{"id":18617,"date":"2019-12-09T23:36:06","date_gmt":"2019-12-09T23:36:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/?p=18617"},"modified":"2025-07-25T20:07:10","modified_gmt":"2025-07-25T20:07:10","slug":"sonetos-callejeros","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/letrasenlafrontera.org\/index.php\/2019\/12\/09\/sonetos-callejeros\/","title":{"rendered":"Sonetos callejeros"},"content":{"rendered":"

Por Octavio Quintanilla<\/p>\n

\n

Sonetos callejeros <\/span><\/h3>\n

All\u00ed estaban: en los cables cruzados de los postes el\u00e9ctricos, enrollados en las alcantarillas, entrelazados entre las piernas flacas de los tinacos. <\/span><\/p>\n

Sonetos visuales.<\/span><\/h3>\n

Tantas cosas que evocan su forma, su estructura formal, su encantadora jaula sin puertas.<\/span><\/p>\n

Algunos con palabras, otros sin ellas, todos despertando la imaginaci\u00f3n con su peque\u00f1a canci\u00f3n.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00bfPuedes ver el p\u00e1jaro invisible?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00bfPuedes o\u00edr el \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>de sus pies volando?<\/span><\/p>\n

Esperan para ser le\u00eddos con el ojo oscuro de una c\u00e1mara, para ser vistos, para que su historia se sienta en la piel.<\/span><\/p>\n

Algunos ser\u00e1n raspados por el tiempo, eliminados, desfigurados.<\/span><\/p>\n

Y sin embargo, un fantasma de lo que creemos que sabemos, de lo que creemos que vemos y sentimos, permanecer\u00e1 siempre en las calles que hemos aprendido a amar.<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Street Sonnets <\/span><\/h3>\n

There they were: on the crossed wires of electric poles, coiled on manholes, intertwined between the legs of a water tower.<\/span><\/p>\n

Visual sonnets.<\/span><\/h3>\n

So many things evoking their shape, their formal structure, their lovely, doorless cage.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Some with words, some without, all sparking imagination with their little song.<\/span><\/p>\n

Can you see the invisible bird?<\/span><\/p>\n

Can you hear the\u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/ \u00a0 <\/span>\u00d7 \u00a0 <\/span>\/\u00a0 <\/span>of their scurrying feet? <\/span><\/p>\n

They wait to be read with a camera\u2019s dark eye, to be seen, for their history to be felt. <\/span><\/p>\n

Some will be scraped out, removed, defaced. <\/span><\/p>\n

And yet, always a ghost of what we think we know, of what we think we see and feel, will remain on the streets we\u2019ve learned to love.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n