Sunday, January 3, 2021 –
The poet and essayist from Madrid, author of books such as ‘Maps of wax’ and ‘Hotel for hedgehogs’ was the only daughter of the poets Francisca Aguirre and Flix Grande
Guadalupe Grande lived 55 years in poetry. On all fronts of his existence, poetry. Thus he made his way, between poets, between poems, between books, between friends, between solitudes. And yesterday he died in Madrid. With her a lineage is closed: his father was Flix Grande (1937-2014), his mother Francisca Aguirre (1930-2019). And she was the only daughter in an open house, open to the world of flamingos and poets. A place in the world where things happen without the need to invoke them. That was the space in which she began to assemble her own language of her own words. And poetry was the pole with which to launch further. “Part of my life is living for the poem, living towards the poem and part of writing is finding in the poem what I cannot think of in any other way than writing poetry”, commented in an interview.
From her first steps in writing, Guadalupe (Lupe) Grande maintained a clear awareness of her surnames, but the even stronger certainty that she was herself for everything. Hence in his poems or his essays he always maintained a vocation to walk without traveling companions. The literary wake of the parents, in that sense, weighed. He started writing early and a little later he began to publish. In 1995 he won the Rafael Alberti Prize with ‘Lilith’s book‘and from there he published three more sets of poems:’The fog key‘ (2003), ‘Wax map‘(2006) and’Hotel for hedgehogs‘ (2010).
Reflective and with certain bursts of irrationalism, the poetry of Lupe Grande is of an agitated serenity. Search and demand. Find and share. He asks and never answers because it is better to push himself with the eternal open wound of asking again. This is also the case in the essays in which he left the mark of his ethical and aesthetic, literary and civic preferences from creators such as Csar Vallejo, Luis Rosales, Carlos Edmundo de Ory, Concha Mndez, Juan Rulfo or Ldo Ivo.
At the same time, he maintained a critical relationship with the present. The root of his political thought had a clear seed: the vicissitudes of paternal and maternal families, the republican condition of grandparents, coughs and fathers. Awareness of a left of humanistic value that she preserved until the day before yesterday, when a heart problem wiped out everything hers. He worked in the communication area of the Royal Theatre and for a decade he was responsible for the poetic activity of the Jos Hierro Popular University in San Sebastin de los Reyes.
He considered this now a time of “closure”. A narrow time, evil, difficult for perverse: “I think there are opening times and where it is easier to celebrate, that there are closing times where it is more difficult to celebrate, and I think that the danger we are going through now is not being aware that we are going through a time where there is no one to make the necessary gestures so that when the door closes the house does not fall behind. “His last poems revolved around these perceptions of the present. Many are collected in at least two unpublished books that I was in no hurry to publish. “They will find their place,” he said. They will find it, for sure. “Memory of life, / memory of days and life./ Knife that opens the world”.
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