Cinta Mulet i Grau

Cinta Mulet (Horta de Sant Joan, 1958) lives between Tarragona and Horta de Sant Joan. She started by publishing some stories in Cavall Fort, but her natural tendency leads her to poetry. She is the author of the poetry collections La saviesa de l'ombra (Martí i Pol del Barcelonès Poetry Competition, 1999), Paraula de dona (Arola Editors, 2001), Poemes del sud (Arola Editors, 2004), Versets per a cantar a un poble (2004), Poemes, pomes i altres verins (Tarragona City Council, 2005). She has also published the stage poetry monologue Qui ha mort una poeta (Arola Editors, 2007). Aigua dolça (Arola Editors, 2007), a collection of children's poetry, with images by Laura Gual. It continues with Contrapunt and Amors d'aire & d'aigua (Emboscall, 2007) and Només un fil de llum blanca (Arola Editors, 2011), with images by Antoni Torrell. Her latest works have been A la llar de mi (Curbet. Edicions, 2015) and the school theater adaptation of Llibre de les Bèsties (Arola Edicions, 2015).

She is the co-author of the collections Eròtiques i despentinades, Erato bajo la piel del deseo, or Poemes per a un món millor, among others. She has dabbled in the field of short narrative: "Una cobra africana" within Galeria ebrenca and "L’ambigüitat de les fronteres" within La Val de Zafán.

She has participated in many literary activities: Taca d'oli, Un tren de poesia, Sant Cugat Festival, Translation Days in Farrera, Catalan Poetry Week in Pancevo (Serbia), Parallel Voices 2015.

She has been responsible for the organization of tributes to various authors (M. Mercè Marçal the year of her death, the last living tribute to Gerard Vergés, Desideri Lombarte, Espriu, among others).

Some of her poems have been translated into Spanish, Serbian and Finnish. Others have been set to music by Jesús Fuster or Mallorcans M. del Mar Vanrell and Mònica López in the Llum de llamp show. As a teacher and graduate in Catalan and Hispanic Philology, she has worked in the teaching field.

Hers is a long work and with many paths to travel, not always easy ones. Thus, Paraula de dona ⏤qualified by Magí Sunyer as a book "that responds to the demands of good poetry"⏤, constitutes a tribute to M. Mercè Marçal, a tribute which, despite having its roots in childhood, in games of children's words and in a wide range of love, does not have the marked imprint of this author, but goes back to the personal world of Mulet, a " voice of her own " that Sunyer already diagnoses in this first volume. The catalyst of the book ⏤the discovery of Marçal⏤ progresses here until it transforms into a personal expressive universe, made up of a world of images, movements and forms exclusive to Mulet's way of speaking, although in her own poetics none of this is evidenced or valued.

Here is a poet who questions her own work and reflects loudly in her verses, which speak of life from a remarkable work of artistic transformation. The words are her constructive material, all her baggage ⏤the paternal inheritance that she gives thanks to within the verses⏤, the only useful basis to go beyond the immediate reality, to create another substitute and superior form that starts from this first one party to confirm the like. It is the mystery of creation that the writer expresses with clarity in the poetics she created for this research: "I really like words because of the power to create a new reality of reality, Indeed, they are artists in their own right, great manipulators". In the same theoretical statement the poet has written: "I pour all my contained strength into poetry, it is me". So it is that Mulet's poetic fiction, her literature, seems to replace life and her lyrical voice has its own character, a unique personality. Mulet does not fictionalize from rhetoric, but, swept along by the torrent of everyday life, reaches pure creation, in the poetry born from the state of grace and only possible with the words she has taken from Horta, the only ones that can give complete meaning to her poem. Mulet's verbal wealth and her ability to express emotions —sufferings and joys⏤ with the right word in each case, are the foundations of her poetry, which is deceptively explicit and always more sculptural than pictorial.

Cinta Mulet has theorized about her poetics and has given information about it in interviews, in short essays and in her poetry itself. Her attitude as a poet is almost always initiatory, given the ambiguities, insecurities and attempts at definition that constitute her lyrical will, in constant rethinking. Thus, she declares her goal to understand and explain the world to herself through the intelligible and wonderful tool [...] which is the word", at the same time that she sees herself as a poet immersed in the 'analysis of one's own interiority: "practice introspection, rewrite the interior analysis and exorcise the evils that stir you up inside".

At the same time, she asks poetry for a lucid connection with the world, so that it becomes an active element that provides what the senses require: "Poetry serves a lot, and I would like to know how to serve. What happens outside makes you feel and take a position, poetry is a useful tool in a practical and utilitarian world, and it should be even more so." And she makes a similar confession in some verses of Paraula de dona (2001): "When I search, I feel, and I go to the bottom of a poem, because I don't know where else to go".

Literary creation conditioned the very biography of Mulet, who, finally ⏤and with the irony that she knows how to apply to herself⏤ sees in writing, also, a reflection of human weakness: "This was the other deception in which she lived trapped: the idealization of literature and the idea of writing ⏤on top of a cliff⏤. I knew that if I didn't leave that place [Horta de Sant Joan], the force of that existing inertia would stop me and everything would remain an unmaterialized illusion, so I made up my mind. Now I find that literature and writers are a bunch of comedians in a race to produce and be famous". All in all, and despite the mistakes and shortcomings that literary dedication entails, Cinta Mulet is one of the writers who has most clearly expressed her vital dependence on literature: "All the seasons that I have written, ignoring my surroundings, I have been very happy, and I always fear that the strength and ability to do it will leave me, because I know that it does not depend entirely on me. There are times that I cannot even if I want to».

At the same time, she has declared herself rebellious and vigilant in the face of excessive language regulations, t and, consequently, exorcises them : "When I write, no one commands me, not even the rules that matter little to me. [...] The rules represent factual powers and, in order to write, I think they must be forgotten. If not, they prevent you from speaking. They coerce spontaneity and all the beauty that comes with sincere and clean expression." And, as a final conclusion, she leaves an idea that presides over her entire work: «The authentic language is that of my parents. [...] When I write, sometimes words that were hidden in a corner of me and that I wasn't even aware of come out, and it's very funny. I grew up alone and, at home , they kept me under strict control, they didn't let me go out on the street too much, and I think that when I write, I continue that solitary game". The heritage of words is accompanied by that of the ideas and values that she incorporates into her poetry, coming from her family roots: "I am a daughter of the rural world and I believe that I owe it the possible wealth that I can bring and possibly convey. I don't know, it seems to me that the best lessons and the strength to live and endure came from there. Those who gave me the skills to survive and taught me the truth that they believed were those who lived at home, including my grandparents, whom I remember with great esteem and sadness because I lost them all too soon, like a parade." This earthly materiality and strength of Mulet's poetic voice are sometimes excessive, both in the use of certain words ⏤surprising in the space they occupy— and in the obsessive insistence on themes, words, images and sounds that are exasperated up to the point of musical and conceptual distortion- the ugliness is intended and full of meaning.

Escriptores tarragonines. Athena Collection. Tarragona: Arola Editors, 2010.

King’s Square

PUNT I A PART

AVUI ÉS LA MAR TOVA LA QUE PERVIU...

PENSAR O DIR LA MAR

GAVINES BLANQUES

REFERÈNCIES

King’s Square

Plaça del Rei

King’s Square

King’s Square or also my square, the square where I have lived and still live. A square, chosen among squares.

Pedestrians pass by every day, they are open-page newspapers where they read the stones. Yes, they are reading the stones now. The stones have serene eyes , adverse to flesh and movement; stone voices, silences that don't always happen , a magnanimous square of hardness, an open palm of thoughts that fly. The hiding place of so many things we would like to know and see, hidden. Place of greatness, greatness of a name without its own name.

They pass by, look, ignore, take an interest, photograph... A watchtower of the foundations of a town, living room of princes, Roman mandarins; they sense the yolk of the egg of the law that oppresses the brains of the poor. They spend moments out in the open, ignoring justice: injustices, like now, tolerated since other centuries, if not ━ how do you build a square of museums and churches?

The sky sleeps there, it floats, the power of an ancient king can be glimpsed there, and people love that. You can still hear the admirable cries, which used to hail ignorance, and now, I remember a doll made of wool and clothes, I remember the old story. A Lent full of filth, counted in chunks.

They come and go - now coffee and ice creams are sold there - the people, dressed up, looking at the buildings, towers and churches. The peace of the square is provided by the churches. Mornings of people fill its springs, to see it, to be there, to feed on stone, the peace of the church, the silence of museums, and the light of the blue sky on the backs of their necks and backs.

There are no leechlike car queues. And, yes, there are rivers, even rivers that run filled with children and backpacks. Almost every morning, squishy feet splash on Roman pacifiers that grace the new cracks, under the powerful sun that has been camping there since the early hours.

Space of the rich, it is the head of a safe branch, from where the old Tarraco stretched . The poor surely did not enter in this stronghold of firmness, now they sleep there, they eat there, in the restaurant up a few stairs; the sea also rolls in, the dull roar of the ox moistens the windows, and the mistral wind blows in the afternoons.

Among the obscurity of the centuries it was the main square of the old town, of the Quarter of Nazareth, for the nearby church of Santa Maria. Later it was called Plaça del Castell or del Rei, because it gave its location to the Castle, an urban trace of privileges and human waste, the king's chamber made of coarse stone, a quarter, a prison. Now it is a museum. At present, a cultivated estate with mausoleum forms. It was a medieval symbol and it still is. It will be. Always. A soldiers' well, a war post, a watchtower, a beacon of Christian radiance.

Robert d'Aguiló poured his efforts into it, and the kings of Aragon built new towers, to consolidate their power and fill themselves with pride against high ecclesiastical lordships. Castle of the King, Castle of the patriarch, the ambitions of chieftains translated into stone.

Plaça del Rey, a myth attacked by oppressed peasants, as always.

Reconstructed and embezzled over the centuries, Plaza and Castle, due to the thoughts, the opinions of those who make and undo in spite of themselves, or not, of those who vote or don't vote, of those who see or border history, like grass, as the uncertain future, but marked by others.

It used to be Carrer del Castell del Rei, when it was more than a square, and the jumble of walls made a diagonal line. However, the physiognomy which we now contemplate, with the implicit idea that we borrowed from the concept of a square, was acquired as a result of the blast by the French, as a result of which the monument became halved, and as a consequence of the theft that owes nothing to the stones, the new space came to be called what it was, Plaça Nova.

Other politicians, those who pass by, with little opportunity and unfortunate battles, looked for alternative names, in agreement with the cenacle where they gathered, but they did not catch on, Plaza de la Llibertat remained muted like the Republic itself, and the ancient root that weighed more strongly took over.

Thus, from then and from now, in this south-east corner of the old wall, it stands with all the magnificence that years and royalty give, the only tower that shuns gunpowder, still constituting the virtual ends of the virtual Forum, twin tower of the old Audience. There are streets of names and strategies, ancient stone blocks that at night, with the amber and new light, shine through, as they also do with the moisture in the air, or on the days dampened by the benevolent rain.

━Luxury square that recreates the eyes of now, and past history. Conclave of kings and clergy. A square of sober churches, sober because of the churches, and due to bells ringing at the same hours, messages that reach you or are not heard.

At the end of the day, you can already see women climbing the stairs, those of La Trinitat, an active church. Opposite, and mute, the bell of Nazareth, it might be said showing the muteness of a wise man who sees and is silent; and judges, arrogant, from the center , and from the height used for proclamation.

Carrer de Santa Anna, close to the Castle of the King and also the Assaonadors, flows into the square with the Church of the Holy Trinity, repeated convent of various orders, Augustinians and Trinitarians. A broken church, witnessed, commissioned, suffering changes and more changes, creeds of the same God, who still remains. Even further down, in the many centuries that we lose sight of, the Jewry turned it into a School and a Synagogue, and tried, like others, to learn and pray on the same plot. Jews inside the Plaça Major, in the King's hostel, carefully guarded, avoiding the fury of prelates and archbishops.

━Trinity, advocate the last friars.

No menys atzarós, ha estat el discurs de l'altra Església que conforma la Plaça, Natzaret, de paret esgrafiada amb l'Eccehomo al cor de la porta, ha conegut colors d'hàbits i moltes cares; atzarós destí aquest últim: romandre tancada. Natzaret, viva església semblant morta. Reneix cada any, després d'intensa letargia, un mes abans de Setmana Santa. Artífexs: els seglars, llecs sense barba; són els nous espardenyers i esparters portant la batuta d'aquell enzim romàntic. Bell moment en néixer, homes gremials, acompanyant els misteris, la gent a la mort, als patíbuls, enterradors de cadàvers, voluntaris d'altres temps que encara en queden, Església tancada, plena de Passos Sants esperant les processons llargues. Homes que passegen Déu mort pels carrers, morts de cames. Homes romàntics, sacs de fe amb vestes negres.

I em cal, encara, parlar d'arquebisbes, Antoni Agustí i Juan de Terés, no per la seva santedat que ignoro, sinó pel seu mecenatge, clergues vius al frec renaixentista que tocaven les campanes, que van emparar, amb el seu saber llarg o minvat, encertat per aleshores, el rang de la nova era que advenia, el salt del pergamí al paper ja era fet, ara, la gambada anava entre màquines. No, Tarragona no va quedar òrfena entre l'espessor dels segles, primerenca en aquesta nova indústria que difonia el coneixement dels homes, la impremta.

Els cristians, homes destres, també barrejaren saber i culte des de bon principi, a la seu arquebisbal, installaren unes premses, també a la Casa de Natzaret, i amb aquestes màquines s'hi avingueren noms de vells estampers compromesos, repartits en els segles, Felipe Mey, Felipe Roberto, Joseph Barber, noms ocults també farceixen aquesta ninota nostra, de llana i roba, la vella que història.

Aquesta sinagoga cristiana de Natzaret, veié néixer el segon volum del Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha del llicenciat Avellaneda. I cent anys després, la Vida y hechos del Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha.

Bastir les dades de literatura?, abasta la literatura les dades?

No volia saciar l'avidesa del curiós, ni malversar la literatura envers la pudenta informació. Potser la mediocritat d'aquell que és dominat més que dominant, fa parir documents híbrids, mig literaris, mig logístics, sense gust de res, a mig camí de tot.

El que sé és que m'hi quedo, entre impressions imperfectes, vivint el migdia al repic de l'àngelus que mai reso, que em fa pensar en altres àngelus; vella cofrare, em resigno en aquest pis de guaita, des d'on, d'esquitllèbit, veig la plaça.

A l'estació perduda hi jeuen vells arquitectes, vidents encara, miren amb ulls sense terra, tu jeus oberta, emplaçant esglésies. Morta de museus, presoneres tenebres encara en la memòria envellida dels papers i algun vell, sobrevivent de cera.

Estació perduda on hi para el sol cada matí, en llevar-se l'alba. Albada de borratxos i gent de l'hampa, de l'hampa soc jo en aquesta plaça, reial destí de monjos, frares d'antuvi que també hi jeuen.

Una nit hi cantava aquell gitano, mort d'amor, de perdre l'amada, les pedres ressonaven en plors, era la nit destra en veus clares, i jo sense veure't plaça, ni a tu, ni a ell, aquell gitano, negre com jo, a l'empara de l'alba, us escoltava. Volent-te veure plaça només de gairell, el nas al regalim de la llum groga. Plaça morta, els vianants no t'hi deixen l'ànima, només el rebuf de dues respirades i sense espera, passen i passen.

Una plaça, com jo mateixa, on, a dies, m'hi crec reina; a dies, servent albatros del vent sobre l'aigua.

La ciutat pels carrers. 27 mirades sobre Tarragona, Llibreria La Capona, 2002

Vull pujar en aquell terrat,

en el meu barri de gitanos,

gleva de pell morena

on les guitarres fan escacs i sardanes.

La veu del gitano plora

sobre la pedra que travessa:

amors trencats en la branca,

pugen els plors com els arbres.

Crida, com un boig, a un cel desert d'estrelles.

-Y ella no me quiere! ¿Por qué

no me quiere, si yo aún la quiero?

El gitano, partit per la tenebra,

arrenca la força al mar i a la terra

perquè ella el senti o s'encenguin

aquelles parets en flames:

fugen les flors de la Lluna, en sentir-lo,

i comença el combat de llances;

creix la mort i les punxes,

i s'esgarra en crits, l'aire.

Mentre dorm el veïnat,

aquell gitano enclava els gemecs

com cimals a les campanes

i, encara

a cada tarda que toquen,

s'omple la plaça de pendons negres.

Aquells senyals saben,

fora d'hores i de llums que callen,

que allí, va plorar d'amor, un home,

ara que ningú en plora, i de pena:

aquella nit blanca de pell morena.

Cinta Mulet, Només un fil de llum blanca, Arola Editors.

PUNT I A PART

Poetes era com un envàs que intuïa que amagava molta força, la força que jo buscava en aquell llavors tan esvaït. Hi ha coses que se saben. També sabia que Tarragona era el meu lloc i que els dies em portarien gent i, entre la gent, ja trobaria. Així els dies es convertiren en aventura i la tria en exercici de llibertat. Tres escaletes de pedra com una frontera per a mi, amb el traspeu tremolós que m'estirava cap endins. I, una volta a dins, què hi faria, jo, avesada al poc bar i allò no era ni bar.

Diferent i bell i ple de velles cadires i butaques com unes que havia llençat de l'habitació dels meus pares. M'hagués arrencat els cabells del cap idiota que vaig ser! No saber veure el que aquells dos homes havien vist. Aquell aparent combinat de diferències lligat tot per la corda difícil de la completa harmonia. Quin disseny clavat d'irregularitats! A mi, de poble, poc polida en urbanitats, em va encantar. També em va encantar l'habilitat en el tracte d'aquells desconeguts amb els patètics temorosos, insegurs com jo, sempre convençuda de fer el ridícul. Per què es devia dir Poetes… Se'm va començar a omplir el cap de fum, quan me'n van començar a informar, que si recitals, que si M. Aurèlia Capmany, que si peixos grossos... Aquelles rústegues parets de la saleta de dalt... Mmm... si en poguessin parlar, I tot se'm feia il·lusori i desitjable i impossible. Havia arribat massa tard!

Punt i a part, Homenatge a Antoni Torrell. 2020