on Friday would have turned one hundred years Múgica Rafael Gabriel Celaya, the tough hernani that, thanks to his craft as a poet, went down in history as Gabriel Celaya. The husband, also Amparitxu Gaston.
Almost twenty years since his death. He came, I remember, in ninety-four ninety-five. An anthology staff, also purchased as many at that time, in The Buscón . I discovered so much, that rough poetry of the fifties, that poetry without concessions, I imagined a Spain gray. I discovered, too, that Basques had considered the first English. Those verses. That stout attitude towards life. Poetry as a weapon loaded with future. Another thing on which to build us learn to enjoy as individuals. If vulgarity is a good starting point, I accept the challenge of Goma , literature helps us to escape.
Celaya's poems. One hundred years now. Where be it. Or what's left of it. Maybe in your books.
PS: I read somewhere an epitaph on the grave I imagine that someday visit you Cesar Vallejo in Paris: "Here lies I could die César Vallejo "
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