The Esperanza Spínola Poetry Contest already has a winner. It is Manuel Luque Tapia. With his poem 'Winter', dedicated to a mother, he won this prestigious award, created in 1988, which brings him a prize of 500 euros. In second place was Gloria Fernández and her poem 'The Path and the Thorn', which was awarded 300 euros. The third poem chosen by the jury was that of David Carreres, entitled 'Towards Where I Love You' and valued at 200 euros. The three winners are from outside Lanzarote: Córdoba, Madrid and Castellón, respectively. In total, about thirty works were submitted to the contest.
The reading of the jury's decision, composed of Francisco Hernández, official chronicler of Teguise, Carolina de Castro Fernández, professor of Geography and History, and Andoni Machín, cultural advisor and reader, took place last Tuesday in the Library of La Villa. The five poems best valued by the jury, among which were the winners, were read by members of 'Literary Thursdays', to whom the Councilor for Libraries, Mar Boronat, thanked for their dedication to maintaining this type of activities "that help us reflect and analyze a book from different points of view. It is very pleasant to find spaces to exchange opinions in an atmosphere of respect and harmony where literature is the vehicle for expression and approach."
The official chronicler of Teguise, Francisco Hernández, recalled the figure of Esperanza Spínola as a generous and cultured woman. "In the corridors of her house many of us learned to read and write, good manners and rules of courtesy." Hernández also highlighted the building that currently houses the Municipal Theater of La Villa. "It is meritorious that it was the first in the province of Las Palmas and the third in all of the Canary Islands in 1825," he explained.
Poem 'Winter'
A mother should live
what one lived
Winter has come, mother,
and it's cold in the house of my childhood,
folds of time that its walls name
and that under the shroud of lime spend the night.
It's cold, mother, in the house,
the one that yesterday rose in embers
on luminous wings,
today is a tower of frosted shadow.
It's cold, mother, and tremble
your sarmentous hands,
those that once sowed furrows of passions
like a tide of graceful seagulls.
It's cold, mother, in the house
and on the traces of your steps
sheaves of crucified rye have been laid down,
on the tide of your hips of vertiginous
spasm, leaden glaciers.
Like arctic fish
your lips of cold inflamed
and on the streamy landscape of your places
furtive icicles of years descend.
Winter has come, mother,
it's cold in the house of my childhood
and on your black curls of yesteryear
today rests a gentle dew of white time.