If the objects of Madrid spoke today, if all the cobwebs of the branches of Retiro and the suburbs attentive to the true reality spoke today, they would be repeating in unison “Pe Cas Cor.”
If poetry is about something, it is that ephemeral something that moves and con-moves in its fiction and is capable of describing a reality as heavy, at times, as concrete.
If there is anything that comes close to the few and unknown certainties we have and to love, it is poetry. Poetry - I think - like the innocence to which it is linked, our childhood and way of seeing for the first time. Isn't seeing the first human “poiesis”?
We are a face that hurts in the mirror and pleases. We are a flower between the road and the ashtrays that fill and empty. We empty and fill constantly. We are a fertile and flooded field of Jarandilla and we are its own August drought.
Pe Cas Cor, collects today, because every real artist foresees and anticipates his time, the tragedy and beauty we live. The flying and dreaming elephants, the impossible castles, the squirrels that no longer jump from branch to branch in Madrid due to pollution.
His poetry, like the whole of his imaginary, is alive, eternal, of exquisite delicacy.
There is something in him that reminds us of the colors of Chagall and Matisse, and a depth in his verses that makes us all recognize ourselves. Recognizing oneself is, precisely, the first symptom of good poetry, of poetry that transcends its time.
I did not know Pe Cas Cor, but I amused myself talking to Pernambuco and shared the meaning of many of his poems. We were united, perhaps, by what unites many poets who have never met.
I did not know Pedro Casariego, Pe Cas Cor... Or maybe I did. Maybe he sat next to me one day in a cafe, left his hat, and I didn't notice.
Life (that great ellipse that without explanation unites us, dis-encounters and re-encounters us on other islands), took it upon itself to ensure that I ended up writing these words for any March 21st. With my admiration for Pe Cas Cor, Andrea Bernal