Mario Obrero on Language, Poetry, and Dignity
Born in Madrid in 2003, Mario Obrero began writing at seven. He has published several books, including Carpintería de armónicos (XIV Premio de poesía joven Félix Grande; Universidad Popular José Hierro, 2018), Ese ruido ya pájaro (Ediciones Entricíclopes, 2019), Peachtree City (XXXIII Premio Loewe a la creación joven; Visor, 2021), Cerezas sobre la muerte (La Bella Varsovia, 2022; National Youth Award in the culture category) and most recently Tiempos mágicos (La Bella Varsovia, 2024). He has presented the first three seasons of Un país para leerlo on La 2 and regularly collaborates with RNE on the program Gente Despierta. On Thursday at 8 p.m., he will visit the Gran Teatro de Elche to speak about poetry and life.
The cycle he attends is titled The Dignity of the Word — Is the word worthy?
Yes, it is. The concern about words, languages, and even accent marks shows how they act as engines of awareness and thought. A word is worthy when it is spoken with memory and with the intention to name, not to silence. He values the words that name: the voice of a people in Estellés, or the coat of warmth with which the Alicantina Francisca Aguirre described books, both enduring traces of civil resistance against abuse and injustice.
In these turbulent times, is poetry a balm?
Not just balm, but a trench and a future. It would be a mistake to think poetry merely heals, because that would imply accepting all harms: the empirical ones and those sown by hatred. He prefers the verb to heal from the Valencian word valencià, which simultaneously means to care and to cure. Poetry can care for us in a volatile present while stitching memory and imagining a future in which readers, poets, and citizens participate.
The interviewer notes that there is often pose in poetry, but Mario seems natural. How did poetry begin for him, or how did it come to him?
Indeed, it arrived, as you’d expect, without ships or colonial conquests. He would like to think, following Miguel Hernández, that life has made him a poet. In a harsh world, approaching beauty and its obligation is a vocation that began early. He associates being a poet with youthful rebellion and a child’s uncompromising spirit.
What does poetry mean to him?
First and foremost, something that cannot be fully explained. Yet he knows what poetry is not: it is not privilege, exclusion, or contempt. In today’s Spain, disentangling from those three visions is a meaningful achievement and enough to align with poetic language. He also cites Chantal Maillard, who highlighted a paradox: we always ask poetry what it is and what it means, not about the clothes we wear or the state’s leadership. Beyond any definition, poetry should be enjoyed, felt, and shared.
Where would he situate himself among poetic currents, or does he resist labeling?
Labeling runs the risk of becoming so broad that it loses its way in social chatter or in canons that exclude someone. He finds, in the words of Francisca Aguirre, “master singers” across languages and eras, from Guadalupe Grande to Maria-Mercè Marçal and from the troubadours of Galician-Portuguese tradition to García Lorca, a continuous thread of influence.
“A public institute, neighborhood bookstores, public libraries, and cultural institutions are the ones that shaped me.”
The next topics explore the poet’s method and daily craft. What is his process of work in the workshop of a poet or writer?
He notes that his surname Obrero makes work itself a way of naming who he is, carrying the working-class identity implicitly. In poetic labor, there must be time for quality reading and critical attention: only then, if lived and willing, does the poem arrive. He is not romantic, acknowledging the realities of being self-employed and surviving on cultural work within an unjust job market, whether as a poet or a delivery person.
He also wears many hats: multilingual, a television program host, a guitarist. What is his current life pursuit?
He answers with simple honesty: joy. He believes his life’s pursuit is happiness, aided by supportive languages, political activism, and the people who accompany him.
Despite youth, his arguments are well formed, his readings extensive, and his zeal for literature palpable. Does he ever worry that his age could intimidate others?
He admits not being religious, so miracles are not a default. His perspective comes from a sincere gaze at reality, cultivated in public school, which he openly defends from conviction and experience. He does not see himself as a prodigy; he credits public institutions and local cultural spaces with shaping who he is. He hopes not to intimidate anyone, though he would not be surprised if some people found him striking. After all, no one should fear a poet more than racism or real estate speculation.
Who are his influences?
Juan Carlos Mestre plays a vital role in his ethical and aesthetic understanding of the world. Yet the list extends beyond him to include Getafe, his home city, his republican great-grandfather, and his working-class parents. He also values the empathy literature offers toward the defeated across history and geography. Poetic influences are inseparable from life and its precarities; they must feed on them.
Finally, what is he reading right now?
He is revisiting the work of Vicent Andrés Estellés for a centenary, while also being moved by a recent title: Cien cigüeñas, a poetry collection by Susana Obrero, a teacher and mother who has left a strong impression on him.
End of excerpt.