Guillermo Pilía
WHY BARBARITO?
Concerning Desnuda materia
By now for many years I come to affirm that Carlos Barbarito is one
of the best poets of the generation which many call 'of 80'
and that I prefer to call 'of '78', for reasons that do not
concern us here. I do not know whether my judgment has some
value or authority, but it is at least unconventional, inasmuch as I myself belong to that generation and
inasmuch as it has become common practice to recognize the merits of
older or younger poets, but almost never of those who are running
in the same
race. Be that as it may, Naked matter is a work that could well be taken as
a paradigm
on which to base that judgment somewhat objectively.
To begin with, the ambiguity of the title is a characteristic that
you will easily find in the poetry of Carlos Barbarito. Naked
matter is
as much the matter that constitutes us, gives sustenance
to our existential precariousness, as the naked matter of poetry, the naked word, in the sense of needy and
insufficient, but also of devoid of all rhetoric, all
artifice that could obscure any raw vision on reality. The
word is halfway between nothingness/and dust, sentence that
could also apply to man, and the poet does not know whether he will be able to incarnate the diffuse, to block the
orifice thatbleeds. The ambiguity, that incessant
asking 'who?' or 'what?', is not a mere stylistic device, but
rather the
consequence of a determined view of reality.
Reality - as the epígraph of Fichte reminds us - is not the chaos
that surrounds us, but the frail architecture that the poet
creates not to be shipwrecked between dry innocence,/coast on
the drift, margin, periphery, between the curtains of mist
wherein he is groping. Thereforeis bitter the bread whereupon I feed./And trouble the
water that I drink./And the voice that I hear, or believe to hear,/seems to arrive from the other side of the
world.
The
poet constructs, but the office that I exert is hardly reflected
light,/deceit, it is continuous interrogation:
Does there exist a space of calm,
a wave on the surface,/ a rock celestial or earthly, fruit of Edén,
of Matisse/ on this linen canvas extended before the eye of the rain?;
'To dream of
snowfall where never was snow/ of a downpour
where there always has been desert?'
And the answers do not exist: To request/ an answer- outbreak of firework,/ an
ingenious hypothesis,/ dust in the face that already is almost mere
bones?.
There is possibly much irrationalism in the genesis of Barbarito's
poetry, dionysiac drunkenness. More than for the logical
sense of each poem, however, we should look for an emotional meaning in
the entire set, because each one of its books is built like a mosaic, by
the
accumulation of words and emotionally significant images. For that
reason, the poet feels to be in spiritual and atemporal communion with
Hieronymus Bosch, who, in his Garden of the Delights and its Musical Hell,
perhaps offers not so much a distorted image of the reality, as
rather a
suspiciously lucid image of it. Therefore, he is the painter
whom he asks: is there a way, /a truth, a word, a rainbow, /
under the haystack that crushes everything?
Barbarito's poetry, we said, is a poetry of the irrational, of ambiguity,
of interrogation. But sometimes, in the middle of the frieze, a
figure arises with suggestive corporeality, rational, historical
statements that carry the weight of a judgment: the earth is ill of
a serious evil,/perhaps incurable, - profane prophecies -
you will suffer, you will suffer badly,/strange women will bring
ointments/and they will blame love, the lightning; certainties of the
irreducibility of memory:
notwithstanding the times passed since
the
pains and the works, the seen
and the sensed, the loved and the
hated
every night of storm I return to that house,
I am again
the boy with the closed eyes.
Perhaps a slow, meditative, but above all empathic reading of Naked
matter can explain why Carlos Barbarito is, in my opinion, one
of the best poets of the generation of '78. We, who belong to that
generation, carry in the thigh an ulcer that does not close, in the
flank a wound that does not stop bleeding, but continues to show
its black mouth. Far from any anecdotal reference, of any direct
allusion, the poetry of Carlos Barbarito does recreate, in the etymological sense
of 'to create again', a world of anguish without
naming the anguish, of desolation and misery that emanate not from
the
concrete, but exude from the words:
He smells the abandoned dog, the rags in the dark,
breathes an air that others have
breathed already,
gets sick of the slow rain,
the distant noises, the eyes that lurk,
smells a heap of shavings,
the nude that no longer asks,
breathes blind
matter, without a place in the Table,
sleeps on his side or sitting up
with one eye open and the other
turned inward, his hard immobile lava,
gets sick of nothing, the void.
.©
Guillermo Pilía
2004
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