MANIFEST

There is nothing less certain than the universality of poetry, if we understand this as an artistic phenomenon that has not only touched all historical eras, but also influenced different types of man over the years. Is it possible to conceive of a decent, vigorous, and happy life without poetry? You don't have to be incendiary, profane, or visionary to answer: yes, it is. There is no need to overanalyze the subject. We must be honest and recognize that poetry doesn't cure illness or feed a child. Rather it demands we look anew at the same old clay tablet and perceive that not one, but rather many calligraphies converge upon it, and all of them human. In other words, our idea of a sacred and irrevocable art is no longer sustainable. We are not referring to "Art", we are referring to poetry as one of the many expressions of man's need to create and call this creation "Art". We are not interested in knowing why this need exists. What we are interested in knowing is whether, as things stand, poetry can be a transcendental element in the life of man.

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So what value can be found in an act so intimate, solitary and at times completely isolated from the Other? And we are not referring to just any Other. It's well known that among poets themselves the lack of dialogue, trust, and promissory spaces, as well as gut envy and plain disinterest, have resulted in a comfortable, complacent refuge of tribes that are increasingly reduced, atomizing their actions and voices; subduing and dividing their energies to the point of mutual ego-stroking. What can we say about the common passerby who pauses on the corner in the shadow of the newspaper stand, and in the embodiment of his enterprise as a reader shoots a rapid glance over the headlines? Perhaps comfort ourselves with the thought that poetry is not made for everyone. But then, what to think when a doctor or a construction worker, under his particular circumstances, suddenly feels a breath of hope in the midst of his anxiety when reading a verse or poem of Hölderlin or Miguel Hernández? It could be considered a victory. Almost a justification. But it would not be our victory, or our justification. Let the dead be satisfied with themselves; not the living. For the living, our journey has not yet reached its half-way point. There is much left to hear and much to share. In this case, this act does have a purpose, as intimate, solitary, isolated or useless it may be. And in this way, a Festival of Poetry can no longer be a encounter of vanities. Much less the political direction of a handful of "socially conscious" intellectuals. It's time for poets to begin to speak to each other freely and to tell us something beyond the scope of their own egos. It's time to look each other in the eyes and find out what is going on with us.