A book a day: Vicent Andrés Estellés: Book of wonders

Language: Valencian

Year of publication: 1971

Valuation: essential

Today marks the 100th anniversary of the birth in Burjassot of Vicent Andrés Estellés, one of the greatest poets ever to have been in the Valencian language (and, therefore, Catalan), said with all the caution that is required to establish some kind of hierarchy or even gradation in a genre of appreciation as subjective as poetry, even more so on the part of this humble reader. But we understand each other… and in any case, Vicent Andrés Estellés was the canewithout a doubt, not only one of the best poets ever written in the Valencian/Catalan language, but I would say one of the best born in Spain in the 20th century. A poet of the 20th century, although well rooted in the classics of his language: not only is the title of this book taken from another by Ramon Llull, from the 12th century, but each poem in it is headed by a quote from Roís de Corella, Per March, Jordi de Sant Jordi or, of course and above all (how could it not be?), Ausiàs March.

This does not mean that Estellés’ poetry (Andrés is also the first surname, not a given name, but let us accept the convention of using the second) follows old models to the letter or gives off a whiff of mothballs. Quite the contrary: it is poetry of extraordinary liveliness, astride social poetry (but prefiguring that of “experience”) and, above all, the spirit of life on the street, the freshness of the doorways and the darkness of the neighbouring staircases where lovers kiss, the streets, the avenues – the Alameda, in fact – the parks, the open spaces and parapets of the city of Valencia and its surroundings. Because Valencia is one of the main motifs of this book, not only as the setting for his poems, but a central element, a character (however cliché this may sound) that moves from top to bottom, from North to South and from East to West, through all its pages – in fact, we find in them a vibrant poem, Deadly coscomposed entirely of streets and bridges of Valencia-; a Valencia different in many ways from the current one, although, in any case, recognizable. The Valencia that was and that, when the book was published, was already beginning to be lost.

Because nostalgia is another of the motifs that runs through the book, a nostalgia that is both sweet and bitter, the nostalgia of a youth gone by, of its longing for life, love and freedom, tempered by the awareness of the dark times, of the repression experienced in those post-war years in which it took place. That painful Francoist post-war, full of fears and silences, of misunderstandings and humiliations, of missing and murdered people, of victors and, above all, of the defeated, is the icy shadow projected over all the poems, even the most vital and hedonistic. In a symmetrical way, although more discreet, even subterranean – except in the last part of the book, where Estellés launches into a certain, more exalted national connection – it is traversed by the spirit of a people that remains waiting, that awaits the moment to be able to go out and breathe the fresh air, to express itself as such (especially in the last part of the book, Properties of punishment).

Because love, or so Estellés tells us, is the only thing that can save us, love in all its depth and breadth, not only the sublime and pure love that poets have traditionally sung about -which is also true- but the most unbridled carnal love, the furtive eroticism of lovers against the walls, or on the most hidden benches in the park, on the landings and roofs of houses. Love, which is the greatest act of resistance, even desperate, that we can carry out, a love that, if it cannot do everything, can be the last refuge we have left. Not in vain, Estellés’ most famous poem, almost -or not almost- a popular hymn, is entitled the lovers…

In fact, that is the other thing we have left to resist, this book reminds us: poetry. A poetry, in this case, torrential but measured, of free but rigorous verse, full of lyrical images taken from the most humble, from the dust of the streets and the sweat of those who walk them. A poetry of a tender ferocity, pregnant with musicality and that does not renounce, even, a certain epic tone – a domestic, almost secret epic, if you will – and that uses anaphora and alliteration to give us that breath. A poetry born from the entrails of the people, perhaps in a hidden way, like a seed planted by chance, but that, of course, has managed to be so without hesitation.

Don’t end the review without sharing some verses by Vicent Andrés Estellés from a poem that appears in the first “chapter” of this Book of wonders and I think it exemplifies his figure and his voice quite well:

One among so many who do not wait and fight.

One among so many who go out into the night.

One among so many who do not sleep and watch.

One among many.

(…)

One among so many who broke the songs.

One among so many between furies and fears.

One among many among all lovers.

One among many.

(…)

One among so many who die of love.

One among so many as they leave the night.

One among so many as the dead bear.

One among many.