Antonio Gamoneda was born in Oviedo, Spain, in 1931. Two years after the death of his father he moved, together with his mother, to Léon at the age of three, where he still lives now.

With the collection of poems 'Sublevación inmóvil' Gamoneda started, in 1960, to have his works published. Although with this, at least regarding the period, he belongs to the 'generación poética' of the fifties, his own style expands the social realism style which was typical of the time.


Antonio Gamoneda Poems

THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There

THIS is the age of iron in the throat. There.

You inhabit yourself but do not recognize yourself: you live in an abandoned vault in which you listen to your heart

while grease and oblivion spread through all your veins and

you calcify amid the pain and from your mouth

fall black syllables.

You make your way toward the invisible

and know that what does not exist is real.

Vaguely, you keep your causes and your dreams

(you still retain the fragrance of the suicides),

they feed your rage and piety.

Not much of you remains: your vertigo, your fingernails

and shadows of memories.

You think of disappearance. You caress

the cerebral darkness, drop to the liver charred by grief.

Such is the age of iron in the throat. Now

nothing can be understood. And even so,

you love as much as you have lost.... more »

AN ANIMAL, concealed in twilight

AN ANIMAL, concealed in twilight, keeps watch and takes pity on me. The rotted fruits hang low, the corporal chambers boil. It's tiring to cross this sickness full of mirrors. Somebody whistles in my heart. I don't know who it is, but I understand its interminable syllable.

There is blood in my thoughts, I write across black headstones. I myself am the unknown animal. I recognize myself: it licks the lids it loves, it carries the paternal substances upon its tongue. It's me, there is no doubt: it sings without a voice and sits to ponder death, but it sees nothing more than lamps and flies and legends of the funeral ribbons. Sometimes it shouts in the immobile afternoons.

The invisible lies within the light, but is there anything that burns within the invisible? What's impossible is our church. In any case, the animal refuses to exhaust itself in agony.

This is what remains awake in me when I'm asleep. It's still unborn and yet, regardless, it must die.

If this is so, then which lost clarity do we come from? Who can remember nonexistence? It could be sweeter to return, but still

we enter, indecisively, a forest of thorns. There is nothing beyond the final prophecy. We've dreamed about a god that licked our hands: no one will see its sacred mask.

If this is so,

then madness is perfect.... more »

VI LAS bestias expulsadas

VI LAS bestias expulsadas del corazón de mi madre. No hay distinción entre mi carne y su tristeza.

¿Y esto es la vida? No lo sé. Sé que se extingue como los círculos del agua. ¿Qué hacer entonces, indecisos entre la agonía y la serenidad? No sé. Descanso

en la ignorancia fría.

Hay una música en mí, esto es cierto, y todavía me pregunto qué significa este placer sin esperanza. Hay música ante el abismo, sí, y, más lejos, otra vez la campana de la nieve y, aún, mi oído ávido sobre el caldero de las penas, pero

¿qué significa finalmente

este placer sin esperanza?

Ya he hablado del que vigila en mí cuando yo duermo, del desconocido oculto en la memoria. ¿También él va a morir?

No sé. Carece

desesperadamente de importancia.... more »

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