In the city where the sea learns a person’s rhythm, a writer born in the late 1950s speaks with the plain honesty of someone who trusts language as a lifelong companion. From a childhood marked by loss, he clung to a globe and a simple game board as quiet keepsakes, and these early tokens became symbols of a world language could unlock. He discovered, at a very young age, that words carry power and possibility. As adolescence opened, the craft of voice and the discipline of writing gave him a subtle edge, helping him stand apart in conversations and in life. Language drew him in as a friend who both wooed and challenged him, offering a path beyond the modest social reality of his origins. This meaningful command of words served as a powerful tool of liberation, shaping culture and self alike from the age of fifteen or so, even as a stubborn discord lingered within. Though poetry is no longer the main medium he pursues, he still reads it with the same patient, kind curiosity that once made him fall in love with the music of a trumpet player who inspired his earliest poetry. And so the cadence of language remains a constant thread, weaving through every chapter of his life, even as another kind of scholarship grows in its place; the later collection titled Sinfonía corporal stands as a testament to this enduring poetic thread.
In the epilogue of the corporal Symphony, the writer notes that dissonance guided his earliest literary instincts.
Impropriety is part of him and surfaces when he writes. He has learned to temper it over the years, yet the same impulse that sparked rebellion once now fuels a calm, steady philosophy of living. It resembles a long apprenticeship in accepting human mortality with a quiet grace.
Does this writer see himself in the young man who wrote these poems in the 1970s and 1980s?
He does not deny the youth within. He feels pride in having chosen literary creation early on. In Sinfonía corporal he recognizes the spirited young voice that once chased vivid sensuality and grappled with thoughts of death, now tempered by maturity and a steady routine. The evolution is not a rupture but a continued journey, and that journey is what he revisits in memory and ink.
When did culture become the strongest instrument for liberation?
Very early, around thirteen or fourteen. In part this came from observing the example of a father who worked in a factory, a man of plain routines who showed that life could be remade through knowledge and study. The writer recalls the moment he realized that language learning could open doors to a richer, more interesting life. He remains grateful for that awakening, recognizing how education and positive, focused activities can uplift not only the individual but others as well.
Language enthusiasm is a constant in his life. How does he keep it from fading?
Enthusiasm for language is not a bitter or thankless burden. Language is a toy that endures, the most enduring toy in this lifetime. From early on, mastering words proved its positive impact. Linguistic study has been a faithful companion, and he does not accept that language defines his identity, only that it gives access to connection and expression.
What does language grant him at the core?
Above all, language enables communication with others, the pleasure of their sounds and rhythms, and the endless capacity to invent and imagine. He insists he does not wave his tongue like a flag for any particular cause.
From what is known, this writer does not prioritize flags or national allegiance. The concept of a nation has little place in his private life, even as he understands administrative needs for local status. If he is a country, it belongs to everyone. He rejects dividing the planet into who is inside or outside, preferring a broader ethical view that respects shared humanity.
Is it possible to wean oneself from poetry?
He has tried to depurate the craft, but such a stripping away proved illusory. What happened instead was a release from the febrile poet’s madness by writing a work that was intentionally imperfect, even cacophonous and profane at times.
Is poetry being written now?
Not in a sustained, new body of verse. Most often, he reads other poets and feels a warmth in his fingers that quickly passes, rekindling a spark but not allowing poetry to become routine. His curiosity lingers in human behavior, the quirks and patterns he observes in others, which draw him toward narrative as a central concern.
There are many sea imagery references in his poems, reflecting a lifetime near the shore.
For him, the sea is more than decoration. Born a short distance from the coast, he recalls how the ocean was a constant companion in childhood and a reminder of a larger horizon. Even when away from the sea for years, the image remains a steady source of perspective. The forest once stood in as a substitute, but it could not replace the sea’s vast, enduring presence. Standing now in his city, the sea feels like a witness to human history that stretches back millennia, and this sense moves him to speak, to connect with something larger than the self.
Is life still a confusing mess?
He laughs, a warm sound that acknowledges chaos. Even in a secluded life, the moment he steps outside, he hears noise, conflict, and social tensions—all of which seem encoded in human nature. He attributes much of this to genetics and to the world’s currents of history and politics.
Which words have not been spoken to him by the gentler, praying voices of youth?
Much has been explored and expressed, though a religious upbringing once shaped his beliefs. At some point he ceased praying and embraced Stoic thought as a guiding philosophy.
A long poem in the collection, Perla candente, explores this life view.
He describes it as a meditation on human life: chance grants us years, but meaning comes from how we shape them. Gratitude for life remains central.
There is a lullaby, sung to daughters in years past, a song that embodies the ethos he still carries: a philosophy learned through song and shared with family.
Do hermitic souls endure, living to bear wounds of others?
He recognizes the tension between private honesty and social image. A novelist might craft illusions to provoke laughter, but poetry holds a personal truth that the rest may not easily imitate or spoof.
So what is his truth?
A positive truth that embraces warmth, justice, beauty, harmony, and life’s many facets that make existence worth living.
Fears now?
He feels inseparable from other people and communities, and this interconnectedness brings a blend of concern and caution. He does not fear life itself, but certain pains and the fragility of health stay with him. Death does not scare him, yet pain and the threat of harm do prompt vigilance.
Would he want to live longer just to see more of life unfold?
Yes, he would, if only to nurture a few more seasons of growth, though he accepts the limits of time. Fatherhood, in particular, reshapes perception with new empathy, broadening the eye and softening the heart. It anchors the self in care for others and infuses his work with a sense of purpose beyond personal acclaim. If not for fatherhood, the writer believes, his work might feel less meaningful in the long run, and it reinforces the idea that literature serves the well‑being of the family as a shared horizon.
Is writing a form of duty when history presses in?
He resists the idea that commitment is a rigid ideology. Expression itself already carries responsibility, and a writer who ignores society’s realities risks losing touch with the world outside his room. The poem in which this view appears acknowledges that humans are shaped by history, and their fates are interwoven with place and past violence. Having witnessed his own family affected by historical conflict, he felt compelled to write about terror and injustice, not merely as provocation but as moral inquiry. He resists safe passages or easy escape, choosing instead a path that remains true to what history asks of him.
The talk returns to the feeling that commitment has sometimes been misused. Yet words carry musicality and intent, and devotion must be meaningful, not merely loud protest. A writer must strive for honesty and craft, ensuring that even urgent messages are expressed with care and clarity.