'Disoluta', poemario de Yadira Moreno Ramírez

Con este poemario, Yadira Moreno se consolida como una de las poetas de habla hispana cuya audacia carece de contradicción —en sentido spinozista— , y la sitúa en su singularidad como una de las voces poéticas más eminentes de Iberoamérica.

Del verso libre, pasando por el esquema cuadrangular (el haiku de cuatro versos), el caligrama, los nacorismos y poemas en prosa, 'Disoluta' — del latín 'dissolūtus', participio pasivo de dissolvĕre disolver, disipar— , nos plantea enigmas de principio: ¿qué es lo que se esfuma, desvanece, aclara, evapora, borra, clarifica, desagua, desaparece, elimina, esclarece? ¿Que es, por otro lado,, lo que se gasta, malbarata, pierde, derrocha, despilfarra, dilapida, malgasta?

Las respuestas corren por cuenta del lector. Sobre esto volveré más tarde. Al respecto sólo agregaré, como escribe Gadamer, que «el arte es una fiesta» y como tal siempre es la misma y siempre diferente, distinta. Con cada lectura algo nuevo adviene y los poemas constituyen un rizoma cuyo campo de sentido crea un circuito de intensidades —Deleuze-Guattari 'dixit'—potenciado en la vivencia estética que no es otra cosa que la experiencia de la Verdad.

El poemario está compuesto de tres partes y una coda: 'Rústico fervor', 'La nada me da risa', 'Alcaudón' y 'Sueños lúcidos'. La autora habla desde y hacia sí misma, también invoca lo mismo a Príapo que a Tlazoltéotl o al Dios Dinero, etc. La melancolía —alegría en la tristeza— es una forma de la expresividad que a través suyo los transita.

A semejanza de Michaux, la autora desea «sorprender misterios ocultos en otra parte» ('Connaissance par les gouffres'). La mención del crico y la marihuana no es gratuita. Se trata de una tarea de exploración a través del libre desarrollo de la personalidad poética. Una tarea disoluta enfocada en sí misma.

«No hay poema que no se abra como una herida», afirma Derrida. Poesía del dolor, de la soledad, del abismo, de la elegía y el sufrimiento, lo que tenemos frente a nosotros puede causar incomodidad pues su autora no es una poeta complaciente con su lector. He ahí, además, la audacia que mencioné al principio. Por ello, como escribe Rainer Maria Rilke en Elegías de Duino, «la belleza no es sino el nacimiento de lo terrible».

Además de poeta, filósofa y periodista, Yadira Moreno, es una lectora insasiable y una observadora de la realidad y de la verdad que hay en ésta. Sus influencias no son sólo literarias —en este sentido la autora sigue la consigna de Bashó: «No sigas las huellas de los antiguos. Busca lo que ellos buscaron»— también son musicales. Sus epígrafes incluyen a 'Little trouble girl’ de Sonic Youth ‘y a Nacha Guevara en una sugerencia a pie de página. En uno de sus poemas expresa: «Adoro a Vivaldi y /a Chopin como /adoro a La Santaera /y a Los Askis».

'Disoluta' incluye poemas eróticos donde la autora es la protagonista. 'Alcaudón' es uno de ellos; el suyo es de un erotismo lóbrego y bello que conturba: amor a muerte.

Heredera de Sade y con la elegancia de la escritora Gabrielle Wittkop podemos decir que con este libro estamos ante una poeta mayor, «la jeune dame indigne».

Concluyo con estas palabras de Chantal Maillard: «La poesía que necesitamos es aquélla capaz de devolvernos la conciencia de una semejanza fundamental, aquélla que nos permita el reconocimiento de nuestra común condición en la singularidad de cada acontecimiento. El poeta al que convocamos no habrá de evadirse de lo concreto. Muy al contrario, allí es donde hallará lo esencial; no lo universal, la idea vaciada de accidentes, sino la radical infinitud de cada cosa. El poeta que requerimos será aquél que tenga oído para captar el ritmo, la vibración de un ente, su sonoridad, su peculiar forma de vibrar y la capacidad de transmitirlo.»

The Ashtray Still Warm: On Yadira Moreno's 'Disoluta'

There are books that ask to be understood and others that ask only to survive the night. Disoluta belongs to the second kind. One imagines it forgotten on the table of a bar after closing time, beside a lipstick-stained glass and an ashtray full of cigarettes smoked by people who swore they would never return to each other. By dawn the cleaning crew would mistake it for another abandoned object. They would be wrong. It would be the only thing in the room still awake.

Yadira Moreno does not write as though poetry were a temple. She writes as though language had spent the night in jail for disturbing the peace. Her poems arrive with bruises. They smell of cheap perfume, philosophy, stale beer, and rain on concrete. That mixture should not work, yet it does, because she understands that every genuine lyric is born where dignity has already failed.

The title, Disoluta, is less a confession than an accusation. Society has always been eager to invent names for women who refuse to become monuments. Moreno accepts the insult, polishes it, and places it at the entrance of the book like a stray dog daring respectable visitors to step inside. The word ceases to be a verdict and becomes a passport.

Her poems seem populated by objects that have outlived their owners. Empty bottles remember better than lovers. Motel rooms become small chapels where desire performs its brief liturgies. A cracked mirror tells the truth more faithfully than a family portrait. The city itself behaves like an exhausted animal, dragging its neon lights through the darkness without expecting redemption. Everything possesses a secret biography. Everything has been abandoned once already.

This is where Moreno's poetry acquires its peculiar authority. She does not separate the vulgar from the sacred. She knows they share the same apartment. The curse and the prayer often use identical grammar. One simply arrives five minutes earlier.

There is an old superstition that suffering automatically improves literature. Disoluta quietly disproves it. Pain alone produces only noise. Moreno's achievement lies elsewhere. She has given her wounds an imagination. Instead of describing misery, she allows misery to dream. That difference is enormous. It is the distance between testimony and poetry.

What remains especially striking is the book's refusal to sanitize experience. Contemporary literature sometimes fears offending the reader more than disappointing language. Moreno appears unconcerned with either possibility. She trusts the intelligence of the poem rather than the comfort of the audience. If a line sounds dangerous, she follows it. If an image becomes excessive, she asks whether life itself has ever respected moderation.

One senses beneath these pages the long companionship between philosophy and disappointment. Ideas are never displayed like academic trophies. They emerge naturally, the way smoke escapes from a cigarette forgotten between two fingers. The existential questions do not interrupt the narrative of desire; they are desire's inevitable aftertaste.

Perhaps the greatest surprise in Disoluta is its humor. Not the humor of jokes but of survival. The laughter that appears after catastrophe, when the only alternative is silence. Such laughter has always been among poetry's oldest forms of intelligence. It refuses despair the satisfaction of having the final word.

Moreno's imagery possesses an urban ferocity. Streets do not merely contain memory; they manufacture it. Love is neither idealized nor condemned. It is another neighborhood where everyone eventually gets lost. The body is treated as both witness and evidence, never merely ornament. Flesh thinks. Memory bleeds. Language limps home at sunrise carrying both.

Reading Disoluta resembles entering a room where every object has shifted a few inches during the night. Nothing supernatural has occurred. Yet nothing remains entirely trustworthy. The reader gradually discovers that reality itself has become slightly intoxicated. This is one of poetry's oldest miracles: not to invent another world but to reveal the strange habits of this one.

The lasting impression of the book is not scandal but tenderness concealed beneath abrasion. Like certain walls covered in graffiti, the apparent violence protects an unsuspected vulnerability. Remove the rough surface and one finds not innocence—that would be too simple—but persistence. The stubborn decision to continue speaking after language has repeatedly failed.

In the end, Disoluta reminds us that poetry is not an escape from ordinary life. It is ordinary life after all the disguises have gone home. The bottles remain. The beds remain. The insults remain. The heart, against every probability, remains as well.

That may be the quiet miracle of Yadira Moreno's work. She finds lyricism not despite the ruins but because of them. She walks through the debris carrying no banner, only a notebook. By the time she leaves, the broken glass reflects stars that were invisible before she arrived.