own youth. Adventure, but also responsibility. Rupture, but also rigor. The Romans used to make black stone on misfortune, and white stone adventurous day. The day is marked Francisco met in my life with white stone.
We were always planning everything in advance, well in advance. Cover Page The team met last on December 23 at 4 pm. All were on time. Francis, who was accompanied by Ulysses, always together, Antonina, and Javier Sancho Mas. We take Javier who came from Barcelona, \u200b\u200band so we saw all the faces, because as it is an online magazine, everything we do and we arrange from afar. From any distance where we are, all together, and the magazine is timely. And when I say any distance, say any distance. The distance, for example, from here to a star that never existed. Where nothing is nothing. Francisco Alfonso Cortés replied:
goals not your hand
dark recess in
When I close my eyes,
the world will not find in there ...
But we have to make corrections to the plans drawn up, Francisco. No plan is foolproof. Not even yours. We will dedicate, very much to your regret, and despite in spite of everything, the next issue covers. And it will not be able to miss your picture on the cover of The Blue Thread.
If this boy so accomplished that I will miss forever and who confessed to me as if I were a village priest, was able to make their plans as he decided to leave leave, since I also intend to be equally satisfied, and we will present Shadow of the water as he left it planned, yet there are three songs of Moses Gadea. Are all invited to this presentation the day he chose, when he chose, in the first choice. I have in my agenda, and nobody is going to delete it from there.
Now I read the prologue I wrote for that book, because in those lines is what I think of Francis as a poet, and after midnight in the relay, the eve of his funeral, and the insert in these pages, I also think that poetry is a holocaust and a massacre, if someone becomes part of your life, and death:
The poetry of Francisco Ruiz Udiel is located in a dim point of fuzzy glow, between sleep and wakefulness. It is time that consciousness is prepared for the awakening, or returns to sleep, and then the words take that substance is both malleable wax with golden bees buzzing in the dream itself, yet fleeting. And its quality is the more permanent transience, the words that flee and leave behind their trail, and that the poet seeks to capture. These are the words that have made the long journey from the mysterious caverns of the brain always stayed on hand to catch them awake, or catch the shadows that often wear their beautiful package.
No foreshadowing in this poem, no sea chart in advance to set routes. The hand follows the head not just wake up and enjoy the warmth of the vague shadows, picking up pieces of shattered beauty, because poetry is also that, rebuild the interview, redo the imagined figure back and lose the imagination, memory and forgetting Siamese twins. That is when we know that from this vast and intimate universe is never supply itself, we hear echoes many of sensations that only the hand of the poet recovers plunging into his own head, anxieties and worries, born and loves lost, avenues to explore that dream as tours, trips that are just beginning in other ways that now seem so old, paradises lost that enters through the mouth of hell left behind hope. Dark seas that also need to travel in a spiral before reaching Ithaca ebony boat with seven circles, and the trip lasts while the wine is thick in the vessels and will be drunk enough to give us all the days that remain . Dionysus is the butler of Ulysses and the vines of the wine grow only in the mysterious garden of the Hesperides. But the poet is both Ulysses and Dionysus, travel and drunkenness are poetry together.
Poetry, Francisco says their lines and between the lines, it is always a journey into the darkness of the words. He recalled Ruben Dario Valle Inclán dream chronicle he wrote about the ghostly journey both to Santiago de Compostela, a pilgrimage to beyond the dreams of waking children. The trip to Ithaca, the trip to Cythera, the journey to Compostela. And the journey of two poets in a train becomes increasingly dark as the noise of the world goes; the trip is walking under a ladder to reach a window to a door leading into an abyss, all because once you're born, you get lost, and the trip, finally, the last hell, drawing strength from despair and hopelessness, which began at dawn in a city square by the sea change that wheeze in the distance, a blind traveling the latter under the glare of the stars lost in the distant sky you can imagine.
The only import of the words is let go to find and catch them after the long trip without comfort that is poetry, and on the road without Francisco leaves its footprints in the sand.
A long trip without comfort. How strange that this prologue, written after reading and rereading the poems from that book two years ago, whether the journey. The trip to Ithaca, the trip to Cythera, the journey to Compostela. Today I added two more trips. First, the journey through the waters of Lethe, which according to Greek mythology is one of the rivers of Hades, the realm of the dead. What he's doing a boy thirties just sailing those waters are the waters of a river of old?
By Lethe are the waters of oblivion. At a symposium on the Centaurs of our father Reuben, Medon says
Death! I've seen. It is gaunt and withered
hamstring grabs scythe not, nor is face of distress.
is likened to Diana, chaste and virgin like her
His face is the grace of the nubile maiden
and wears a garland of roses sidereal.
has green in his left palm triumphal
at his feet like a dog, love lies asleep.
A drink water of forgetfulness, Lethe river. I once asked Ulises Francisco Juarez and why they put Lethe as the publisher name to both established and can not remember what was the response I received. No matter. But Francis, so well fulfilled the tasks proposed, and little is wrong, it has fallen here an error because he forgot to not be of any kind.
And I have the last trip that I wanted to mention before I close. The journey that Orfeo makes the reign of Hades in search of Eurydice. Orfeo, the first of the poets in the history of mankind is he who sings in the starless night, and descends into the bowels of mystery and death in search of Eurydice, ie, looking for poetry. Because poetry is Eurydice.
As has descended into the depths Francisco, searching for the missing word. A poem of his is Baggage calls to go down to hell. Hell is no place for atonement, but the kingdom of Hades, do not forget that. Not down to hell because of sin, but by the song, as Orpheus:
was so eager to die
he slept with
Two coins in hand
And a Greek dictionary
is what makes this one of Francisco poems.
What world did he live? In the world of words, and lived by the words, the most dangerous occupation in the world. And as we're always coming back, the journey to Hades is the same trip to Ithaca, and that is written by Francis himself, who is going and returning, and that part which remains. Like Odysseus, and Orpheus
I'm tired of waking
light hurts when I do not want.
Journey to Ithaca gives me nothing.
Had at least a little wine
to intoxicate the days that remain
drunk the days that remain
we have left.
now begin the journey. Let's start your journey.
***
Udiel RUIZ FRANCISCO (Estelí, Nicaragua 1977 - Managua, December 31, 2010). He studied poetry under the tutelage of his mentor, the Nicaraguan poet Claribel Alegria, a disciple of Nobel English Juan Ramon Jimenez.
has published the poetry collection "mourn someone sees me in a dream" (International Prize for Poetry Ernesto Cardenal Young 2005). He also published "Portrait of a young wandering poet," poetry anthology of his generation with a foreword by Gioconda Belli. His poetry is featured in the anthologies "The twentieth century poetry in Nicaragua" (Editorial Visor, Spain 2010), Anthology of Nicaraguan Poetry: Children of the Minotaur (1950-2008) (TRILCE Magazine, 2009) and the IV Ibero-American Anthology of Poetry Carlos Pellicer (Trilce, Villahermosa, 2008). Her poems also appear in the journals "Karavan" (Sweden, 2006) Oliverio Magazine (Argentina, 2005) Maga Magazine (Panama, 2005); Magazine Lichtunten "(Germany, 2009), directed by Jorge Journal Boccanera Wanderer ( Argentina, 2008), Revista Prometheus (Medellin, Colombia, 2008) and in the poetic memory of the meeting "The thrill of the air" Latin American Poetry (Mexico, 2009) and the memories I, II, III, IV and V International Poetry Festival in Granada (Nicaragua).
was invited to several meetings and international poetry festivals, among which are: V Festival "Poetry has the word", Casa de América (Madrid, Spain , 2005), IV International Poetry Festival of El Salvador (San Salvador, 2005), XXII International Poetry Festival of Havana (Cuba, 2007) Literary Festival Porto de Galinhas, State of Pernambuco (Brazil, 2007), XVIII International Festival Poetry of Medellín (Colombia, 2008), IV Ibero-American Poetry Carlos Pellicer (Villahermosa, Mexico, 2008) International Poetry Festival of Costa Rica (San José, Costa Rica, 2009), Ibero-American poets in the Historic Center 2009: The thrill of the Aires (Mexico, 2009), VII International Poetry Festival in Granada (Spain, 2010).
His poetry has been praised by famous poets and writers such as Jorge Boccanera, Waldo Leyva, Sergio Ramirez and Ernesto Cardenal. According to the Peruvian critic Julio Ortega, Ruiz Udiel looms as one of the heirs of the Latin American poetry and as the French critic Norbert-Bertrand Barbe, "of all the new poets of Nicaragua, Udiel is certainly one that is more his own voice."
In 2004, near the Nicaraguan writer Ulises Juárez Polanco, founded Lethe Editions, non-profit project that promotes the youth of his country's literature. Among the publications as co-editor are: Poetic Memory: Poets, Small Gods (Managua, 2006), Sergio Ramírez: Forgive and forget, Anthology story (1960-2009) (Managua, 2009), Claribel Alegría: Ars Poetica (Managua, 2007), Missy Duarte Somoza: Lyrical moments (Managua, 2007) and Victor Ruiz: The waking life (Managua, 2008).
Before his untimely death he worked as Cover Editor, American cultural magazine directed by Sergio Ramirez.
journalist was also a contributor to the Variety section of El Nuevo Diario, Nicaragua, and served as public relations of the Nicaraguan Center of Writers.
was a member of the Nicaraguan Network of Writers and Writers (RENIER), member of the International Publishers Association and Alternative Projects (RIEPE) and member of PEN INTERNATIONAL the chapter on Nicaragua.
Links:
"In memory of Francisco Ruiz Udiel
» Blog in the Boomeran (g)
'official Facebook
SERGIO RAMIREZ (Masatepe, 1942). Nicaraguan writer.
Member of the "Generation of Self", he graduated as Doctor of Laws best student in his class. The overthrow of the Somoza dictatorship was elected member of the Junta of National Reconstruction, and in 1984, Vice President.
Premio Alfaguara 1998, his writing spans more than thirty books, eight collections of short stories, a dozen books of accounts and essays and story collections The Nicaraguan ( 1976), The living thought of Sandino (1975) and The American Tale (1974).
Cover Page is director and editor of its "Roadmap."
Links:
"Sergio Ramirez Official Website
»Blog in the Boomeran (g)
" Official Facebook
***
"halo" (unpublished story)
by Francisco Ruiz Udiel
Francisco Ruiz Udiel (Estelí, 1977 / Managua, 2010), our editor, self-defined same concerns as a poet with more than poetry. The story "halo" was worked by Francisco as part of the storytelling workshop taught by Erick Aguirre in the Nicaraguan Center of Writers, between April and June 2010, and after further revisions, delivered in mid-December to Ulises Juárez Polanco for Nicaraguan collection of stories written by young people, preparation. Share this cover story with your readers.
broken in the rain
see your face
pieces.
Humberto Ak 'Abal
Everything was black,
as if the clouds
were to drip ink.
Sergio Ramírez
The news that Stephen will Carlos gave that morning of 21, resulted in sadness. Carlos, a dark complexion and thirty years called Ivan, one of his friends to accompany him to San Marcos on the trip would also two other friends: Ana and Daniela.
What happened surprised the group. Esteban's mother had died that morning from a heart attack. That day the weather was complicated because the hurricane was announced that covered the Pacific. However, the visit could not be postponed, so I went all in the same car, at ten twenty. The time is remembered precisely because someone asked and was Ivan who looked at his watch and announced that it was still early.
The group decided to go the south road, which climbs to the municipality of El Crucero, where fog along the grass grows. In the car everyone was commenting on the theme of death and recalled experiences. Daniela, who was in the front, said: I remember when my dad died. I was really concerned for over a year.
In the back seat were Charles and Anne's theme was creating a gloomy atmosphere, then Ana suggested on the radio. It sounded a song Argentine rocker Gustavo Cerati, who spoke of poetry as the only truth.
minutes before arriving in the Clouds, the highest point in El Crucero, the rain became heavier. Through the front glass was seen very little of the road due to fog. For a moment the group was silent and just listened to Cerati: fire with fire we hypnotized. At every step feel another deja vu.
The glass was opaque. Carlos rolled down the window an inch to let in air, it began to suffocate. Everything went dark, even within car, now kept at a low speed. Suddenly, more desperate, he felt a stream rising from the chest and went from the shoulder to reach the left arm. It was as if someone pressed a hand to drown.
- I can not breathe!
"Outside it is dark. "Said Anna, without answering.
"I'm serious, I need air.
- Where did the light? Daniela asked.
"My chest hurts.
"What would we do if we lived in darkness, can you imagine? "Said Ivan.
Carlos felt his voice could barely hear.
-hand Put me in the chest, "he said, looking at Anne," I'm excited.
"The colors are produced by light. Daniela said.
-I are sweating hands, I have frost.
"You're right. We things, all that exists, by the light. -Daniela seconded.
"Look at me, how am I? Do I look pale?
"How barbaric, but if you do not see anything," complained Ivan, cleaning the glass with his hand. Let us better.
- Does anyone walk watch? I need to see the time. Carlos whispered. And his voice also started to disappear.
-It seems that nothing out there at this time. "Said Ivan.
-skin feel numb, like a tingling. "Carlos went on to say, or imagined he was saying something.
"And from the outside," we can see? "We exist if we are outside? "Daniela asked.
- I can not breathe! I feel it disappear!
tried to move and extend his hand to Anna, but was still.
"You're pale, Carlos, do you feel okay? Anne inquired
When she did not react shoulders began to move him excitedly, asking questions and giving several pats on the chin, until he regained consciousness. His eyes were like another world and it was when it hit the door and called to let him go. Ivan stopped the car and ran it under the downpour.
Carlos saw that the rain fell in small fine lines of charcoal, as a huge drawing of which he belonged. Then - oh, childhood that appears under the gaze of the water! - Began to mourn and feel how it became clear those lines. His friends saw him walking with the body as if looking ruefully touch someone. "What you want from me?" He said, directing his words to nowhere, until he looked at a boy standing next to a tree. He came to know who he was. He spoke, asked his name, but the other did not respond. He saw the boy, soaked, hugging himself from the cold. And gradually lifted her face. It was Stephen, his friend from San Marcos, who was looking off and stretched out his finger to point and tell it to look to himself.
Carlos dropped his eyes, observed that his hands were blackened, and it full of ink spilled on the grass. Then experienced a spasm interior lines and the rain was clearing up your skin is transformed into charcoal strokes. His image had vanished completely.
is the only thing Charles remembers that morning, after losing consciousness in the Clouds. He awoke in his house and his friends told him he had suffered a panic attack, perhaps because some claustrophobia. "We have news for you," said Ivan who used to beat around the bush when talking, but this was blunt: "Stephen is dead."
Your best friend could not bear the loss of his mother and committed suicide while they went to visit him in San Marcos. According to the family, went to his room, took his father's revolver and shot himself under the chin. Had previously attempted to write a note, but apparently, the ink of his pen had run out.
Carlos, who was lying in bed, turned his body toward the wall. "I want be alone, "he said.
Outdoor still in bad weather. The sky was covered with large gray clouds. Some who know about clouds, called nimbus.
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