Nicanor Parra
The Anti-Poet Who Smelled of Wet Clay and Defiance
Call it anti-poetry, call it life—same damn thing.
They say I killed the sonnet and gave birth to anti-poetry—good riddance. I taught mechanics, not metaphors, but both are full of holes. My sister sang to the people. I yelled at them. Chile sticks to my boots like wet clay, and I don’t clean it off. If you want beauty, look under a bus bench. I will be grumpy, I will be brief, and I will smoke this cigar until it coughs back.
What I'm Into: subway stations, grocery lists, Violeta’s ballads, Nobel Prize rumors, Santiago rain
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