WAYS of recognizing and knowing myself (brief presentation of myself in the third person) . Pablo Alfonso's story begins in 1969, with a song by Carlos Gardel. Or maybe earlier, the starting point can always change. The truth is that in 1969 her parents met and she (her mother) abandoned some studies and Letters; he abandons the idea of? ? remaining a lonely man and pouring all her love into a receptive and passionate heart. And that stigma, that of her mother's abandoned youth projects, is genetically transferred to her in 1970 and his brain finds no better way to deal with the symptom than to do and, years later, he eats literature. In the beginning were the police and Wild West comics, with their big, cynical detectives, and their unique cowboys who never dropped their hats in a brawl. He marked his puberty on fire with his grandfather's forbidden books: The last tango in Paris, among others. Today, fully played, he believes in promiscuity and literary contamination. It should be noted that, even at school, Pablo Alfonso tried to be a plastic artist, a guitarist and without success (I guess) . In addition, he played soccer in the junior and intermediate leagues but never excelled, even though he was not bad at the game. He believed that if he gained popularity he would not be seen as a failure. Today he has learned to fail. His work is full of characters who want to recognize themselves. His words brush their teeth, sit on the toilet, get tired of being words. And his words change the face, but being true to themselves. Pablo Alfonso has published some books, but all of them on Amazon: Crazy Poems, Feminism in times of Covi, THE TWILIGHT OF MY DEEP POEMS, Tales of 100 words and In the Shadows, Nocturnes, sonnets and a son of hope, The chosen ones (English version) , among others. And it has been translated into Portuguese and English, and recognized nationally, not so much internationally.
Nibbling the nails from its distressed roots
on the broken baldness of a hapless hill,
the solitary tree is opened by its branches and fruits
begging for the beak of a bird to sing his exile shrill.
...
Near the sea I throw this cry of colors,
my greeting and the departure of my soul with your soul…
Walt Whitman!
I can swim! I can row! I can sing! I can ride a horse!
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