Adrian Vieitez (Vigo, 1994) is a cultural journalist and philosophy student. She has been editing and writing at Zenda since 2018. In 2020, she organized on the Medium platform an anthology of 40 texts —and 40 authors— about the confinement that she titled Fruit trees and that it would be published as a book, at the beginning of 2021, by Editorial Sixteen. From the hand of the same label publishes now High Music Schoolhis second collection of poems after the appearance, also in 2021, of treatise on your name (Editions At Sea).
The poet Rosa Berbel It points out, on its back cover: «Umberto Eco warned of the difficulty of telling someone that you love them in a world in which innocence has been lost. The awareness of this awkwardness, both individual and collective, acquires an aesthetic thrust in the poems of High Music School, projecting towards a beautiful reflection on love as an always inexhaustible conversation, on the future as an intermittent light. Playing with the images of popular culture and with an intelligence that overflows on each page, Adrián Viéitez recovers part of that innocence through a poetics of sincerity, uncertainty and hesitation. A book full of colors and movement, adolescent in its euphoria and in the radical nature of its ellipses, at the same time abstract and moving. These poems confirm a voice called to redefine the sentimental in our time, in all possible times, because we know that the cults of the future will welcome this love, this soft twinkle«.
Zenda advances the first five poems of the book.
lullaby for adults
hospital walls white as new wax
two old men await a vertebral diagnosis
In the middle of the night, a storm holds the
sky colour. she leans her back on an armchair.
watches him while he sleeps. the birds draw
grotesque shapes in their nocturnal flights, somewhat solemn,
bulky in a darkness that yearns for a snap,
a different glow. he sighs uneasily
sleepy. the rain hits the windows hard.
In another part of the world, two poor young lovers
they stretch out in the open. it’s hot and still
live the promise of a bright future. in the hospital she
squints, remembers, leans over him before,
eclipsed by the roar of thunder, the whistling of birds,
whisper a few words that bind them forever and fall,
asleep at his side, in the dream of imagination.
track 01: Kierkegaard strolls
Kierkegaard walks through the measured holes
from our bed. measuring the contours
of our bodies whispers: it is no more
tolerable this world, not more pleasant
this transit, no matter how much love does its part.
the stroke of birds typical of the night paints
the windows of the room we occupy, small,
single bed. we interweave our bodies
to leave less room for doubt.
the gloom is full of vampires. they meet
At purple fantasy parties, they love each other lasciviously
in the shadow of the world, the black clothes, the lips
an unbearable red. Kierkegaard walks through
the measured gaps […]
all kinds of creatures populate this side of the moon.
reptiles covered with hard scales bathe in blood,
the weight of medieval philosophy on their backs.
Saint Augustine prepares for the light, Kierkegaard strolls.
at night I pretend to be a vampire, I imagine you as an angel
so light-skinned, an angel anchored to the world: creatures
at night, call this meeting for me.
track 02: costume party
the friendly evenings that have twisted the faces of fear:
a man armed with gravity recites poems with his elbows
outstretched, the voice spread across the room. we spoke with
strangers, we say things we don’t think about the valuable
dripping drive of Charles Bukowski, we admire the expressive
spontaneity of the beat world, we all nodded. in these
domes, at the mercy of these altitudes we will perish: drowned by
the narrative nerve of Houellebecq, by the expository imagination of
Lars vonTrier. We tell each other that we still believe in
the standards of high culture. we have never lied to each other.
circling the mountains of the Alps, the smallest deer
They search for food among the rocks. the wind chills at such altitudes,
the atmosphere is fully renewed at every moment. The water is clean,
covered with animals that want to survive. a woman walks
a cobbled path, load an empty cauldron. kneels in front of
lake, does not worry before the immensity: that is the image that sustains
his days. with her hands she drenches her white hair, drains the icy water
between his fingers. a man armed with gravity recites poems […]
We know how to be alone, we know how to be alone, but we prefer to pretend
together. in the center of the costume party we intuit the dynamics,
prom kings: your eyes sparkle like frost, one armed man
gravely recites poems and you, dressed in garlands, dance tonight
with the cleansing of the stars.
track 03: graveyard whispers
time is never time at all
you can never ever leave
without leaving a piece of youth
THE SMASHING PUMPKINS, Tonight, Tonight
I want to design for you a map of dark sounds
that scare the sleeping city. in the gothic basement
Hundreds of skeletons lie inert in this stone framework
that when the moon flies they kiss and dance with horrible crackles,
with the beauty of the bones when their footprint is swept from the earth.
So that the excitement of this time does not fade, you will see:
I have drawn up a map of all the fears I have known.
this geography of terror is the receipt of my years of work.
now we are here: we read Robert Frost and impose
his idea of naturalism. we believe it is possible to escape through it
from the yoke of competition. for you and for me is this apparent world,
a horizontal workmanship in which to be part of. we pray at night
we pray in the cemetery: that this language is not capitalized.
the skeletons dance on the stone of the cathedrals, the city
dark levitates on its foundations. people are asleep.
you and I dressed as snakes: we left the world
civilized and through urban channels we reach a certain idea
of jungle. we keep reading Robert Frost. boston bay,
the cobbled avenues of edinburgh, the luminous dream
from Vienna. We wanted to be young, to write. we pray, we pray
in cemeteries for our language. I look into your eyes and
I guess the margins of the most beautiful cities in Europe.
track 04: booklet in the shadow
During the winter of 1784, Friedrich Schiller fell in love with a goose.
every time he described its proportions, a strange vibration in his voice
betrayed the lover. lit and dark, locked in a room
of small dimensions, wrote a short treatise on that love.
he did it in one night, fast, feverish: Schiller would later say, already on the path
of shame, which then responded to the purpose of sustaining the emotion.
at dawn he carefully bound it and went out for a walk in Weimar;
the city was wet and empty. the geese had already flown. the fatigue
thus overcame love: as the world woke up, Schiller
he realized the ridiculous dimension of that sentiment. she came slowly home
plunged into a kind of hopeless vigil; he was the figure of a man
lost. Back in his room, he built a small fire, watched
half asleep the crackle of a strange fire, minuscule but deadly,
and just before falling into the clutches of sleep he threw the notebook into the flames
that contained his fever of love towards a goose. we learned things that way
of love: collecting the ashes of ridiculous burnt aesthetic treatises
in the loneliest bonfires in contemporary history.