The first book of poems

I vividly remember the first poetry book I bought in my life. That initiatory moment whose image, like a photograph that never ages, returns vividly to memory, triggered by just a subtle external evocation.

I also bought the wrong book. I regretted it at first, but over the years I have come to appreciate my mistake thanks to the almost Borgesian bifurcations that that purchase entailed.

I wouldn't be able to say exactly how old I was then. Nor whether it was an assignment from the last year of EGB or the first year of high school. From this doubt, I deduce that I should have been around fourteen years old.

The black covers

We studied Federico García Lorca in class and the teacher – or the female teacher – I don't now remember exactly – recommended us to buy any of his books. The next day, almost everyone in class appeared with either the Gypsy Ballads or the Poem of the Deep Song in their hands.

In those early years of democracy (if I was 14, which I can't be sure of, it must have been 1982) Cátedra published, and still does now, some beautiful pocket editions, with those characteristic black covers, of the Granada poet.

Almost all my classmates had acquired the Cátedra copy, whose glossy cardboard covers shone under the classroom light.

I envied not having had the insight to buy one of those books.

Federico's poetry book

Now, with age, when I have been a father for years, I think that perhaps it wasn't my classmates, but their parents, who approached the bookstore to fulfill the school assignment. Who knows.

I asked my mother for the money and went on my own to the bookstore-stationery (today its place on Avenida de Andalucía in Cádiz is occupied by a candy store nestled between a pharmacy and a sports store), where I had never entered alone before, only accompanied by her, to buy school supplies.

So that act, which might seem trivial, became, without me being aware of it at the time, the first time I bought a book by myself. Was that an additional intention of the teacher? That would be good.

I asked the bookseller for “a poetry book by Federico García Lorca” and the bookseller only had (it was a stationery-bookstore) copies of Federico's Book of Poems, in that edition with pink dots that Espasa Calpe published in the Austral collection.

Jazz counterpoint

So, the next day in class, amidst so many black and shiny covers of two major poetry collections in Federico's career, I raised in my hand the humble and simple first poetry book published by the Granada author, his first forays into the word.

I suppose I contributed in some way to the knowledge of the poet among my classmates by giving the dissonant note of not carrying the same title as everyone else. I don't know, although I could imagine a few stories starting from there.

Now, however, I would like to remember those other “dissidents” who, like me, chose the margins of the majority; to know who those few classmates were who brought to class worn copies of Federico's book, understanding that they had previously aged on the shelves of their home, where poetry was not just the teacher's recommendation.

I am proud to still keep that copy of the Book of Poems, with my name written in childish handwriting on the flyleaves, the yellowed paper, and the covers curled in the plastic bubble of the cover.

For many years, especially when I was earning money working as a journalist, I wanted to buy the Gypsy Ballads and the Poem of the Deep Song, but I always postponed the decision. Until one day I did. And it wasn't the Cátedra editions, but copies from the García Lorca Library, a collection that Alianza Editorial began publishing in 1998.

April, the month of letters

I sincerely believe that my mistake contributed to my greater interest in García Lorca's work; to my current conception of poetry, which has now surpassed the first century of my life.

I am writing this on March 21, the World Poetry Day, after attending via YouTube the tribute paid by poets and friends to Ángel González at the Cervantes Institute in Madrid.

The first month of spring is a special month for those of us dedicated to letters. (I always remember the beautiful poem Gregory Corso dedicated to Botticelli's Spring, to remind myself that art is a common source of many creative disciplines).

It begins with this World Poetry Day and, throughout the month, it bubbles up as the sun rises, until that great day dedicated to the book, April 23, and to Don Miguel de Cervantes, who came to portray us all in the madness of invented dreams.