Indio Gris



Madrid, February 13th, 1980


Yesterday I put February issue into an envelope for you, which came out brilliantly  and also issues 5 and 6 that you hadn't received.

In January issue, where poetry asked for freedom and that way we had several inconveniences, and some of them so serious that I came to think (and I'm the only one in condition to think about that) we had to stop the publication of the magazine, and I, as you can imagine, almost died.

The printer said firmly: "Or you pay me, at least 1,200,000 pesetas (a percentage of the debt) or there's no magazine". Can you imagine? We all became crazy, and as we know, crazy people not always solve reality in a correct way.

I was bad, without ideas until I realised that I was a worker and then I decided to sell my future work and I slightly touched slavery in that gesture. I had contradictions, after they gave me the pay cheque, I lost it on my way to the Publishing House, and once again I almost became crazy.

The next day everything was settled up and that's why I can send you February issue.

Anyway, I must admit, not all is fury, there are some sounds. In the solitude of my room, in January, while she slept or breast-fed, I have written my best poems. In the March issue I'll publish one of those poems.

The other thing that is happening to me is that I feel much younger that in previous months, without knowing well why.

A man of 40 is a mature man but is also a young man. There were writers who started to write at 40. To put it simply, I feel young and reality helps me in that.

My son, Jorge Fabián is a very tiny child and he is still breast-fed and that's wonderful, but that also happened to me when I was young and if one experiences the same things as when one was young, one is young.

A friend from Málaga brought home some herbs with the same odour as Buenos Aires has and that used to happen to me when I was young. And the odour, magnificent odour, fills my life with ghosts and passions and I go around all day with infinite desires of loving and that used to happen to me when I was young.

My reality, as you may see, instead of leading me, as  happens to all men, towards old age, is leading me towards rejuvenation and that's an accomplishment. If I want to live 200 years it's good that at 40, things that used to happen to me when I was 20, keep happening. And yet reality does more things for me to feel young. The book Somersault, completely translated into French, is my first book in French and my first book was published when I was 20.


Madrid, March 23rd, 1981


I don't know in reality how I gradually transformed myself into a solitary man. Little by little I'm losing my desires for writing letters and talking to people. From  brooding to brooding, from error to error, I don't find anyone with whom to deviate my destiny in a conversation.

And yet I have some hopes, for example, if I continue working as I'm doing these last two months, in two or three years I would solve my economic problems and the ones of my big family. If I continue working, I'll probably publish in six months time some notes from the Psychoanalysis classes I'm delivering on Thursdays since three weeks ago. If I can get some woman to fall in love with me this year, perhaps I'll be able to publish a small book of poems (not the one I'd like to publish, but at least something).

 Last week I went to renew my passport, I hope I can make the following  procedures to nationalise myself, procedures which I have begun around ten times and  was never able to finish.

 My real situation is worsening, but I must say that as my reality worsens, I win prestige. Europeans are very strange. Who knows when I'll be able to understand them.

 One of the most usual opinions about Argentines in Spain is that three years ago there were 500,000 of them in Spain and now only 15,000 remain. If this flow of opinion would have something to do with truth, it means that in some way I'm among the few who passed the exams, but still I don't know which the prize is. Award which has to be granted to me, because  I not only stayed but founded three or four institutions that in due time, I imagine, will be recognised.

  It's also true that I never received any important, effective stimulus to keep on going, but anyway I kept doing something.

 My thought is a modern thought, my life isn't, in that contradiction, the symptom is found. I realise that I use in my vocabulary about 500 more words than the common people use, but sometimes and in spite of such richness, I don't have enough money to eat and in no way this is a metaphor. When I read my unpublished poems, I sense that nobody has written yet about those things in such way and, however I don't know how to or I can't do anything with that treasure.


 Madrid, April 10th, 1980


 I have been, during Easter, at the Second Week of Sexology Studies of Euskadi, in Vitoria city in the Basque Country.

 And what I want to tell you is that the day it was my turn to deliver my lecture, I elevated poetry to a place where no one had taken it before. I started with some words from  Rimbaud and afterwards I said that woman wasn't the subject of neither history nor the unconscious system, but subject of Poetry. And added that to explain such a revolutionary conception of woman I would use a language which couldn't be understood by the powerful and that that language was no other than Poetry's and right away, to the 250 people waiting for Menassa's news about feminine sexuality, I threw  three poems on their heads called: LOVE; THE WOMAN, POETRY OF FIRE and MADNESS, and after reading the last verse, I said: The colloquy is open. And I tell you, it was brilliant.


I remember
your ripped
panther womb.
My teeth.
Your claws
turned into ashes over my face.
Your perfect ferocity detained
in my perfect beauty.

I remember the sharp violin
between your legs,
desperate sex
the sounds of heaven,
infinitely tensing
your body to the maximum
in the space
to reach
the edges of my voice.

I sang
as if it were natural
in man to sing.

Registering the sublime
and your music
high as the mountain peaks
which are born
above peaks,
painful and eternal snow
your music stopped to fall,
final symphony
brusquely quartered,
by the obscure tremor
of my song.

I played the drum
and turned her crazy.
When she turned crazy
and  didn't care
any longer for music,
she perfumed herself for me
and conversed  about
how difficult it is to sing.

We drank spirits,
we drank spirits
and slowly smoked our miseries.

She used to tell me and I used to tell her:

I want to flood
the universe with my madness.

And far beyond, what will you do?
beyond the universe.

She would remain silent
and I would tell her:

It affected you this morning
to play who could reach higher
with one's singing.
I caress the forehead and tell her
I couldn't win over you,
you stopped playing the sublime
scared by the tremor
of those jungle drums,
pounding in the middle of the sky.

She would make a grimace
and I would remain silent.

The wind slightly touched
our hair
and none of the two
knew the outcome.

When we didn't know what to do
we smoked
and it was fun when we smoked
to see how smoke
formed thin crystal columns around her,
the thinnest wands
of osier and ivory
so that her body would have
that illuminated and musical presence
and at the same time that remoteness.

She said to me and I smoked,
so as to have enough smoke
in the construction of her grandeur.

When we smoke
you become like an idiot,
you do nothing but look at me
and I am ashamed
and I want to listen
to the burst of my desire
and I see you there
so silent in your eyes
and I am trapped
by the light murmur of your verses
like when we played this morning
the sublime and I cannot believe it.

Tell me, who are you?
the quietness of the osier
or the beauty of the ivory.
Orang-utan without voice
or crystal-like unforgettable song.
And he held his head
with both hands
and dived into me
like at sea
delirious clam
I can't any longer.

She twisted in my womb,
looking for a companion fish,
marine deity
who would show
the secrets of the sea.

She fed herself with my semen
and at times
she raised her head to say:
Everything is beautiful. Thank you.

I was coming out of my lethargy
the best I could.
She curled up small,
grandiose on my belly.
Her perfect beauty
in my perfect ferocity.

I told her
while she was agonising:
Now that you are dead
I want you to dance
like the fish in the sea
the nights when the poetic
invades her entrails.

Now that you are dead
I want you to dance for me
a dance of love
and no night flights,
we will stay
to sleep at home.

I shake her
for her to open her eyes,
I raise her in my arms,
throw her against the ceiling
of the room
and she
falls heavily on the floor
several times.
The game is over
I say to myself,
she is dead.

And I start looking
with my mouth on her body,
for the lost diamond.
And her movements
are again like that of the camellias
and to my surprise she howls
and in that howl
she touches the confines of the sky
and this time I know
that there will not be a poem
which can contain that cry.

When she came back,
uncombed and battered
she said to me:
You are a fool
you saw me flying and not even
tried to reach me.
Anyone can fly high this way.
When I flew,
I saw you on the bed waiting for me
and higher each time
I would turn madder.
Immensity near heaven
in that solitude rather than enjoying,
awe would tie itself to my eyes
and I landed rapidly
and now I promise you
to fly always with you
and in that gesture
once more
I would die.



Delivers the 2001 Working Woman Award
to Amelia Díez Cuesta  
MARCH 8TH , 2001 A LAS 20:30 HS

C/Princesa 17 - 3° izq. - Madrid 28008
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Indio Gris