We have become used to a life of routine and uniformity: at work,
in our relationships with others and with ourselves when we seek to
understand what surrounds and subjugates us. Messages flood in and,
instead of criticising reality, they reinforce the status quo and
encourage us to accept it and maintain it. To counterbalance the
hierarchies and justifications of modern life, there are voices
raised in protest, like Eduardo Moga's, which don't mourn a
presumed lost golden age, or bewail their disillusionment. That
phase was left behind for Moga long ago, and we must presume he
underwent an apprenticeship of disappointment: the discovery that
the gods do not love us, but torment us, and then put all his
efforts into unlearning it all. Moga's poetry does not preach,
however, or burden us with rules or ideas to bring us to an
imaginary better world, here or in the afterlife. The only life is
this, the here and now, the life of the body, the life of the
senses connecting us to the world. To restore our delight in the
present is not a trivial mission and Moga confronts us time and
again with our emotions and sensations, with the intention of
blotting out thereby the monotonous discourse of the
representatives of order. One might think, then, that the poet is
acting like a strategist on a battlefield. Far from the Manichaean
vision of the soldier, who is unable to see beyond dualities, this
poetry is nourished by subtlety, detail and precision. It is not
artillery, but a fine wielding of the scalpel which, with the
delicacy and determination of the silversmith, dissects the tumour
and cyst threatening our life, which is then able to flourish as a
result.
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