Spend time on a terrace that is becoming increasingly empty. The air flows despite the dry heat felt in that space. It is a Sunday that feels more than ever. Outside, the city is lit. Inside everything is calm. It seems we are trapped in an anthology poem.
After waiting patiently, between talks that taste like the last day, they indicate that the time has come to talk to Luis Felipe Fabre (Mexico City, 1974). He is sitting in a chair on the other side of the room. Smoke and talk, talk and smoke. At times he moves his hands to the rhythm of his words. Observe. Think. Cavila. At the same time, everything, in that dis-order.
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It has been eleven years since I published a collection of poems. The last of them arrived in 2013, under the seal of Almadía Editorialand was titled Horror and mystery poems. Then it came Write with poop (2017), a kind of fortuitous and eschatological encounter with Salvador Novo and then Dark Songs Declaration (2019), a historical novel about Brother Juan de la Cruz woven through his verses. Thus, he once again saw his verses printed between green flaps, with a photo of him in the center, in a book with a unique editorial design titled Archaic Greek poet (2024).
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—It is the revitalization, the rewriting of a myth. Medusa and Perseus. Is it an obsession of yours with mythology or is it more of a taste that you simply acquired?
— I love Medusa ever since my dad took me to see it. Clash of the Titans —he says between nervous laughs, with that tender calm that causes his pauses when speaking—. The first one, which is the good one, my childhood favorite. I have always loved myths.
However, he later recomposes, they are the “archaic strata” which ended up tying him up. That I start writing about Greek myths is not in the sense that they are prestigious, cultural topics, but rather, in my case, they have to do with personal processes, that is, I am interested in being in contact with those regions of the spirit.he explains. The resonance of one in the myth and of the latter in oneself. As complex and powerful as that. It makes me come into contact with less visible realitiesconfesses, What do I need to inhabit this world?.
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(Fabre speaks slowly. This attracts the attention of whoever is speaking to his speech. We might think that, precisely, he overthinks what he is about to say. Perhaps without intention, he enunciates fascinating interventions, unique reflections, inexorably funny comments. )
— Yes… —he hesitates—, or not, let’s say, in the sense that, perhaps, I made poetry through other genres. That is, thinking, there is the book that I wrote about Salvador Novo, which ends with a monologue, a dramatic poem, and the book about Saint John of the Cross, in some way, is about poetry and from poetry, let’s say. But, he asserts, writing poems, sitting down to write poems… eleven years without doing so.
(I guess poetry is…he reflects doubtfully. I would love to always be writing because it is my best way of being in the universe, when I feel happiest is when I am writing, which is almost never, I am almost always unhappyhe jokes, smiling. As I began to have a need to say: “I need to speak to the gods,” writing poetry had a reason for being in me again. Before I didn’t find the reason or the need to return to the verse. I was interested in writing, but I had nothing to say in versehe blurts out.)
After falling into a brief parenthesis on the translation of Dark Songs Declaration in English, published by Deep Vellum and translated by Heather Cleary not long ago, we fell into the inevitable, the verses of Archaic Greek poetthe writing process for this, the content and a variety of other things.
— I can say that for me it was an extraordinary process, it was, on the one hand, rediscovering myself with poetry —he confesses—, and after writing prose, suddenly I began to be surprised by how few words are needed to write, how few words a poem admits. , like he was trying to put in a word and he fell down…
—The first part is called Coro. It draws attention, so to speak, because it makes you want to perch on high, to shout what you write because, in addition—detail for the question—you write in a very musical key and with an extremely appropriate rhythm. I imagine it refers to the mythological issue…
— Yes. I wanted more archaic rhythms, he goes deeper, older, more classical rhythms, in some way, without being a neoclassical one. I also didn’t want to do the most pop thing, Anne Carson type, no. I was interested in taking me to these other times that also shape us..
“That is why I entrusted myself to Hermes in the book that opens this, to take it to its destination and, really, yes it is a very personal bookI even appear in the cover photo which does make me a little embarrassed. But It is a book that I wrote to the godsand I hope it reaches you, and, incidentally, that poetry readers like it. It may seem like a more immodest book to you, although it may seem like with all this play on theatrical masks, I feel that it is an absolutely personal book.
“I think that, thinking about personnel, that the yo It is something unstable, uncertain and… shamanic, in some way. He yo I think it’s one thing we still don’t know, it could be many things.. He yo It can be a plant; sometimes one is more plant, more stone, sometimes one is more of a cat. Sometimes one is more of a woman, sometimes more of a man. Sometimes you don’t know what it is, you don’t know what you are,” he confesses.
—There is no way to write poetry that is not personal, right? —I question—.
—Maybe very experimental poems —answers the vate—. Poems that try to escape yoyou use chance, but there is always something that sneaks in from there. Like when you have the I Chingeven if it is random, because the hexagram is somehow telling you about who you are. Maybe you’re right, if there would be attempts to do a write from the not meFor example, Pessoa speaking from many yos different, but I say – he reflects - that the self is something so unstable that also being many… “I contain multitudes”, as Whitman said, “I is another”, said Rimbaud. Let’s say… there is I’s stranger than others.
ESCHATOLOGICAL FRONTALITY
—All your writing is very frontal, and does not escape the eschatological. I love that idea, especially because it causes a lot of repulsion, but it is very attractive. Come on, Write with poop…
– Yessss! —he responds between laughs—. I say, “Oh, poor mom, she can never show off my books to her friends because they have horrible names.”
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“I guess I’m naturally morbid,” he confesses. I think I am interested in the broad ranges of reality. The other time I was reading Aristophanes —absolute comedian of ancient Greece—and I was surprised (to learn) that there are no more books where there are more people shitting each other than in Greek comedy. You say: “How Aristophanes’ characters shit!”, so I love that the covers are very serious, those of Gredos, and I don’t know what, and inside there are just people shitting.
—Yes, but —he muses—, at the same time, people love the morbid. There’s also something you like to see there, let’s say. It’s just that you laugh as a defense mechanism against shame and modesty. I think it is fascinating to know how many things, but of course, it would seem that there are things like morals of taste, let’s say, that there are things that can be said, things that cannot be said, and since I basically like things that cannot be said To say, either because it is sacred or because it is eschatological, that is where I am from.
Although he did not write poetry for a long time, he was reading poetry. Something of need came to meaccount, because of course: The need to return to poetry also has to do with the need to read it again, to reacquire a kind of meaning that I did not have at other times in my life.. He knows that it is so natural for him to read poetry that he suddenly forgets that he is reading it.
He confesses that he has a kind of ritual, a strange rule: he does not open his cell phone without first having read a poem. That is to say, the day then began having chewed some verses while lying in bed. The world could be subject to total collapse, only after having read the first poem of the day. Along with the verses, the inevitable coffee and a cigarette in the right hand, between the index and ring fingers. Luis Felipe Fabre is like that. It is his way of getting his head back on track in a different way than always reading the gray news.
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as if unwillingly, before the curtain of a dramatic theater closed that Sunday, he announced the names of those inevitable companions when it comes to writing. Archaic Greek poet. Among many others, the names of Roberto Calasso, Pascal Quignard, the Aeschylos and the Sophocles appear, and the German philologist Walter Burket, of whom he speaks with absolute devotion.
He will be reading poems at 6:00 p.m. It will be a reading aloud, full of charm. Indiscretion is recommended.
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That it feels almost like breathing, a necessity deeply woven into his existence.
—It’s a way of understanding the world, of grappling with emotions that are otherwise difficult to articulate, he reflects. Poetry has this unique ability to condense vast experiences and feelings into just a few words, allowing me to engage with truths that are otherwise elusive.
He continues to explore the dynamics of personal and collective expression, how poetry serves as a mirror to both individual experiences and the broader human condition.
—When I write, I often find myself tangled between the personal and the universal. The themes may be rooted in my own life—a heartbreak, a moment of joy—but they also resonate with shared experiences. I believe poetry can transcend individual circumstances, becoming a vessel for collective memory and emotion.
This interplay between personal narrative and universal themes is what he strives for in his work. It echoes in the verses he crafts, where each word is chosen not only for its sound but for its capacity to evoke shared memories and feelings among readers.
—It’s this balance, he insists, that keeps poetry alive and relevant. It speaks to the continuity of human experience, tapping into the ancient rhythms of life that still echo today. Whether drawing from the distant past or the immediate present, the aim is to create something that connects us all, something that evokes a response, a recognition of our shared humanity.
As he considers the role of humor and the taboo in his writing, he acknowledges how it serves to disarm and engage the audience, breaking down barriers of expectation.
—Laughter, in many ways, is a powerful tool in poetry. It allows us to confront uncomfortable truths without shying away. It’s a reminder that even in topics that might seem grotesque or morbid, there’s a space for human connection, empathy, and understanding.
His enthusiasm for the raw and the ridiculous, for the profound yet often overlooked aspects of life, imbues his poetry with vitality and a sense of urgency, inviting readers not just to engage with words but to reflect on their own experiences.
he reiterates the subjective nature of writing and the fluidity of the self in creative expression, suggesting that each poem is a unique exploration of identity and existence.
—Poetry, to me, will always be a journey—a path I walk with countless other selves, each stepping forward in search of insight, beauty, and truth.