Reviews and readings of Veces

Reading by Antonia Vicens

The dead water
I don't remember his name; I'll call her Emma. I was a child and she already scandalized people by telling them that she was reading Madame Bovary, a very "green" novel, she said.

And that in the town, in those meager post-war years, almost no one knew what a book was.
While Emma was the older sister of a line of creatures that roamed the street grazing like dirty, ungainly critters, she, on the other hand, had bountiful breasts, a tousled waist, and a honey gaze that clearly haunted ballrooms, ill· lights, passionate love scenes... But her parents soon gave her to a very rich old man, in exchange for securing their daily bread.

It was muttered that the old man kept it locked. That he only let him stick his head out of a small window. Ugly, jealous that other younger men could covet her. However, Emma was shrewd enough to put cassula or other sleeping herbs in her soup and thus be able to go out, on dark nights, to meet some amorous smuggler who supplied her with sophisticated underwear and books that were forbidden by her possible incitement to female sexual revolt.

Have dream material. Beyond the bits of food he throws into his head. Today, going through Mireia Vidal-Conte's Veces, this poetry collection that scratches the memory, spaces for so much affection/that of recovering the body, Emma appeared to me, an anonymous reader looking for visiting rooms/Emergency HEADS with a tail/to be Madame Bovary.
At the same time I have seen it in the beyond of history. Barely propped up. Exploring new maps. The entrails suffocated. The aching bones of eternity. Why not! no one's/desires are true/firm as fists/falsehoods.
Closed verses, those of Mireia Vidal-Conte. Just like the bajoques of the past. It takes eyes accustomed to squinting to open them and get a taste of a skin writing that revolts against exiles and condemnations. Because Mireia manages, not only to stir the dead water of those who approach her poems, but makes each word shoot out, frantic, poignant. And become arsenic for all the Emmes.

Therefore, the reader can lament with the poet about his own unlived days/the days all those/that won't/that won't/that won't come. To, in the end, tired of praying faith/or praying stones to take refuge again in the poem, such that the prisoner who, after many attempts to escape, returns to a denied freedom and preserves it/like the individual his well .”

Antonia Vicens

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