Conviene recordar la maestría de Luis Muñoz (Granada, 1966). Maestría que viene ejerciendo desde muy joven, quizá desde su primer libro, Septiembre, publicado por Hiperión en 1991 y, con seguridad, desde Manzanas amarillas (Hiperión, 1995). Tal vez por eso cobre sentido la interesante errata que en la contraportada de Correspondencias (Visor, 2001) aseguraba que el autor había nacido en 1996.
Lo cierto es que en torno a ese año parece abrirse una brecha en la poesía española del momento gracias a Luis Muñoz, entre otros autores de su generación (como Jesús Aguado, Álvaro García, Aurora Luque, Juan Antonio González Iglesias…), y a algunos poetas incipientes de algún modo organizados en su estela, principalmente desde Granada (Carlos Pardo, Juan Carlos Abril, Rafael Espejo…).
En esta transformación, documentada en un primer momento por Luis Antonio de Villena (10 menos 30. La ruptura interior en la «poesía de la experiencia», Valencia: Pre-Textos, 1997), que pretendía sacudirse los imperativos estrechamente realistas de la época, tuvo mucho que ver la extraordinaria Hélice, revista de poesía de la Diputación de Granada, de la que Luis Muñoz fue creador y director entre 1992 y 2002. Precisamente en el número 7, de 1996, de aquella deliciosa publicación periódica, el granadino suscribe un artículo titulado “Poesía y material de derribo”. En él describe al poeta como “una especie de artífice que trabaja con aquello que acaba de ser dado de baja por el orden ético, estético o experiencial […] por una ley íntima, o una ley histórica o por ninguna ley”. Asimismo, define al poema como “un mecanismo de alejamiento y de acercamiento, de acercamiento y alejamiento simultáneos a una especie de zona de verdad íntima”. También expresa su interés por el simbolismo francés “desde el punto de vista de los logros estéticos y del saneamiento formal”. La reivindicación de dichos logros constituirá para el autor, poco después, la base de su propuesta de un “nuevo simbolismo” o “neosimbolismo”, como posible punto de fuga de la poética realista generalizada en la España de aquella época.
Los principios citados arriba parecen todavía aplicables a los poemas del libro que nos ocupa, Un momento, aunque la obra de Luis, desde El apetito (Pre-Textos, 1998) hasta hoy, pasando por Correspondencias (Visor, 2001), Querido silencio (Tusquets, 2008) o Vecindad (Visor, 2018), haya ido ganando en desnudez, acendramiento y hermetismo de estirpe ungarettiana.
Un momento se divide en tres secciones porticadas por sendas citas procedentes de tres artículos en prosa de Antonio Machado. De dichas citas se extraen directamente los títulos de las secciones: “Más bien”, “El modelo” y “La criba”, dotando al conjunto de una coherencia externa que exige al lector un ejercicio de máxima atención para descubrir las correspondencias internas. Dicha exigencia es ya marca de la casa de su literatura.
Si leyéramos con atención la poesía completa del autor, encontraríamos en su libro Correspondencias otras dos alusiones que podrían ser rescatadas para entender mejor Un momento. La primera de ellas, en unos versos de Mark Strand: “How could I not be only myself, this dream of flesh from moment to moment?” (7). La segunda, proveniente de Juan Ramón Jiménez: “Hay un momento en que el pasado es porvenir. / Ése es mi instante” (49; las cursivas son mías).
En esta última obra, Un momento, el mundo revivido y redivivo es observado a través del prisma de lo íntimo y de la reja (o criba) del lenguaje. Lo que cristaliza en estos poemas breves, que no leves, es ante todo una actitud o un conjunto de posturas naturales nacidas del acoplamiento entre lenguaje, inteligencia, intimidad y mundo, donde “coinciden los dientes / del azar / con las muescas del día”, donde “la conciencia flota / como un humo cortado” y “el reloj de la gana / se detiene un momento” (41-42).
Retales de retratos, retazos de postales, conversaciones empañadas o desveladas por un entorno sinestésico conviven conformando una constelación de momentos hurtados al escombro de la existencia. Cada palabra, por instante, brilla, sujeta a una sintaxis liberada gracias a la dicción personal, a la dicción conseguida mediante el trato que merodea con el tiempo.
Conviene recordar la maestría de Luis Muñoz, ahora ejercida desde la dirección del programa de escritura creativa de la Universidad de Iowa (qué afortunados sus alumnos), pero también su actualidad. Porque cada una de sus entregas ahonda en un “camino / que tiembla recto” (44) y profundiza en una obra que brota “no hacia arriba, / sino a lo ancho, / irregularmente, / sin llenarlo todo” (79). Es admirable la dependencia de su mirada y de su voz con la que muchos lectores convivimos.
Lo cierto es que en torno a ese año parece abrirse una brecha en la poesía española del momento gracias a Luis Muñoz, entre otros autores de su generación (como Jesús Aguado, Álvaro García, Aurora Luque, Juan Antonio González Iglesias…), y a algunos poetas incipientes de algún modo organizados en su estela, principalmente desde Granada (Carlos Pardo, Juan Carlos Abril, Rafael Espejo…).
En esta transformación, documentada en un primer momento por Luis Antonio de Villena (10 menos 30. La ruptura interior en la «poesía de la experiencia», Valencia: Pre-Textos, 1997), que pretendía sacudirse los imperativos estrechamente realistas de la época, tuvo mucho que ver la extraordinaria Hélice, revista de poesía de la Diputación de Granada, de la que Luis Muñoz fue creador y director entre 1992 y 2002. Precisamente en el número 7, de 1996, de aquella deliciosa publicación periódica, el granadino suscribe un artículo titulado “Poesía y material de derribo”. En él describe al poeta como “una especie de artífice que trabaja con aquello que acaba de ser dado de baja por el orden ético, estético o experiencial […] por una ley íntima, o una ley histórica o por ninguna ley”. Asimismo, define al poema como “un mecanismo de alejamiento y de acercamiento, de acercamiento y alejamiento simultáneos a una especie de zona de verdad íntima”. También expresa su interés por el simbolismo francés “desde el punto de vista de los logros estéticos y del saneamiento formal”. La reivindicación de dichos logros constituirá para el autor, poco después, la base de su propuesta de un “nuevo simbolismo” o “neosimbolismo”, como posible punto de fuga de la poética realista generalizada en la España de aquella época.
Los principios citados arriba parecen todavía aplicables a los poemas del libro que nos ocupa, Un momento, aunque la obra de Luis, desde El apetito (Pre-Textos, 1998) hasta hoy, pasando por Correspondencias (Visor, 2001), Querido silencio (Tusquets, 2008) o Vecindad (Visor, 2018), haya ido ganando en desnudez, acendramiento y hermetismo de estirpe ungarettiana.
Un momento se divide en tres secciones porticadas por sendas citas procedentes de tres artículos en prosa de Antonio Machado. De dichas citas se extraen directamente los títulos de las secciones: “Más bien”, “El modelo” y “La criba”, dotando al conjunto de una coherencia externa que exige al lector un ejercicio de máxima atención para descubrir las correspondencias internas. Dicha exigencia es ya marca de la casa de su literatura.
Si leyéramos con atención la poesía completa del autor, encontraríamos en su libro Correspondencias otras dos alusiones que podrían ser rescatadas para entender mejor Un momento. La primera de ellas, en unos versos de Mark Strand: “How could I not be only myself, this dream of flesh from moment to moment?” (7). La segunda, proveniente de Juan Ramón Jiménez: “Hay un momento en que el pasado es porvenir. / Ése es mi instante” (49; las cursivas son mías).
En esta última obra, Un momento, el mundo revivido y redivivo es observado a través del prisma de lo íntimo y de la reja (o criba) del lenguaje. Lo que cristaliza en estos poemas breves, que no leves, es ante todo una actitud o un conjunto de posturas naturales nacidas del acoplamiento entre lenguaje, inteligencia, intimidad y mundo, donde “coinciden los dientes / del azar / con las muescas del día”, donde “la conciencia flota / como un humo cortado” y “el reloj de la gana / se detiene un momento” (41-42).
Retales de retratos, retazos de postales, conversaciones empañadas o desveladas por un entorno sinestésico conviven conformando una constelación de momentos hurtados al escombro de la existencia. Cada palabra, por instante, brilla, sujeta a una sintaxis liberada gracias a la dicción personal, a la dicción conseguida mediante el trato que merodea con el tiempo.
Conviene recordar la maestría de Luis Muñoz, ahora ejercida desde la dirección del programa de escritura creativa de la Universidad de Iowa (qué afortunados sus alumnos), pero también su actualidad. Porque cada una de sus entregas ahonda en un “camino / que tiembla recto” (44) y profundiza en una obra que brota “no hacia arriba, / sino a lo ancho, / irregularmente, / sin llenarlo todo” (79). Es admirable la dependencia de su mirada y de su voz con la que muchos lectores convivimos.
Paraíso. Revista de poesía 24 (2025). Impreso.
Un momento
...............
Juan Antonio Bernier
“This hour, offended if flattered, keeps an odd art.”
Attentiveness in poetry is more than mere precision or clarity; it attains powers of possession.
The watcher in a poem doesn’t just present the object to us, he charges it, and thereby changes it.
A magnetic field is created between the two.
So, when a reader finds lines like, “I follow men and study them as if I were looking for a pulse,” one knows right away one is in a presence of something really special.
Luis Muñoz tells us who we are by pointing to our absences (“I have made myself a soul mate of absence.”)
He is the investigator of that hardest thing: the quiet moment.
If the best cure for loneliness is solitude, as Marianne Moore taught us, then here a carnivale opens up inside a moment of quiet and “solitude chooses a car / that dissolves the night’s slight provinces.”
But if this book is the theater, then the flies and tree roots and “the flight of the last gulls” are its actors.
A rare passerby visits the “streets that know their way by heart” and the theater of solitude comes alive and lights up “the wound struck by a song / that comes too close.”
It is in such moments that a true poet is tested: not when there are a myriad of images or wild ecstatic possibilities, but when the colors are few and there are no objects to hide the false note behind.
Does Curtis Bauer’s version of Luis Muñoz’s poetry pass this test in English?
I say yes because “the sea never suggests nostalgia.”
Because “afternoon threads are sewn without the afternoon.”
Because even if “someone on the street calls out, / announces roses on sale,” in that street we see “the heat pumping out of July.”
And if it is Sunday – “its port clamor is strewn with fish scales.”
Everyone will find a different solitary theater on these pages.
I, for one, couldn’t stop rereading poems like Wool Blankets, Translating at Night, Welder, Breathing, Antonio Machado, Parallel Lives, Flies Stuck to the Window Glass, Greetings.
It is this attentiveness that allows Muñoz to achieve the most acrobatic feats by the simplest of means.
Note how this poem, which begins as a dialogue, a portrait of another person, becomes a self-portrait, a solitary theater, an argument with one’s body, perhaps, and all the while remains an object poem, a brief ode to Wool Blankets:
WOOL BLANKETS
No, I want to be awake, he says,
wrapped inside the foaming blankets
poems sew around the world,
when I offer him a glass.
Now I am embarrassed to want to sleep,
and that I am no longer thirsty,
and that I have a premonition of cold.
While there are no loud manifestos in those poems, a revolution happens inside the nation of one person’s chest, and is far more radical than one may first suspect.
The revelation comes gradually (for this reader, at least), with the “awareness of brevity.”
This poet, this “misguided beast,” always “looks at death / out of the corner of” his eye.
So how is this poet able to pull off such lyric levity, such muscle in the lightest of moments, such fireworks in the barest of landscapes?
What is his secret?
What I find of most interest in Muñoz is how alive, how immediate, how lyrical his understanding of time is.
There is a long European tradition of poets whose lyricism—either purposefully, or by accident—leads to an investigation of the phenomena of time.
From the ages-old Christian books of hours, to Rilke’s Book of Hours for the twentieth century, to Auden’s hard-fought (and often struggling) belief that “Time worships language and forgives everyone by whom it lives.”
One thinks of Montale’s slow delicacy of the moment; one thinks of Sinisgalli’s and Penna’s playful stillness of a moment, of Joseph Brodsky’s restless search for the “window on the properties of time.”
Luis Muñoz understands this search.
He is obsessed with the “day’s delicate structure”; he watches how the night “soaks” into a man, and “fills out” a man’s “arms, / the cotton” of a man’s “chest, the pouch of” his tongue.
In Muñoz’s lyrics, “the minutes pass” over “someone sleeping… like a pendulum, / like a pendulum.”
There is an endless astonishment with how “the teeth of chance fit / into the notches of the day.”
His meditation on time takes various shapes; it is metamorphic.
In a poem such as Translating at Night, we have a chance to observe a three-way conversation: Bauer gives us an English version of Muñoz’s Spanish version of Ungaretti’s Italian lyric.
In the final lines the meditative tone achieves heat, passion in syntax, and the tone changes; while it remains quiet, the silence picks up speed, offers play:
This hour, offended if flattered,
keeps an odd art.
Isn’t it autumn’s first
solo appearance?
And here, with no more mystery,
it rushes to gold
and beautiful time robs
madness of its grace.
All the same I would shout, all the same:
you, quick youth of the senses,
who keep me in the dark about myself
and indulge immortality with images,
don’t leave me, suffering, wait.
And if Muñoz speaks of evening hours, reader, and of how their “names flutter about you / when you are alone,” it is because these are the innermost hours of the soul Dickinson warned us of.
Luis Muñoz is a rare real soul; he sees how the poet slips “the charred seaweed and red grit / into the frayed lining of his pocket of good moments.”
He notices that poetry describes things by their opposites, that magic is deep inside the real, that the branch doesn’t crack though he steps on it.
Clarity is the first mystery, Darwish told us.
This poem is well aware of that simple fact, and greets it in each moment:
GREETINGS
Hello, unreality,
sand storm in my head
and its revolving hourglasses.
The day’s problems from a distance
like small handfuls of peas.
The branch that doesn’t crack if I step on it,
the sip of boiling coffee that doesn’t burn.
Hello, parentheses,
hello, touch that doesn’t arrive,
hello, strip of air or light
or insulation of hours—
this is still pending between us.
Muñoz’s tender attentiveness to moments, to roots, to flies, made me think often of Machado, particularly of that great lyric, “The Eyes.”
As in Machado, the grief and the silences in this book are animal-like, tender creatures.
And sadness? It clings to “days / like a thin transparent skin of silk.”
Muñoz’s beautiful lyric, Antonio Machado, pays a moving homage to the elder poet, yes—but also shows us Muñoz’s own ars poetica, exposes us to the pain that earns that quiet moment, that theater of one.
And, if pain comes, if a theater of grief opens, then perhaps the moments are our very warnings, our companions:
ANTONIO MACHADO
He scraped against the white-hot walls of hell
every chance the pain gave him.
He slipped the charred seaweed and red grit
into the frayed lining of his pocket
of good moments.
There they were remedy, repellent,
warning and companionship.
Reading this I want to ask if there is tenderness in hell also—after all, how can anything exist in God’s creation without some tenderness?
Perhaps Muñoz means to say precisely that, for on his pages, if silence comes—however hellish, however unforgiving—it is still “dear silence.”
This delicacy, this tenderness and attentiveness don’t slow us down.
Instead, they show us the great whirlwind, the unbelievable speed inside our own pauses.
Here, even breathing in and breathing out offer their largesse:
BREATHING
Like the pith around a piece of fruit
or the bound parcels of the clouds,
memory breathes like an invisible world.
From the outside it doesn’t exist, or is only silence.
From the inside it is a going forth of bulldozers,
of charged cells, of ant soldiers
shifting in disarray.
This, reader, is what beauty means, what wisdom stands for.
It comes without great fanfare, but it stays with you, faithful as the breathing itself.
And if sadness comes again?
Then “sadness is high and airy / like whipped ocean foam.”
Attentiveness in poetry is more than mere precision or clarity; it attains powers of possession.
The watcher in a poem doesn’t just present the object to us, he charges it, and thereby changes it.
A magnetic field is created between the two.
So, when a reader finds lines like, “I follow men and study them as if I were looking for a pulse,” one knows right away one is in a presence of something really special.
Luis Muñoz tells us who we are by pointing to our absences (“I have made myself a soul mate of absence.”)
He is the investigator of that hardest thing: the quiet moment.
If the best cure for loneliness is solitude, as Marianne Moore taught us, then here a carnivale opens up inside a moment of quiet and “solitude chooses a car / that dissolves the night’s slight provinces.”
But if this book is the theater, then the flies and tree roots and “the flight of the last gulls” are its actors.
A rare passerby visits the “streets that know their way by heart” and the theater of solitude comes alive and lights up “the wound struck by a song / that comes too close.”
It is in such moments that a true poet is tested: not when there are a myriad of images or wild ecstatic possibilities, but when the colors are few and there are no objects to hide the false note behind.
Does Curtis Bauer’s version of Luis Muñoz’s poetry pass this test in English?
I say yes because “the sea never suggests nostalgia.”
Because “afternoon threads are sewn without the afternoon.”
Because even if “someone on the street calls out, / announces roses on sale,” in that street we see “the heat pumping out of July.”
And if it is Sunday – “its port clamor is strewn with fish scales.”
Everyone will find a different solitary theater on these pages.
I, for one, couldn’t stop rereading poems like Wool Blankets, Translating at Night, Welder, Breathing, Antonio Machado, Parallel Lives, Flies Stuck to the Window Glass, Greetings.
It is this attentiveness that allows Muñoz to achieve the most acrobatic feats by the simplest of means.
Note how this poem, which begins as a dialogue, a portrait of another person, becomes a self-portrait, a solitary theater, an argument with one’s body, perhaps, and all the while remains an object poem, a brief ode to Wool Blankets:
WOOL BLANKETS
No, I want to be awake, he says,
wrapped inside the foaming blankets
poems sew around the world,
when I offer him a glass.
Now I am embarrassed to want to sleep,
and that I am no longer thirsty,
and that I have a premonition of cold.
While there are no loud manifestos in those poems, a revolution happens inside the nation of one person’s chest, and is far more radical than one may first suspect.
The revelation comes gradually (for this reader, at least), with the “awareness of brevity.”
This poet, this “misguided beast,” always “looks at death / out of the corner of” his eye.
So how is this poet able to pull off such lyric levity, such muscle in the lightest of moments, such fireworks in the barest of landscapes?
What is his secret?
What I find of most interest in Muñoz is how alive, how immediate, how lyrical his understanding of time is.
There is a long European tradition of poets whose lyricism—either purposefully, or by accident—leads to an investigation of the phenomena of time.
From the ages-old Christian books of hours, to Rilke’s Book of Hours for the twentieth century, to Auden’s hard-fought (and often struggling) belief that “Time worships language and forgives everyone by whom it lives.”
One thinks of Montale’s slow delicacy of the moment; one thinks of Sinisgalli’s and Penna’s playful stillness of a moment, of Joseph Brodsky’s restless search for the “window on the properties of time.”
Luis Muñoz understands this search.
He is obsessed with the “day’s delicate structure”; he watches how the night “soaks” into a man, and “fills out” a man’s “arms, / the cotton” of a man’s “chest, the pouch of” his tongue.
In Muñoz’s lyrics, “the minutes pass” over “someone sleeping… like a pendulum, / like a pendulum.”
There is an endless astonishment with how “the teeth of chance fit / into the notches of the day.”
His meditation on time takes various shapes; it is metamorphic.
In a poem such as Translating at Night, we have a chance to observe a three-way conversation: Bauer gives us an English version of Muñoz’s Spanish version of Ungaretti’s Italian lyric.
In the final lines the meditative tone achieves heat, passion in syntax, and the tone changes; while it remains quiet, the silence picks up speed, offers play:
This hour, offended if flattered,
keeps an odd art.
Isn’t it autumn’s first
solo appearance?
And here, with no more mystery,
it rushes to gold
and beautiful time robs
madness of its grace.
All the same I would shout, all the same:
you, quick youth of the senses,
who keep me in the dark about myself
and indulge immortality with images,
don’t leave me, suffering, wait.
And if Muñoz speaks of evening hours, reader, and of how their “names flutter about you / when you are alone,” it is because these are the innermost hours of the soul Dickinson warned us of.
Luis Muñoz is a rare real soul; he sees how the poet slips “the charred seaweed and red grit / into the frayed lining of his pocket of good moments.”
He notices that poetry describes things by their opposites, that magic is deep inside the real, that the branch doesn’t crack though he steps on it.
Clarity is the first mystery, Darwish told us.
This poem is well aware of that simple fact, and greets it in each moment:
GREETINGS
Hello, unreality,
sand storm in my head
and its revolving hourglasses.
The day’s problems from a distance
like small handfuls of peas.
The branch that doesn’t crack if I step on it,
the sip of boiling coffee that doesn’t burn.
Hello, parentheses,
hello, touch that doesn’t arrive,
hello, strip of air or light
or insulation of hours—
this is still pending between us.
Muñoz’s tender attentiveness to moments, to roots, to flies, made me think often of Machado, particularly of that great lyric, “The Eyes.”
As in Machado, the grief and the silences in this book are animal-like, tender creatures.
And sadness? It clings to “days / like a thin transparent skin of silk.”
Muñoz’s beautiful lyric, Antonio Machado, pays a moving homage to the elder poet, yes—but also shows us Muñoz’s own ars poetica, exposes us to the pain that earns that quiet moment, that theater of one.
And, if pain comes, if a theater of grief opens, then perhaps the moments are our very warnings, our companions:
ANTONIO MACHADO
He scraped against the white-hot walls of hell
every chance the pain gave him.
He slipped the charred seaweed and red grit
into the frayed lining of his pocket
of good moments.
There they were remedy, repellent,
warning and companionship.
Reading this I want to ask if there is tenderness in hell also—after all, how can anything exist in God’s creation without some tenderness?
Perhaps Muñoz means to say precisely that, for on his pages, if silence comes—however hellish, however unforgiving—it is still “dear silence.”
This delicacy, this tenderness and attentiveness don’t slow us down.
Instead, they show us the great whirlwind, the unbelievable speed inside our own pauses.
Here, even breathing in and breathing out offer their largesse:
BREATHING
Like the pith around a piece of fruit
or the bound parcels of the clouds,
memory breathes like an invisible world.
From the outside it doesn’t exist, or is only silence.
From the inside it is a going forth of bulldozers,
of charged cells, of ant soldiers
shifting in disarray.
This, reader, is what beauty means, what wisdom stands for.
It comes without great fanfare, but it stays with you, faithful as the breathing itself.
And if sadness comes again?
Then “sadness is high and airy / like whipped ocean foam.”
A Note on the Poetry of Luis Muñoz
Ilya Kaminsky
The publication of the collected poetry of an author who is still young often becomes one of the most effective ways to gauge the real relevance and contemporaneity of his poetic project.
Beyond the obvious fact that—at best—we find ourselves before a valuable body of work, what is truly interesting lies in the successive lyrical bets, in the different paths and turning points that, through their affirmations and negations, reveal a work still in motion, a work not yet done exploring its full aesthetic potential.
This is the case with the Granada-born poet Luis Muñoz (1966), whose collected volume—bearing a title as curious as it is meaningful, Limpiar pescado. Collected Poems (2005)—carries the full weight and aura of true literary events.
The relevant place held by books such as Manzanas amarillas (1995), El apetito (1998), or Correspondencias (2001)—with all their searching and finding—has turned Muñoz into one of the defining and reference-setting voices of recent years.
I would dare to say he has become the key poet who has signposted many of the roads taken by the most recent Spanish poetry—particularly that written by authors born between the late 60s and the 70s—temporarily framed and interpreted by a keen critic like Luis Antonio de Villena in his anthologies 10 menos 30 (1997) and La lógica de Orfeo (2003), around terms like Orphism, expansion of reality, irrationalist logic, or inner rupture of the poetry of experience.
One image—that of the poet as a welder, drawn from Correspondencias—brings us closer to understanding Muñoz’s poetry.
I see this image as illuminating, as it explores words as “soldered tin joints” applied to the scattered filaments of daily life and ordinary reality.
It speaks also of his drive to meaningfully bind together, beyond loose stitches and spare parts, the framework of the everyday.
As the poems say:
“If it is not desire,
it will be the soldered tin joints
in the light structure of the day…
The idea that pieces are missing
is a lie.
You only need to find the ends.
And the tab of your own.”
Muñoz has indeed distinguished himself from early on by articulating the kind of poetry he wanted to write, not through essays, but by letting theory flow just inches behind practice, reflecting the air currents between thought, biography, and poetic making itself.
Poems and poetics then as guiding markers, but also, I believe, as evidence of living experiments and literary ones alike.
Anyone who reads his preface “Transition”—attached by Muñoz to Limpiar pescado—will find not only excellent literary biography (close in spirit to Cernuda’s Historial de un libro) but also evidence of a singular yet recipe-less search that has widened the possibilities of recent lyric outside of school banner or trend.
For that reason, Limpiar pescado (preface, poems, and poetics) reads like an accounting moment of crucial years for Spanish poetry, brimming with craftsmanship of seeing words as windows that air-out thought and complicate reading in ways that pull us deeper into his poetic landscape.
The poet’s instinct is not to reveal the absolute or sacred connections of the universe (like the old symbolists), but to point out a key poetic mechanism: the analogy, building routes between senses, ideas, and feelings.
Muñoz himself describes his poems as intertwining interior and exterior looking—the metaphorical gestures of ordinary moments, like lumps dissolving “in instant soup,” or reasoning that crumbles “like bread thrown to ducks in a park pond.”
This unending flow between thought and sensation has been present since Muñoz’s earliest poems, where true renewal comes not from rhetorical manifestos but from the imagination’s ability to magnify the everyday into bright bursts of verbal realization:
“A frozen needle knitting sunlight,
the love glimpsed in the round oranges of a kiss.”
More narrative or experiencial poems of Manzanas amarillas used perspective’s shift into second or third person as a modesty device but also as an angle to question life-states, signaling how the poet may widen the real without drifting away from the ordinary language that, as Eliot said, poetry must not stray far from—what we hear and use each day.
Hence this is not a rupture from his earliest work but a deeper moral certainty and spiritual independence.
The poet inclines into his self as a condition to dissolve into shared landscape, portraying what is irreducible as the only accepted truth:
“Not only being one,
but one among others,
in the shared irrigation
you and others give and receive.”
This is the double moral stance of a poet who has used poetry not to avoid getting lost but to mark signs on reality, distinguishing what matters, saving himself with life’s claws away from literature’s cat nails, overlapping self-exploration and community-rooted words into one cohesive yet shimmering literary voice.
(Published in Ínsula, no. 753, 2009)
Beyond the obvious fact that—at best—we find ourselves before a valuable body of work, what is truly interesting lies in the successive lyrical bets, in the different paths and turning points that, through their affirmations and negations, reveal a work still in motion, a work not yet done exploring its full aesthetic potential.
This is the case with the Granada-born poet Luis Muñoz (1966), whose collected volume—bearing a title as curious as it is meaningful, Limpiar pescado. Collected Poems (2005)—carries the full weight and aura of true literary events.
The relevant place held by books such as Manzanas amarillas (1995), El apetito (1998), or Correspondencias (2001)—with all their searching and finding—has turned Muñoz into one of the defining and reference-setting voices of recent years.
I would dare to say he has become the key poet who has signposted many of the roads taken by the most recent Spanish poetry—particularly that written by authors born between the late 60s and the 70s—temporarily framed and interpreted by a keen critic like Luis Antonio de Villena in his anthologies 10 menos 30 (1997) and La lógica de Orfeo (2003), around terms like Orphism, expansion of reality, irrationalist logic, or inner rupture of the poetry of experience.
One image—that of the poet as a welder, drawn from Correspondencias—brings us closer to understanding Muñoz’s poetry.
I see this image as illuminating, as it explores words as “soldered tin joints” applied to the scattered filaments of daily life and ordinary reality.
It speaks also of his drive to meaningfully bind together, beyond loose stitches and spare parts, the framework of the everyday.
As the poems say:
“If it is not desire,
it will be the soldered tin joints
in the light structure of the day…
The idea that pieces are missing
is a lie.
You only need to find the ends.
And the tab of your own.”
Muñoz has indeed distinguished himself from early on by articulating the kind of poetry he wanted to write, not through essays, but by letting theory flow just inches behind practice, reflecting the air currents between thought, biography, and poetic making itself.
Poems and poetics then as guiding markers, but also, I believe, as evidence of living experiments and literary ones alike.
Anyone who reads his preface “Transition”—attached by Muñoz to Limpiar pescado—will find not only excellent literary biography (close in spirit to Cernuda’s Historial de un libro) but also evidence of a singular yet recipe-less search that has widened the possibilities of recent lyric outside of school banner or trend.
For that reason, Limpiar pescado (preface, poems, and poetics) reads like an accounting moment of crucial years for Spanish poetry, brimming with craftsmanship of seeing words as windows that air-out thought and complicate reading in ways that pull us deeper into his poetic landscape.
The poet’s instinct is not to reveal the absolute or sacred connections of the universe (like the old symbolists), but to point out a key poetic mechanism: the analogy, building routes between senses, ideas, and feelings.
Muñoz himself describes his poems as intertwining interior and exterior looking—the metaphorical gestures of ordinary moments, like lumps dissolving “in instant soup,” or reasoning that crumbles “like bread thrown to ducks in a park pond.”
This unending flow between thought and sensation has been present since Muñoz’s earliest poems, where true renewal comes not from rhetorical manifestos but from the imagination’s ability to magnify the everyday into bright bursts of verbal realization:
“A frozen needle knitting sunlight,
the love glimpsed in the round oranges of a kiss.”
More narrative or experiencial poems of Manzanas amarillas used perspective’s shift into second or third person as a modesty device but also as an angle to question life-states, signaling how the poet may widen the real without drifting away from the ordinary language that, as Eliot said, poetry must not stray far from—what we hear and use each day.
Hence this is not a rupture from his earliest work but a deeper moral certainty and spiritual independence.
The poet inclines into his self as a condition to dissolve into shared landscape, portraying what is irreducible as the only accepted truth:
“Not only being one,
but one among others,
in the shared irrigation
you and others give and receive.”
This is the double moral stance of a poet who has used poetry not to avoid getting lost but to mark signs on reality, distinguishing what matters, saving himself with life’s claws away from literature’s cat nails, overlapping self-exploration and community-rooted words into one cohesive yet shimmering literary voice.
(Published in Ínsula, no. 753, 2009)
Correspondences of Poetry and Life (Luis Muñoz)
José Andújar Almansa
Within the context of the generation to which he belongs, Luis Muñoz (Granada, 1966) arguably represents the most prominent and prestigious link to the poets of the following generation—poets who have turned the Granadan’s voice into a privileged point of reference and have generously echoed his theoretical discourse and lyrical commitments. Muñoz’s firm determination to distance himself from the heated debates that polarized the literary landscape during his formative years as a poet undoubtedly played a role; far from feeling those disputes as his own, they led him to attempt a distinctly individual renewal that would crystallize in what he would call “A New Symbolism” (1998). In this proposal to refresh the Symbolist tradition—within which the poet located “a constant vigilance over the expressive exhaustions of language” (Muñoz, 1998: 21)—younger authors, following in his wake, also found a way out of the rhetorical fossilization of experientialism, as well as out of the absolutizing tendency of the language associated with the Valentian tradition.
Leaving aside Calle del mar (1987)—a collection the poet himself has banished from his literary biography—Luis Muñoz’s creative itinerary begins with Septiembre (1991): a book that combines experience and imagination and is already written from a certain awareness of marginality with respect to established aesthetics, though still compatible with the acknowledged influence of some admired elder “brothers” in particular aspects and lines. This can in fact be seen in a text such as “Septiembre,” which is at once—according to the author’s testimony—the composition “that draws the reflective and imagistic curtain for the rest of the poems” (2005: 10). From this point onward, the book establishes what will become one of Muñoz’s thematic constants: temporality and its transitional effect, inscribed in the name of a “hinge month” between fullness and routine, which would likewise refer to “the end of the summer of early youth” (ibid.), as it imposed itself upon the poet in the process of writing. “Fábula del tiempo” lends its title to another of the collected texts—also significant because the author recognizes it as “the first poem I wrote with the awareness that I could make a vital current and a verbal one coincide” (2005: 9)—and whose muted cadence “recalls the notes of a minor, crepuscular symbolism, chosen to speak to us of wounded memories and of a lost time that is known to be essential” (Andújar Almansa, 2009: 28). This is the book’s emotional temperature, presided over by a light elegiac tone and a nostalgia wrapped in mists (see “Blackfriars”).
Muñoz was quick to recognize the quality of a poetry—his own—openly resistant to formulas. His next title, Manzanas amarillas (1995), offered at once “a maturation and a new point of departure,” by specifying the personal manner of the narrative design already suggested in Septiembre (Díaz de Castro, 2002: 290). The poet advanced the conception of the book as “an attempt at a collection of images capable of summing up some complexity without first wanting to reduce them to a meaning” (Muñoz, 2005: 14). From the autumnal image suggested by a text by Yves Bonnefoy, Manzanas amarillas once again spoke to the reader—above all in the eponymous section that gathers the book’s overall argument—of an unsettling beauty in the promise of its flight, which gave the poems “a rare nostalgia, diffuse in nature” (“Años sesenta”). Critics have seen in this book the beginning of the transition toward a writing distinguished by the use of analogy, suggestion, and ellipsis. And the awareness of that “new symbolism” toward which Muñoz would orient his poetics is anecdotally confirmed by several homages to important links in this tradition paid within the book, from French poetry to Juan Ramón Jiménez or Juan Gil-Albert (“Hijo póstumo”). Nevertheless, this exploratory and searching collection—no accident, given that it underwent notable alterations in its revised version for a later collected volume—still includes a good portion of experiential or narrative pieces: poems in which the metaphorical reference and a modest desire to blur lived experience, evident in the frequent use of the third person (“Postales en un sobre”), do not conceal anecdotal details. And yet, as Díaz de Castro (2002: 291–292) rightly observes, “what matters least in these stories are the anecdotes themselves,” since lived or imagined material is incorporated into a writing that “attends to the essential strategy of the emotions it arouses” (see “Nocturnidad”). The cultivation of sensation and nuance, the rich musicality of the line, and felicitous imaginative discoveries are among the traits that, in this book, help to trace Luis Muñoz’s path toward poetic maturity.
The process of condensation and the desire to transcend mere experience are intensified in El apetito (1998), a title that labels a lyric sequence arising from that instinctual impulse or unelaborated desire; not for nothing, erotic passion and the pleasures of the senses—conceived as a reliable source of happiness (see “Esto no es una experiencia”)—are other fundamental axes of Muñoz’s poetry, functioning as a counterweight to existential pessimism. If, as some lines in the book put it, “the poem is a game / of distances and keys,” the desirable distancing in the process of decoding the real proves inseparable from the idea that experience can only be conceived as a platform of departure, not as a point of arrival. This is, in some way, suggested by the ironic title “Esto no es una experiencia,” where—beyond the allusion to the controversies of the day—the reference to Magritte’s painting places at the center of reflection the deceptive play of verbal representations (Jiménez Millán, 2006: 274). In a book contemporaneous with the aforementioned formulation of a new symbolism, the Verlainian proposal of nuance, and the advisability of linking vagueness and precision, are articulated in an homage to the French master and put into play in numerous poems which, like “Bosque de Leighwood,” combine “a realist stroke with the creation of a blurred atmosphere […] and leave fertile, though not gratuitous, ground to the imagination” (Villena, 2000: 176). The importance of the image as a substitute for anecdote as a first-order constructive element is likewise verbalized in the collection: “Celebrate, if you can, each image / […] / Behind them are your eyes and behind / the cut of your hurt, your account of the day.”
Deepening in this same direction, Correspondencias (2001) seeks to foreground—from its very title, and from the lines by Baudelaire that head the book, accompanied by others by Octavio Paz—a mechanism of poetic operation that becomes central to Muñoz’s writing: analogy. It is “the proposal of routes between elements on different levels of reality—those of the senses, those of ideas, those of feelings” (Muñoz, 2005: 16), albeit stripped of the pursuit of the absolute to which the old Symbolists aspired, in the knowledge that the connections established in the texts through imagistic artillery obey the intuition of an individual gaze. Ironic distance serves to bring awareness that “analogical procedures do not make us revealers of an order,” though they do make us “players” of an order (Muñoz, 1998: 21); hence one of the poems offers the suggestive image of the poet as “the welder,” who uses words as “solder joints” capable of meaningfully binding together dispersed fragments of reality and establishing unusual associations beyond the surface.
In Correspondencias certain procedures already present in essence in earlier books are concentrated (the constructive reliance on nuance, the flight from expressive concretion toward zones of imprecision or penumbra), and they take shape in poems that metaphorize everyday experience by combining intuition and thought. Not in vain does Muñoz conceive the poem’s territory as “a zone of intersection between the world of what one has and the world that escapes us—between what can be known logically and what can be known intuitively” (in García Martín, 1999: 253). And intersection or superimposition of planes—also between sensory exploration and sentimental inquiry, colloquial diction and personal idiolect, “inner life” and “the whole surface” (as posited in “Novalis”)—is, strictly speaking, the proper place where lines and lived experience tend to settle (see the “intersection of memory and forgetting, / of affirmation and nothingness, of possession and flight, / of planes upon planes upon planes” in which the erotic encounter of “Escultura líquida” is situated). Moreover, the poem condenses and anecdote is sustained only to the extent required by the intelligibility of a series of arguments that range from aesthetic speculation to temporal reflection and sentimental inquiry, which does not exclude a disenchanted consideration of collective time. The enigmatic testimony of “readerly gratitude”—which certainly avoids more hackneyed patterns—to “Antonio Machado,” one of the “Seis retratos a lápiz” Muñoz sketches in the second section of the collection, is therefore apposite: a homage to a markedly Symbolist genre and a rich source of vital as well as aesthetic considerations that consolidate the proposal established in the book.
These four titles are the successive stages of a poetic search recorded in Limpiar pescado (2005), a striking label for Luis Muñoz’s lyric corpus that seeks to capture the idea of craft as labor against time, or of poetic illumination as an ephemeral, precarious material “that is the promise of nourishment and of decomposition” (Muñoz, 2005: 8). The author’s prefatory words that accompany the volume provide the key to his next—and so far last—book, Querido silencio (2006): “All poems,” he wrote there, “have something testamentary about them, something of an antechamber to silence. Because they want to contain a definitive combination of words, they want to cross a zone of language in which everything is brimming with meaning, and to say no more” (2005: 7). Silence, accordingly, is the effect of creation happily fulfilled; but it is also, in turn, a crucial ingredient of the poem, whose “definitive” character depends on what is omitted (López Guil, 2013: 199). And the protagonism of silence as a constructive component leads to a consequent stripping-down of expression: toward greater condensation and verbal purification, the elimination of referents, and the sacrifice of narrativity (heavily cut back when it surfaces: “Un regalo”) in favor of the minimalist fragment that does not shy away from hermeticism—nothing surprising in a poet who counts Ungaretti or Quasimodo among his points of reference.
With such formal equipment, the poems of Querido silencio move toward the limits of the expressible, in search of the mystery that pulses on the other side of everyday reality, yet without losing sight of that horizon, which provides the speaker with the sensations and emotions the writing delves into, while also encouraging colloquial language (“Los asientos traseros del autobús”) and the quality of many images (“Un regalo”) that, poised between the familiar and the visionary, remain the poem’s very marrow. Nor does the poem abandon its existential throb; indeed, time reappears as one of the book’s thematic constants, as it always does, caught in the tension between the radiograph of the instant and the affirmation of its flow. “Sobre una carta de Luis Cernuda” precisely underscores the poet’s old consideration of the deception of what stands still and the inevitability of permanent transition, an index of acute temporal feeling that also contains—note the title chosen for the prologue to his collected poetry, “Transición”—a metapoetic proposition: “it does not exist, or it does not serve you,” because flight from formulas or settled procedures constitutes the first premise of Muñoz’s creative design (in Morales, 2011), which now risks itself on the edges of silence. The poem chosen to close the selection, “Dejar la poesía,” flirts with the suggestion that this word thinned toward its desire for calcination in the light of definitive discovery may be more than a metaphor. That was nine years ago: let us hope that the “provocation” of silence, which according to the author in some way occasions the poems (Muñoz, 2012: 86), continues to foster here, too, the impulse to write.
(Published in Hacia la democracia. La nueva poesía (1968–2000). Madrid: Visor, 2016)
Leaving aside Calle del mar (1987)—a collection the poet himself has banished from his literary biography—Luis Muñoz’s creative itinerary begins with Septiembre (1991): a book that combines experience and imagination and is already written from a certain awareness of marginality with respect to established aesthetics, though still compatible with the acknowledged influence of some admired elder “brothers” in particular aspects and lines. This can in fact be seen in a text such as “Septiembre,” which is at once—according to the author’s testimony—the composition “that draws the reflective and imagistic curtain for the rest of the poems” (2005: 10). From this point onward, the book establishes what will become one of Muñoz’s thematic constants: temporality and its transitional effect, inscribed in the name of a “hinge month” between fullness and routine, which would likewise refer to “the end of the summer of early youth” (ibid.), as it imposed itself upon the poet in the process of writing. “Fábula del tiempo” lends its title to another of the collected texts—also significant because the author recognizes it as “the first poem I wrote with the awareness that I could make a vital current and a verbal one coincide” (2005: 9)—and whose muted cadence “recalls the notes of a minor, crepuscular symbolism, chosen to speak to us of wounded memories and of a lost time that is known to be essential” (Andújar Almansa, 2009: 28). This is the book’s emotional temperature, presided over by a light elegiac tone and a nostalgia wrapped in mists (see “Blackfriars”).
Muñoz was quick to recognize the quality of a poetry—his own—openly resistant to formulas. His next title, Manzanas amarillas (1995), offered at once “a maturation and a new point of departure,” by specifying the personal manner of the narrative design already suggested in Septiembre (Díaz de Castro, 2002: 290). The poet advanced the conception of the book as “an attempt at a collection of images capable of summing up some complexity without first wanting to reduce them to a meaning” (Muñoz, 2005: 14). From the autumnal image suggested by a text by Yves Bonnefoy, Manzanas amarillas once again spoke to the reader—above all in the eponymous section that gathers the book’s overall argument—of an unsettling beauty in the promise of its flight, which gave the poems “a rare nostalgia, diffuse in nature” (“Años sesenta”). Critics have seen in this book the beginning of the transition toward a writing distinguished by the use of analogy, suggestion, and ellipsis. And the awareness of that “new symbolism” toward which Muñoz would orient his poetics is anecdotally confirmed by several homages to important links in this tradition paid within the book, from French poetry to Juan Ramón Jiménez or Juan Gil-Albert (“Hijo póstumo”). Nevertheless, this exploratory and searching collection—no accident, given that it underwent notable alterations in its revised version for a later collected volume—still includes a good portion of experiential or narrative pieces: poems in which the metaphorical reference and a modest desire to blur lived experience, evident in the frequent use of the third person (“Postales en un sobre”), do not conceal anecdotal details. And yet, as Díaz de Castro (2002: 291–292) rightly observes, “what matters least in these stories are the anecdotes themselves,” since lived or imagined material is incorporated into a writing that “attends to the essential strategy of the emotions it arouses” (see “Nocturnidad”). The cultivation of sensation and nuance, the rich musicality of the line, and felicitous imaginative discoveries are among the traits that, in this book, help to trace Luis Muñoz’s path toward poetic maturity.
The process of condensation and the desire to transcend mere experience are intensified in El apetito (1998), a title that labels a lyric sequence arising from that instinctual impulse or unelaborated desire; not for nothing, erotic passion and the pleasures of the senses—conceived as a reliable source of happiness (see “Esto no es una experiencia”)—are other fundamental axes of Muñoz’s poetry, functioning as a counterweight to existential pessimism. If, as some lines in the book put it, “the poem is a game / of distances and keys,” the desirable distancing in the process of decoding the real proves inseparable from the idea that experience can only be conceived as a platform of departure, not as a point of arrival. This is, in some way, suggested by the ironic title “Esto no es una experiencia,” where—beyond the allusion to the controversies of the day—the reference to Magritte’s painting places at the center of reflection the deceptive play of verbal representations (Jiménez Millán, 2006: 274). In a book contemporaneous with the aforementioned formulation of a new symbolism, the Verlainian proposal of nuance, and the advisability of linking vagueness and precision, are articulated in an homage to the French master and put into play in numerous poems which, like “Bosque de Leighwood,” combine “a realist stroke with the creation of a blurred atmosphere […] and leave fertile, though not gratuitous, ground to the imagination” (Villena, 2000: 176). The importance of the image as a substitute for anecdote as a first-order constructive element is likewise verbalized in the collection: “Celebrate, if you can, each image / […] / Behind them are your eyes and behind / the cut of your hurt, your account of the day.”
Deepening in this same direction, Correspondencias (2001) seeks to foreground—from its very title, and from the lines by Baudelaire that head the book, accompanied by others by Octavio Paz—a mechanism of poetic operation that becomes central to Muñoz’s writing: analogy. It is “the proposal of routes between elements on different levels of reality—those of the senses, those of ideas, those of feelings” (Muñoz, 2005: 16), albeit stripped of the pursuit of the absolute to which the old Symbolists aspired, in the knowledge that the connections established in the texts through imagistic artillery obey the intuition of an individual gaze. Ironic distance serves to bring awareness that “analogical procedures do not make us revealers of an order,” though they do make us “players” of an order (Muñoz, 1998: 21); hence one of the poems offers the suggestive image of the poet as “the welder,” who uses words as “solder joints” capable of meaningfully binding together dispersed fragments of reality and establishing unusual associations beyond the surface.
In Correspondencias certain procedures already present in essence in earlier books are concentrated (the constructive reliance on nuance, the flight from expressive concretion toward zones of imprecision or penumbra), and they take shape in poems that metaphorize everyday experience by combining intuition and thought. Not in vain does Muñoz conceive the poem’s territory as “a zone of intersection between the world of what one has and the world that escapes us—between what can be known logically and what can be known intuitively” (in García Martín, 1999: 253). And intersection or superimposition of planes—also between sensory exploration and sentimental inquiry, colloquial diction and personal idiolect, “inner life” and “the whole surface” (as posited in “Novalis”)—is, strictly speaking, the proper place where lines and lived experience tend to settle (see the “intersection of memory and forgetting, / of affirmation and nothingness, of possession and flight, / of planes upon planes upon planes” in which the erotic encounter of “Escultura líquida” is situated). Moreover, the poem condenses and anecdote is sustained only to the extent required by the intelligibility of a series of arguments that range from aesthetic speculation to temporal reflection and sentimental inquiry, which does not exclude a disenchanted consideration of collective time. The enigmatic testimony of “readerly gratitude”—which certainly avoids more hackneyed patterns—to “Antonio Machado,” one of the “Seis retratos a lápiz” Muñoz sketches in the second section of the collection, is therefore apposite: a homage to a markedly Symbolist genre and a rich source of vital as well as aesthetic considerations that consolidate the proposal established in the book.
These four titles are the successive stages of a poetic search recorded in Limpiar pescado (2005), a striking label for Luis Muñoz’s lyric corpus that seeks to capture the idea of craft as labor against time, or of poetic illumination as an ephemeral, precarious material “that is the promise of nourishment and of decomposition” (Muñoz, 2005: 8). The author’s prefatory words that accompany the volume provide the key to his next—and so far last—book, Querido silencio (2006): “All poems,” he wrote there, “have something testamentary about them, something of an antechamber to silence. Because they want to contain a definitive combination of words, they want to cross a zone of language in which everything is brimming with meaning, and to say no more” (2005: 7). Silence, accordingly, is the effect of creation happily fulfilled; but it is also, in turn, a crucial ingredient of the poem, whose “definitive” character depends on what is omitted (López Guil, 2013: 199). And the protagonism of silence as a constructive component leads to a consequent stripping-down of expression: toward greater condensation and verbal purification, the elimination of referents, and the sacrifice of narrativity (heavily cut back when it surfaces: “Un regalo”) in favor of the minimalist fragment that does not shy away from hermeticism—nothing surprising in a poet who counts Ungaretti or Quasimodo among his points of reference.
With such formal equipment, the poems of Querido silencio move toward the limits of the expressible, in search of the mystery that pulses on the other side of everyday reality, yet without losing sight of that horizon, which provides the speaker with the sensations and emotions the writing delves into, while also encouraging colloquial language (“Los asientos traseros del autobús”) and the quality of many images (“Un regalo”) that, poised between the familiar and the visionary, remain the poem’s very marrow. Nor does the poem abandon its existential throb; indeed, time reappears as one of the book’s thematic constants, as it always does, caught in the tension between the radiograph of the instant and the affirmation of its flow. “Sobre una carta de Luis Cernuda” precisely underscores the poet’s old consideration of the deception of what stands still and the inevitability of permanent transition, an index of acute temporal feeling that also contains—note the title chosen for the prologue to his collected poetry, “Transición”—a metapoetic proposition: “it does not exist, or it does not serve you,” because flight from formulas or settled procedures constitutes the first premise of Muñoz’s creative design (in Morales, 2011), which now risks itself on the edges of silence. The poem chosen to close the selection, “Dejar la poesía,” flirts with the suggestion that this word thinned toward its desire for calcination in the light of definitive discovery may be more than a metaphor. That was nine years ago: let us hope that the “provocation” of silence, which according to the author in some way occasions the poems (Muñoz, 2012: 86), continues to foster here, too, the impulse to write.
(Published in Hacia la democracia. La nueva poesía (1968–2000). Madrid: Visor, 2016)
Luis Muñoz
Araceli Iravedra
“Los que leen la poesía la necesitan como drogadictos.”
‘Those who read poetry need it like drug addicts.’
—Francisco Brines
At the intersection of two centuries, Luis Muñoz (1966) is one of contemporary Spain’s most salient poets. A number of critics have commented on Muñoz’s poetry, characterizing it as “minimalist” and “measured.” They note his style to be “pure,” “refined,” “atomized,” and “condensed.” In his “poetry of ellipsis and metonymy” this poet seeks to explore “intellectual enigmas.” His poems have been anthologized in a number of major turn-of-the-century collections. Most recently, Luis Antonio de Villena observes that it is in Correspondencias (2001) (Correspondences) and Querido silencio (2006) (Dear Silence) where Muñoz “has found his voice.” Significantly, Correspondencias received two prestigious awards in Spain in 2001. Nevertheless, no study has examined his poetry in any detail, and the present work addresses this matter.
Muñoz’s most recent poetry demonstrates conceptual and linguistic efficiency due, in part, to his mastery of syntactic omission. Ellipsis figures prominently in the 2006 collection. In one exemplary poem, “Dejar la poesía” (“Leave Poetry”), two syntactically silent characters engage in a conceptually efficient conversation concerning the nature of poetry. This work manifests the economy of expression reflected throughout the poetic discourse of Querido silencio. It also, as will be shown, serves as a response to the essential question framing this collection and this illustrative poem: Why is poetry an addiction?
In 2005 Muñoz published Limpiar pescado: Poesía reunida (Cleaning Fish: Collected Poetry). This work contains the majority of his decidedly innovative poems published up to that temporal crossroad. Gathered here are poems from Septiembre (September), Manzanas amarillas (Yellow Apples), El apetito (Appetite), and the aforementioned award-winning Correspondencias. Limpiar pescado establishes the singular relevance of his work and at the same time brings to light the introductory prologue “Transición” (“Transition”), where Muñoz reflects on his identity as a poet and his evolving views concerning his poetics. His essay reveals the conception, development, and nature of his poetry at the mid-point of the inaugural decade of the current century.
One year later, Querido silencio appeared. Here Muñoz continues to practice many of the guiding principles outlined the year before in his aptly named “Transition.” The collection, however, is especially noteworthy because it elucidates what Domingo Sánchez-Mesa considers a distinguishing feature of the newest poetry emerging in Spain today: “una renovada consciencia poética del lenguaje” (“a renewed poetic awareness of language”). With a well-defined economy of words, Muñoz presents in this collection an elegant analysis of innovative and vitally expressive poetic discourse. Sánchez-Mesa’s Cambio de siglo: Antología de poesía española 1990–2007 (Turn of the Century: Anthology of Spanish Poetry 1990–2007) foregrounds Querido silencio by presenting seventeen poems from it while including seven from Muñoz’s earlier works. This is significant because, also in this anthology, Muñoz himself elucidates the prominent features of the new expressivity characterizing his most recent work.
In particular, when responding to one of the questions posed in the questionnaire presented to each of the poets represented in this anthology, Muñoz makes clear:
La lengua es, naturalmente, un instrumento de comunicación, de conocimiento y es un código moral, en el sentido literal, de mor, mores, costumbre, que nos invita a intervenir en él, a jugar, a dialogar, a forcejear con él. La identidad de un poeta, que es inevitablemente lingüística, creo que está en el punto que confluyen los elementos personales, sus vivencias, sus ideas y su capacidad sensorial con la corriente de la tradición elegida por él, la que le ayuda a conocer y a conocerse.
Language is, naturally, an instrument of communication, knowledge and also a moral code, in the literal sense of mor, mores, customary habits, inviting us to intervene, play, dialogue and struggle with it. The identity of a poet, which unavoidably is linguistic, I believe resides in the confluence of personal elements, his experiences, ideas and sensorial capacity as they merge with his elected tradition, the one that helps him to know and to know himself.
Additionally, in another key anthology of this same era, Muñoz furnishes further commentary regarding his evolving poetics. In Rafael Morales Barba’s Última poesía española (1990–2005) (Latest Spanish Poetry (1990–2005)), Muñoz’s “Poética” (“Poetics”) reveals that for him poetry involves a “search,” an “adventure,” and a “conversation.” These recent illuminating descriptions readily characterize Querido silencio.
The 2006 collection demonstrates Muñoz’s profound investigation into linguistic identity, both of the poet and, above all, of the poem. “Dejar la poesía” serves as a fine example. This poem probes the nature of poetry. Intriguingly, although it appears to be a self-reflexive poetics, the poem does not establish how to practice the art of poetic composition, nor does it furnish a succinct explanation concerning the process of writing poetry. Instead, by presenting poetry as an addiction, Muñoz discloses its intrinsic identity. This poem also illustrates the economy of expression distinguishing Muñoz’s newest poetry. However, as will be shown, “Dejar la poesía” does even more than this: it concisely demonstrates why his poetry is unmistakably “inventive” while also providing evidence supporting the claim that Luis Muñoz is one of the most important young poets advancing the new lyric poetry written in Spain today.
Por restar mientras que tú sumas.
Por llenarte de pájaros la mesa.
Por llevarte a donde no sabes salir.
Por castigarte sin hablar.
Por decirte: estás solo.
Por preferir que cargues
con su dolor de siglos
cuando te sientes nuevo.
Por su imán descabellado.
Por la sed que produce
cuando finge ser agua.
Por su vida paralela.
Por hablarte
cuando quieres dormir.
Por su orgullo de bestia descarriada.
Porque mira a la muerte
con el rabo del ojo
cuando canta oh belleza.
Por no dar explicaciones.
Por suficiente.
Por insuficiente.
Por beberse la sombra de mañana.
By subtracting while you add.
By filling your table with birds.
By taking you where you know no escape.
By punishing you without speaking.
By telling you: you are alone.
By preferring that you accept the burden
of its centuries of pain
when you experience something new.
By its unbridled magnetism.
By creating thirst
when pretending to be water.
By its parallel life.
By speaking to you
when you want to sleep.
By its silly pride.
Because it stares death
in the face
when it sings oh beauty.
By not providing explanations.
By just enough.
By totally insufficient.
By drinking up the shadow of tomorrow.
In this poem Muñoz introduces “poetry” as a distinctive personality with a unique temperament and an extraordinary life of its own. As such, it knows exactly what it is and what it does. Possessing unparalleled self-knowledge, “poetry” exhibits a boundless potential, supremacy, and self-will. The poem thus features a self-assured leading “character,” first identified in the title. This personage displays an impressive linguistic identity, an inviting conversational style, diverse behavioral patterns and motives, and an uncanny capacity to understand not only its primary functions but also its own enchanting qualities.
The poem allows the traits of its central persona to unfold by establishing from the outset its unique association with another fellow “character,” an “impersonal you” (“tú”). The latter experiences poetry’s effects and, at times, appears to be troubled by these. Yet the “impersonal you” cannot resist the alluring central personality and its appealing self-expression. This dramatic staging is smart and original, but what is most exciting and inviting about this poem is the engaging exchange occurring between “poetry” and “you,” two syntactically silent characters masterfully presented by means of ellipsis. Here the poet utilizes and exploits expressivity by means of syntactic and rhetorical omission.
The refined and condensed nature of Muñoz’s “Dejar la poesía” is due in large part to the clarity of expression achieved by means of ellipsis. Its use readily illustrates the minimalist efficacy of this poet’s style as well as the conceptual concision of his poetry. Two complementary summaries concerning ellipsis ground and inform the present study: one concerns its application in Spanish syntax and the other its use in poetry.
Josep María Brucart explains: a striking and cross-linguistically prominent property of natural language is the presence of phonetically unrealized elements in a sentence, necessary for its correct interpretation—a general phenomenon that falls under the heading of ellipsis. The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics adds that in ellipsis the thought is complete; only a word or words ordinarily called for in the full construction but not strictly necessary are omitted (since obvious). This obviousness that makes the omission possible is facilitated by the use of parallelism of syntactic members in the construction, which helps achieve the effect of compression.
In “Dejar la poesía,” the poem’s central “character,” “poetry,” is introduced in the title. Curiously, this immediate, direct, introductory, and phonetically realized naming does not occur elsewhere in the poem. Rather, as the poem develops, the presence of “poetry” makes itself known by means of its unmistakable absence. Ellipsis directly figures into this poem at the outset: “Por restar mientras que tú sumas” (“By subtracting while you add”). The identity of the “empty subject” of the infinitive “restar” is derived from the closest preceding noun, in this case “la poesía,” found in the title. It is the presence of such a “phonetically unrealized” element that offers the first indication of the prevalent role syntactic omission will play in this poem.
From the outset Muñoz presents “poetry” by foregrounding its absence. The first five introductory lines function as the dramatic exposition revealing the fundamental role “poetry” will play in the overall staging of the dialogue taking place among the poem’s distinctive dramatis personae. This introduction also highlights the key role ellipsis plays in the presentation of “Dejar la poesía.” The obvious omission of “poetry” in this opening scene underscores its captivating syntactic and figurative presence.
This initial scene also foregrounds the immediacy of Muñoz’s discourse. The poet quickly closes any distance between text and reader by establishing the underlying processes of omission and recovery essential to this poem. In Spanish, ellipsis is recoverable from syntax and elision is recoverable from content. The poem’s opening lines immediately require the syntactic recovery of “poetry” in order to be understood. Syntactic omission thus establishes the important cognitive course of action the reader must assume in processing empty contents.
In Sánchez-Mesa’s view, the contemporary poet’s heightened awareness of language calls for a competent reader who assumes a prominent role in comprehending and participating in poetic communication. In this way, “Dejar la poesía” exemplifies another fundamental aspect of Spain’s recent poetry.
The process of omission, however, begins in the poem’s title. Here another significant yet silent personage is introduced as the elided quasi-impersonal subject of the infinitive “dejar.” Because this infinitive appears in absolute and initial position, it does not depend on a principal verb or verb phrase preceding it. What is most intriguing is that, because there is no plausible governing subject for this infinitive, it can be understood in Spanish to have an arbitrary subject corresponding in general to “whoever”—whoever is to leave poetry. This evident and immediate use of an elided empty infinitival subject is significant: as a silent character in this poem, its presence is signaled by its absence.
“Dejar la poesía” also features another important syntactically silent “character,” an ambiguous “impersonal you,” that converses with “poetry” and in so doing witnesses various modes of being exhibited by the latter. The syntactic presence of this “you” is obvious in the poem’s first line where it performs a specific action: “tú sumas” (“you add”). As the poem develops, this character experiences the effects of “poetry.” We learn that it is repeatedly drawn to this attractive personality but also considers abandoning it because of its addictive appeal.
The poem begins by establishing a contrast between its two main characters. “Poetry” performs one action while “you” perform another in opposition: “By subtracting while you add.” Later, in the closing lines, “poetry” is characterized as at once “sufficient” and yet “insufficient,” where both descriptions further enhance the opening dichotomy.
At times the “impersonal you” benefits, as the metaphor “by filling your table with birds” suggests. However, at other times “poetry” exerts its supremacy because it is fearless in facing existential enigmas—doubt, loneliness, anguish, death, or temporality.
The primacy of “poetry” is especially evident when the poem breaks its dominant parallel structure: “Porque mira a la muerte / con el rabo del ojo / cuando canta oh belleza” (“Because it stares death / in the face / when it sings oh beauty”). Here the poet disrupts the prevailing cadence of “por + infinitive” and showcases the poem’s leading character in one of its most captivating modes of being. By making resourceful use of the potential of imaginative self-expression, “poetry” does not hesitate to face perplexing existential matters with metaphoric intensity. Muñoz not only demonstrates condensed linguistic expression characteristic of his newest poetry but also distills from this conversation the essential nature of his subject.
The eloquence of the poem’s leading personage is contrasted with the silence of the “impersonal you” at a telling point: “By punishing you without speaking.” Here the syntax of ellipsis emphasizes the resulting silence experienced by “you” when reprimanded by “poetry.” “Poetry,” in this instance and in other key moments, maintains the advantage by articulating its intention (“By telling you: you are alone”), its addictive nature (“By speaking to you / when you want to sleep”), and its unwavering belief in its discourse (“By not providing explanations”).
Verbally confident, “poetry” communicates its charm, leads its own life, and proudly displays its accomplishments. These inherent qualities make possible its unique and creative self-expression. Consciously cognizant of the potential of verbal expressivity, “poetry” both reflects on past pain and relishes its imaginative discourse when fully consuming the present moment: “By drinking up the shadow of tomorrow.”
Understood in this way, “poetry,” personified, delivers a superb performance: “By creating thirst / when pretending to be water.” Attentive to its universal appeal, “poetry” tantalizes anyone—readers, the poet, whomever. The omission of an explicit indirect object, together with the figurative longing known by anyone captivated by poetry’s enchanting idiom, underscores that the “impersonal you” is not alone.
“Dejar la poesía” makes clear that due to the charming personality of its lead personage, “poetry” is capable of captivating anyone irresistibly drawn to it even when it does not provide explanations. Self-assured, self-reflective, and self-contained, “poetry” derives satisfaction from manifesting its metaphoric mastery and aesthetic appeal: “By drinking up the shadow of tomorrow.”
In “Dejar la poesía” Muñoz investigates poetic discourse by presenting an enlightening performance featuring two distinct dramatis personae engaged in a lively conversation. The poem reveals the addictive nature of one character, “poetry,” along with the persistent circumstances enveloping the other character, the “impersonal you,” caught in a struggle to abandon an irresistible habit. Conscious self-expression assumes a significant role as the poet spotlights the self-referential linguistic identity of both personalities.
What is most innovative in this poem is the way Muñoz enriches the discussion concerning the language of poetry by allowing condensed poetic expression to demonstrate its provocative and unbound potential. Special awareness of language is fundamental to this poem and the collection it represents. It is also critical to understanding the incisive linguistic identity of this poet and his extraordinary ability to exploit syntactic and poetic ellipses. In this way “Dejar la poesía” serves as an illustrative example of another distinguishing feature characterizing the newest poetry emerging in Spain today: a syntax that searches for new possibilities.
At the crucial intersection of the first and second decades of the new twenty-first century, Luis Muñoz and his work will continue to shape and distinguish contemporary Spanish poetry.
‘Those who read poetry need it like drug addicts.’
—Francisco Brines
At the intersection of two centuries, Luis Muñoz (1966) is one of contemporary Spain’s most salient poets. A number of critics have commented on Muñoz’s poetry, characterizing it as “minimalist” and “measured.” They note his style to be “pure,” “refined,” “atomized,” and “condensed.” In his “poetry of ellipsis and metonymy” this poet seeks to explore “intellectual enigmas.” His poems have been anthologized in a number of major turn-of-the-century collections. Most recently, Luis Antonio de Villena observes that it is in Correspondencias (2001) (Correspondences) and Querido silencio (2006) (Dear Silence) where Muñoz “has found his voice.” Significantly, Correspondencias received two prestigious awards in Spain in 2001. Nevertheless, no study has examined his poetry in any detail, and the present work addresses this matter.
Muñoz’s most recent poetry demonstrates conceptual and linguistic efficiency due, in part, to his mastery of syntactic omission. Ellipsis figures prominently in the 2006 collection. In one exemplary poem, “Dejar la poesía” (“Leave Poetry”), two syntactically silent characters engage in a conceptually efficient conversation concerning the nature of poetry. This work manifests the economy of expression reflected throughout the poetic discourse of Querido silencio. It also, as will be shown, serves as a response to the essential question framing this collection and this illustrative poem: Why is poetry an addiction?
In 2005 Muñoz published Limpiar pescado: Poesía reunida (Cleaning Fish: Collected Poetry). This work contains the majority of his decidedly innovative poems published up to that temporal crossroad. Gathered here are poems from Septiembre (September), Manzanas amarillas (Yellow Apples), El apetito (Appetite), and the aforementioned award-winning Correspondencias. Limpiar pescado establishes the singular relevance of his work and at the same time brings to light the introductory prologue “Transición” (“Transition”), where Muñoz reflects on his identity as a poet and his evolving views concerning his poetics. His essay reveals the conception, development, and nature of his poetry at the mid-point of the inaugural decade of the current century.
One year later, Querido silencio appeared. Here Muñoz continues to practice many of the guiding principles outlined the year before in his aptly named “Transition.” The collection, however, is especially noteworthy because it elucidates what Domingo Sánchez-Mesa considers a distinguishing feature of the newest poetry emerging in Spain today: “una renovada consciencia poética del lenguaje” (“a renewed poetic awareness of language”). With a well-defined economy of words, Muñoz presents in this collection an elegant analysis of innovative and vitally expressive poetic discourse. Sánchez-Mesa’s Cambio de siglo: Antología de poesía española 1990–2007 (Turn of the Century: Anthology of Spanish Poetry 1990–2007) foregrounds Querido silencio by presenting seventeen poems from it while including seven from Muñoz’s earlier works. This is significant because, also in this anthology, Muñoz himself elucidates the prominent features of the new expressivity characterizing his most recent work.
In particular, when responding to one of the questions posed in the questionnaire presented to each of the poets represented in this anthology, Muñoz makes clear:
La lengua es, naturalmente, un instrumento de comunicación, de conocimiento y es un código moral, en el sentido literal, de mor, mores, costumbre, que nos invita a intervenir en él, a jugar, a dialogar, a forcejear con él. La identidad de un poeta, que es inevitablemente lingüística, creo que está en el punto que confluyen los elementos personales, sus vivencias, sus ideas y su capacidad sensorial con la corriente de la tradición elegida por él, la que le ayuda a conocer y a conocerse.
Language is, naturally, an instrument of communication, knowledge and also a moral code, in the literal sense of mor, mores, customary habits, inviting us to intervene, play, dialogue and struggle with it. The identity of a poet, which unavoidably is linguistic, I believe resides in the confluence of personal elements, his experiences, ideas and sensorial capacity as they merge with his elected tradition, the one that helps him to know and to know himself.
Additionally, in another key anthology of this same era, Muñoz furnishes further commentary regarding his evolving poetics. In Rafael Morales Barba’s Última poesía española (1990–2005) (Latest Spanish Poetry (1990–2005)), Muñoz’s “Poética” (“Poetics”) reveals that for him poetry involves a “search,” an “adventure,” and a “conversation.” These recent illuminating descriptions readily characterize Querido silencio.
The 2006 collection demonstrates Muñoz’s profound investigation into linguistic identity, both of the poet and, above all, of the poem. “Dejar la poesía” serves as a fine example. This poem probes the nature of poetry. Intriguingly, although it appears to be a self-reflexive poetics, the poem does not establish how to practice the art of poetic composition, nor does it furnish a succinct explanation concerning the process of writing poetry. Instead, by presenting poetry as an addiction, Muñoz discloses its intrinsic identity. This poem also illustrates the economy of expression distinguishing Muñoz’s newest poetry. However, as will be shown, “Dejar la poesía” does even more than this: it concisely demonstrates why his poetry is unmistakably “inventive” while also providing evidence supporting the claim that Luis Muñoz is one of the most important young poets advancing the new lyric poetry written in Spain today.
Por restar mientras que tú sumas.
Por llenarte de pájaros la mesa.
Por llevarte a donde no sabes salir.
Por castigarte sin hablar.
Por decirte: estás solo.
Por preferir que cargues
con su dolor de siglos
cuando te sientes nuevo.
Por su imán descabellado.
Por la sed que produce
cuando finge ser agua.
Por su vida paralela.
Por hablarte
cuando quieres dormir.
Por su orgullo de bestia descarriada.
Porque mira a la muerte
con el rabo del ojo
cuando canta oh belleza.
Por no dar explicaciones.
Por suficiente.
Por insuficiente.
Por beberse la sombra de mañana.
By subtracting while you add.
By filling your table with birds.
By taking you where you know no escape.
By punishing you without speaking.
By telling you: you are alone.
By preferring that you accept the burden
of its centuries of pain
when you experience something new.
By its unbridled magnetism.
By creating thirst
when pretending to be water.
By its parallel life.
By speaking to you
when you want to sleep.
By its silly pride.
Because it stares death
in the face
when it sings oh beauty.
By not providing explanations.
By just enough.
By totally insufficient.
By drinking up the shadow of tomorrow.
In this poem Muñoz introduces “poetry” as a distinctive personality with a unique temperament and an extraordinary life of its own. As such, it knows exactly what it is and what it does. Possessing unparalleled self-knowledge, “poetry” exhibits a boundless potential, supremacy, and self-will. The poem thus features a self-assured leading “character,” first identified in the title. This personage displays an impressive linguistic identity, an inviting conversational style, diverse behavioral patterns and motives, and an uncanny capacity to understand not only its primary functions but also its own enchanting qualities.
The poem allows the traits of its central persona to unfold by establishing from the outset its unique association with another fellow “character,” an “impersonal you” (“tú”). The latter experiences poetry’s effects and, at times, appears to be troubled by these. Yet the “impersonal you” cannot resist the alluring central personality and its appealing self-expression. This dramatic staging is smart and original, but what is most exciting and inviting about this poem is the engaging exchange occurring between “poetry” and “you,” two syntactically silent characters masterfully presented by means of ellipsis. Here the poet utilizes and exploits expressivity by means of syntactic and rhetorical omission.
The refined and condensed nature of Muñoz’s “Dejar la poesía” is due in large part to the clarity of expression achieved by means of ellipsis. Its use readily illustrates the minimalist efficacy of this poet’s style as well as the conceptual concision of his poetry. Two complementary summaries concerning ellipsis ground and inform the present study: one concerns its application in Spanish syntax and the other its use in poetry.
Josep María Brucart explains: a striking and cross-linguistically prominent property of natural language is the presence of phonetically unrealized elements in a sentence, necessary for its correct interpretation—a general phenomenon that falls under the heading of ellipsis. The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics adds that in ellipsis the thought is complete; only a word or words ordinarily called for in the full construction but not strictly necessary are omitted (since obvious). This obviousness that makes the omission possible is facilitated by the use of parallelism of syntactic members in the construction, which helps achieve the effect of compression.
In “Dejar la poesía,” the poem’s central “character,” “poetry,” is introduced in the title. Curiously, this immediate, direct, introductory, and phonetically realized naming does not occur elsewhere in the poem. Rather, as the poem develops, the presence of “poetry” makes itself known by means of its unmistakable absence. Ellipsis directly figures into this poem at the outset: “Por restar mientras que tú sumas” (“By subtracting while you add”). The identity of the “empty subject” of the infinitive “restar” is derived from the closest preceding noun, in this case “la poesía,” found in the title. It is the presence of such a “phonetically unrealized” element that offers the first indication of the prevalent role syntactic omission will play in this poem.
From the outset Muñoz presents “poetry” by foregrounding its absence. The first five introductory lines function as the dramatic exposition revealing the fundamental role “poetry” will play in the overall staging of the dialogue taking place among the poem’s distinctive dramatis personae. This introduction also highlights the key role ellipsis plays in the presentation of “Dejar la poesía.” The obvious omission of “poetry” in this opening scene underscores its captivating syntactic and figurative presence.
This initial scene also foregrounds the immediacy of Muñoz’s discourse. The poet quickly closes any distance between text and reader by establishing the underlying processes of omission and recovery essential to this poem. In Spanish, ellipsis is recoverable from syntax and elision is recoverable from content. The poem’s opening lines immediately require the syntactic recovery of “poetry” in order to be understood. Syntactic omission thus establishes the important cognitive course of action the reader must assume in processing empty contents.
In Sánchez-Mesa’s view, the contemporary poet’s heightened awareness of language calls for a competent reader who assumes a prominent role in comprehending and participating in poetic communication. In this way, “Dejar la poesía” exemplifies another fundamental aspect of Spain’s recent poetry.
The process of omission, however, begins in the poem’s title. Here another significant yet silent personage is introduced as the elided quasi-impersonal subject of the infinitive “dejar.” Because this infinitive appears in absolute and initial position, it does not depend on a principal verb or verb phrase preceding it. What is most intriguing is that, because there is no plausible governing subject for this infinitive, it can be understood in Spanish to have an arbitrary subject corresponding in general to “whoever”—whoever is to leave poetry. This evident and immediate use of an elided empty infinitival subject is significant: as a silent character in this poem, its presence is signaled by its absence.
“Dejar la poesía” also features another important syntactically silent “character,” an ambiguous “impersonal you,” that converses with “poetry” and in so doing witnesses various modes of being exhibited by the latter. The syntactic presence of this “you” is obvious in the poem’s first line where it performs a specific action: “tú sumas” (“you add”). As the poem develops, this character experiences the effects of “poetry.” We learn that it is repeatedly drawn to this attractive personality but also considers abandoning it because of its addictive appeal.
The poem begins by establishing a contrast between its two main characters. “Poetry” performs one action while “you” perform another in opposition: “By subtracting while you add.” Later, in the closing lines, “poetry” is characterized as at once “sufficient” and yet “insufficient,” where both descriptions further enhance the opening dichotomy.
At times the “impersonal you” benefits, as the metaphor “by filling your table with birds” suggests. However, at other times “poetry” exerts its supremacy because it is fearless in facing existential enigmas—doubt, loneliness, anguish, death, or temporality.
The primacy of “poetry” is especially evident when the poem breaks its dominant parallel structure: “Porque mira a la muerte / con el rabo del ojo / cuando canta oh belleza” (“Because it stares death / in the face / when it sings oh beauty”). Here the poet disrupts the prevailing cadence of “por + infinitive” and showcases the poem’s leading character in one of its most captivating modes of being. By making resourceful use of the potential of imaginative self-expression, “poetry” does not hesitate to face perplexing existential matters with metaphoric intensity. Muñoz not only demonstrates condensed linguistic expression characteristic of his newest poetry but also distills from this conversation the essential nature of his subject.
The eloquence of the poem’s leading personage is contrasted with the silence of the “impersonal you” at a telling point: “By punishing you without speaking.” Here the syntax of ellipsis emphasizes the resulting silence experienced by “you” when reprimanded by “poetry.” “Poetry,” in this instance and in other key moments, maintains the advantage by articulating its intention (“By telling you: you are alone”), its addictive nature (“By speaking to you / when you want to sleep”), and its unwavering belief in its discourse (“By not providing explanations”).
Verbally confident, “poetry” communicates its charm, leads its own life, and proudly displays its accomplishments. These inherent qualities make possible its unique and creative self-expression. Consciously cognizant of the potential of verbal expressivity, “poetry” both reflects on past pain and relishes its imaginative discourse when fully consuming the present moment: “By drinking up the shadow of tomorrow.”
Understood in this way, “poetry,” personified, delivers a superb performance: “By creating thirst / when pretending to be water.” Attentive to its universal appeal, “poetry” tantalizes anyone—readers, the poet, whomever. The omission of an explicit indirect object, together with the figurative longing known by anyone captivated by poetry’s enchanting idiom, underscores that the “impersonal you” is not alone.
“Dejar la poesía” makes clear that due to the charming personality of its lead personage, “poetry” is capable of captivating anyone irresistibly drawn to it even when it does not provide explanations. Self-assured, self-reflective, and self-contained, “poetry” derives satisfaction from manifesting its metaphoric mastery and aesthetic appeal: “By drinking up the shadow of tomorrow.”
In “Dejar la poesía” Muñoz investigates poetic discourse by presenting an enlightening performance featuring two distinct dramatis personae engaged in a lively conversation. The poem reveals the addictive nature of one character, “poetry,” along with the persistent circumstances enveloping the other character, the “impersonal you,” caught in a struggle to abandon an irresistible habit. Conscious self-expression assumes a significant role as the poet spotlights the self-referential linguistic identity of both personalities.
What is most innovative in this poem is the way Muñoz enriches the discussion concerning the language of poetry by allowing condensed poetic expression to demonstrate its provocative and unbound potential. Special awareness of language is fundamental to this poem and the collection it represents. It is also critical to understanding the incisive linguistic identity of this poet and his extraordinary ability to exploit syntactic and poetic ellipses. In this way “Dejar la poesía” serves as an illustrative example of another distinguishing feature characterizing the newest poetry emerging in Spain today: a syntax that searches for new possibilities.
At the crucial intersection of the first and second decades of the new twenty-first century, Luis Muñoz and his work will continue to shape and distinguish contemporary Spanish poetry.
Syntactically Silent Subjects: Luis Muñoz and Poetry of Ellipsis
Judith Nantell
