Arturo Sánchez (Barcelona, 1990) is finishing his Master’s degree on spanish poetry in the Ecole Normale Superieure de Lyon (France), and prepares a PhD at the university of Paris 8. His latest book, La Tierra sueña para ti, has been published in 2016 by El Gaviero Ediciones (Almería, Spain). He’s also the author of Un incendio en cada oasis (LUMA Westbau / 89plus, Zurich, 2014). His poems have been included in anthologies such as Apuestas: nueve nuevos poetas  (La Bella Varsovia, 2014, Spain), Serial: antología poética sobre series de televisión (El Gaviero Ediciones, 2014, Spain), Poets in Transilvania (Armanis, 2015, Romania), Pasarás de moda (Montea, 2015, Mexico), and also in online projects such as Tenían veinte años y estaban locos, Los perros románticos and 89plus Clubhouse. Between 2012 and 2014, he has co-directed the five meetings of young spanish poets Poesía Ya in Barcelona.


Arturo Sánchez (Barcelona, 1990) urmează să-şi finalizeze lucrarea de disertaţie despre poezia spaniolă la Ecole Normale Superieure din Lyon (Franţa) şi se pregăteşte pentru un doctorat în cadrul universităţii din Paris. Ultima lui carte La Tierra sueña para ti  a fost publicată în anul 2016 de El Gaviero Ediciones (Almeria, Spania. Este, de asemenea, autorul cărţii Un incendio en cada oasis (LUMA Westbau/ 89plus, Zurich, 2014). Poemele lui au fost introduse în antologii ca Apuestas: nueve nuevos poetas (La Bella Varsovia, 2014, Spain), Serial: antología poética sobre series de televisión (El Gaviero Ediciones, 2014, Spain), Poets in Transilvania (Armanis, 2015, Romania), Pasarás de moda (Montea, 2015, Mexico), dar şi în alte proiecte destinate mediului online, cum ar fi Tenían veinte años y estaban locos, Los perros románticos şi 89plus Clubhouse. Între anii 2012 şi 2014 a co-regizat  cele cinci întâlniri ale poeţilor spanioli tineri, Poesía Ya in Barcelona.

 

Naples

Naples, Naples, heart of the beast, lung of the city.
Naples of fauces covered with plaque, fauces of the beast, Naples aborted in the Christian and Latin morning
Naples of horns in my brains, chewing thirsty mouth of the beast in the void
Pericolosa Napoli
Naples of the despair of destroyed princesses with white white white immaculate hearts
Shroud-white
Christ-white, Naples of the Virgin
Naples of the masses with no Hercules but with colossal bellies and fat, hanging, stupid lips.
Naples mother of rage, dirty and hungry mother all night and day,
Fauces of men and hatred tattooed with mold, dirty arms of Man in the fruit store at via Chiaria and bums selling Kleenex in Santa Chiara
Napoli miracolosa!
Take this poem written on my hostel bed, close, deserted of friends and the misery of Walid-Christ sleeping on this bed next to mine wearing his everyday clothes with a cyst on his lip
Walid, Walid, you who are here to work, we believe in you, and we believe in your holy absence when we write!
Naples of Miracles and the sixty year-old Hermaphrodite, potbellied, blonde, ugly, unrecognizable, irreconcilable under the fancy arches of the Umberto I gallery
Napoli of incomprehensible imprecations!
Naples in your den, Naples in your mousehole, Naples under your rock,
Naples founded on Virgil’s eggs the Lord is with you
Naples rage, Naples of Princesses in distress where I saw the most beautiful and lonely and terrifying and sad women I have ever seen
Naples blacksmith of malformations, deaf Naples and the lobotomized waiter in the garbage dump
Naples of castles whose moats are parking lots and junkyards and embalmed crocodiles, scraps of fat toothless middle-aged ladies
Naples of San Domenico, Santa Chiara, San Gennaro, Santa Lucia, sleepless Naples, what’s your night like?
5 stars Lello, lymphatic and fragile son of Ire Lello says “pericolosa”, but at night you would whisper your secrets in my ear.
Naples of brothers and cousins and blood.
Naples of halitosis, Naples of front doors, vaults and filthy air, Naples foul forgotten Tupperware container, not everything is lost.
Naples of Walid smoking by the window and of nocturnal crickets, not everything is lost.

*
Annex to Naples

Napoli, capitale spirituale dell’Occidente, I am nothing but mold on your peak, peak of delights for strollers
To be a bum in Naples like on the Everest or in Heaven, strange and invisible among the angels of the Lord
Naples of closed shops and bad business of worse poets, analcolica, old Italian books about love philters ready to melt like the ashes of any old saint in a reliquary with the effigy of Maradona
Save us and understand that I am a holy man too
With plaster feet and wooden legs gnawed by bats
And I only speak the language of dogs and statues
And everything is perfect.

 

Author photo by Ricardo Sanchez