Poetry begins with the gaze. It welcomes you to its light-headedness.
It reminds you that doubts and certainties are equally incandescent.
It takes you where only your heartbeats reverberate.
It fills your pupils with surprise.
It recognises your light when it’s a source. Your voice when it’s not your echo.
It knows how to cling to your drift, unravel your burdens.
It quickens the most unbreakable of engines when reaching a crossroads.
Not ever, always and in all circumstances it amounts to it being your insight.
* A BRIEF POETIC BIOGRAPHY
They were the photos of the tent in the Cazorla mountain range and the white Seat 128. The Pentax photos, the Kodak colour photos. We took the rest — those of the roads and bales of hay in national rally competitions, the one of the incredulous kid on Aspar’s motor bike.
And back from each journey, reliving the adventure: setting up all the equipment, untangling cables, turning the slide projector on and listening to the sound it made every time the picture changed. Sunday afternoons at home, the tremulous light on the screen, the memories, overcoming the passage of time.
I already felt the urge, the meaning of looking. All that grew inside me. Years later came my escapes and returns. I changed places and views. I wanted to deliberately drift in order to conquer that same light. The hazy light in which memories are always bathed.
Then came the first second-hand reflex camera, the elementary manuals from a library by the sea, the toy cameras, the Polaroids of yesteryear and the Nikon I rescued from the rubbish, the cheap rolls of film in packs of three, the waiting outside developing shops, matt please, 7 x 10, thanks, in under an hour, a beginner’s course to laboratory work, pressing the button without thinking, company, the heartfelt snap, diaries and meaning.
Times changed, nomadic ideas developed and year by year notebooks that would brim over. But even today, as never before, the urge remains to return to the warmth of that light.