101 + 19 = 120 poemas by Angel Gonzalez

By Angel Gonzalez

Angel González (Oviedo, 1925) es sin duda uno de los mayores y más representativos poetas de l. a. « Generación poética del 50 ». El presente volumen recoge ciento un poemas seleccionados por el propio autor de su ya mítica obra « Palabra sobre palabra », además de 19 poemas inéditos.
Ángel González obtuvo el Premio Príncipe de Asturias de las Letras en 1985 y en 1996 el Premio Reina Sofía de Poesía Iberoamericana. En este mismo año de 1996 fue elegido miembro de los angeles genuine Academia Española.

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Ballad of the Poverties from per thirty days Review

There’s the poverty of the cockroach state and the rusted bathroom bowl
The poverty of to scouse borrow foodstuff for the 1st time
The poverty of to mouth a penis for a paycheck
The poverty of candy charity ladling
Soup for the bad who should always be there for that
There’s the poverty of idea poverty of the swollen stomach shamed
Poverty of the degree mill the poll that is going nowhere
Princes of predation permit me inform you
There are poverties and there are poverties

There’s the poverty of inexpensive baggage bursted open at immigration
The poverty of the became head, the prevented eyes
The poverty of bored intercourse of tormented sex
The poverty of the bounced payment the poverty of the dumpster dive
The poverty of the pawned horn the poverty of the smashed studying glasses
The poverty pushing the sheeted gurney the poverty cleansing up the puke
The poverty of the pavement artist the poverty passed-out on pavement
Princes of finance you who've no longer lain there
There are poverties and there are poverties

There is the poverty of hand-to-mouth and door-to-door
And the poverty of reports patched-up to promote there
There’s the poverty of the kid thumbing the Interstate
And the poverty of the bride enlisting for war
There’s the poverty of prescriptions who can afford
And the poverty of the way could you ever finish it
There is the poverty of stones fisted in pocket
And the poverty of the village bulldozed to rubble
Princes of weaponry who've in no way tasted war
There are poverties and there are poverties
There’s the poverty of wages stressed out for the funeral you
Can’t get to the poverty of the wage cut
There’s the poverty of human exertions provided silently at the curb
The poverty of the no-contact legal visit
There’s the poverty of backyard sale scrapings unfold
And rejected the poverty of eviction, marriage ceremony mattress out on street
Prince permit me inform you who won't ever study via phrases
There are poverties and there are poverties

You who go back and forth by way of deepest jet like a housefly
Buzzing with the opposite flies of plundered poverties
Princes and courtiers who won't ever research via words
Here’s a replicate you could check out: take it: it’s yours.

Extra resources for 101 + 19 = 120 poemas

Sample text

22 Requiem for the Crappies The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley No kitchens on the run, no striking camp We moved quick and sudden in our own country. The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp. A people, hardly marching on the hike We found new tactics happening each day: We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike And stampede cattle into infantry, Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown. Until, on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave. Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.

Her stomach shrunk, she exhilarates in mid- water. Its throbbing is speed through days and weeks. Who knows now if she knows her depth or direction? She's passed Malin and Tory, silent, wakeless, a wisp, a wick that is its own taper and light through the weltering dark. Where she's lost once she lays ten thousand feet down in her origins. The current carries slicks of orphaned spawn. ) )4 7 Vision Unless his hair was £me-combed The lice, they said, would gang up Into a mealy rope And drag him, small, dirty, doomed, Down to the water.

So whether he calls it spirit music Or not, I don't care. He took it Out of wind off mid-Atlantic. Still he maintains, from nowhere. It comes off the bow gravely, Rephrases itself into the air. Whinlands All year round the whin Can show a blossom or two But it's in full bloom now. As if the small yolk stain From all the birds' eggs in All the nests of the spring Were spiked and hung Everywhere on bushes to ripen. Hills oxidize gold. Above the smoulder of green shoot And dross of dead thorns underfoot The blossoms scald.

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