The authorities decree. The authorities inhibit. López Velarde is not a national poet: case closed. López Velarde is indeed a national poet: open case. It would be preferable if it were not; the adjective drives away, disappoints, saddens. It would lead to the establishment of a form of census: such Mexican poets are national; such others are not. I also suspect that those on the first list would play a heroic role, superior for being representative, compared to “the cosmopolitans who have too general ideas.” The signs seem like orders: that no one dares appropriate the poet. There is an implicit “our”. With the festivities, the usual trenches are reopened. Not all of us are capable of joining the Lopez Velardean spirit. Something is needed in identity, perhaps even in character, to achieve it, and I confess to a definite fault. When I read López Velarde, I do not do so with the awareness that he is the “quintessential Mexican poet”, “extraordinary singer of the province”, “lonely man”, “silent bard”, “great minor poet”. I do not look for the mirror of “Castilian purism” to declaim in a manner and laugh with a cultured laugh at what my memory keeps as if it were a natural decline of its very little story. There are no podiums, no flags, no ceremonies, no rituals; if anything, the “previous fervor” with which, according to Borges, a classic is read. And, of course, the famous estrus or the simple air that is filling with esdrújulas. “The seat of the lyric is not inherited”, writes López Velarde in his short essay on Lugones. Where will be today “all the doorways for the inside and all the doorways for the outside”? Or “the good-natured who distribute academic certificates”, documents proving that good poetry is being written, the most correct, the most appropriate? I join the acolytes who lack instructions. You can subvert the chronic sleep to peek into the terroir for a moment and ask: what is that? Innocence can be feigned before “La suave Patria” and its resounding tributes. Can rhyme sesame with Yes and with you, although the ear stumbles in the attempt; believe that the country is worth by the river / of the virtues of his womanhood. How do mythologies weep when they die in the twists and turns of the verses that lend them? How does a person speak in the first person mexican which has the folds on its lid? How it sounds the current time with her coconut belly? Time does not pass exactly. We would have to “cut the epic” in one fell swoop and go to the sumptuous yesterday of fictional town. “In my opinion, the poet must be not only personal, but very personal,” said López Velarde. Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts … In a turquoise sky, lightning strikes cloud quilts. Metaphors are entangled with politics. The electoral trip that López Velarde made in 1912 to Jerez as a candidate for a substitute deputation puts any poetics of privacy in check. I suppose that in this lies the inevitable contribution to the funny.