Lúa Mosquetera

- Spain -

Lúa Mosquetera (Miño, 1988) is a Galician Language and Literature graduate of the University of Santiago de Compostela. She has self-edited two poetry books: Rasrás (2018) and Aunque seas rara y seas pájaro (Even if you are strange and you are a bird) (2020).

Her third poetry book, this time written in Galician, Espíderman (2022) is published by Galaxia. ‘Anorak de pel de caribú’, a piece that is included in this volume, has received the ARitmar award for Best Poem in Galicia 2021.

She published her first novel, Yo vivo (I live) (2022) with publishing house La Moderna.


Her poems are always connected to the musical and audiovisual world: she has collaborated with artists such as Bala, Pablo Seijas or Lilaina, and has worked with director Bastian Rodríguez to produce professional videopoems.


She is the champion of the Galician Poetry Slam, and a finalist in the Spanish edition, performing spoken word to spread her message, and believes in the verse as a tool for transformation and battle.

‘Aunque seas rara y seas pájaro’ (Even if you are strange and you are a bird) by Lúa Mosquetera, is the second book of a poet. This much seems unexceptional, but perhaps what is surprising is that this poet is also the editorial director of the book, the bartender from a nearby town, the girl with those old-school tattoos that are so well done, an old friend’s unrevealed love, the person who has turned a bad night around with just one poem for more than one friend, or that young and brave writer who unknowingly made you cry and gave you goosebumps with one of her passages. And that is rather exceptional, because poetry is supposed to be dead, out of fashion, archaic even. Why read poems when with only a basic level of education, a good pair of tits/biceps, and an ephemeral match one can solely worry about the flavour of condoms? Why dream? Why suffer? Why leave your soul, lament, laughter, and melancholy on paper? Ultimately, why write?


The answer I offer: to discover things like this “Aunque seas rara y seas pájaro” by Lúa Mosquetera. To know that, in spite of the jerks, there are poets out there and they are truly strong, resilient, and talented. Through her pages and her pulses, Lúa discusses politics without mentioning it, she does so as can only be done by a person who knows and feels injustices and knows the need and the courage needed to overcome them, she speaks about feminism, unashamedly, candidly, fearlessly. Because dancing reggaeton, oral sex, feeling powerful, beautiful, or tremendously ugly, can be the most empowering thing in the world when, faced with society’s prejudice and judgement, you scream “Fuck it!”. When truth bleeds, when truth laughs, when life cries and it cums, screams and gets angry, apologises and falls in love. When goosebumps appear because of some genuinely beautiful detail, it turns out that there is no greater pleasure than being able to transform the world into art. And that, art, is what Lúa’s poetry is. Art and revolution, internal revolution that is born from that waitress’ chest, and more than one asshole has undoubtedly checked out her tits while ordering at the bar without imagining, or even wanting to imagine, what beats in there, and who someone else victimised or blamed before dumping her, before leaving… Because poets too, as well as birds, are dumped this way, trying to cut off their wings. It is beautiful that a poet is there to see beauty, but also to lick her wounds and with the remains of her saliva as well as many others’, to be able to transform the pain, the damage, into something so beautiful. Paper and ink, pain and time, raw material that each one of us accumulates in our lifetimes and that only those who truly bare themselves in front of the mirror are capable of transforming into something that is really worth prevailing in time. Our people go away. Lúa knows this, does she fucking know it. I can’t even imagine how it must sting to hear the sound of the last key when one hits it saying goodbye, see you soon, until the next poem, to who should still be so close, who is still so deep inside. I also admire her for this, for her ability to revive her mother on a blank sheet, that which us writers so fear, especially when we starkly face the passing of time. And I imagine her mother, without having ever met her, not even having a real idea of who she was, but I imagine her at a window, barefoot, welcoming an everlasting summer and smiling cigarette-in-hand, while on the other hand she elegantly, but unpretentiously so, holds the sheet her daughter has turned into a fucking poem. Yes, a fucking poem when poetry is supposed to be dead, but she has done it, thus restoring life, the vitality of youth and a whole eternity ahead… Her, who should supposedly be dead too, but to whom the talent and stubbornness of a young poet from Miño has returned to life for an instant. And what I imagine, which I suppose you know perfectly, Lúa, ends with a puff of smoke in the air and the image of a mother who is fiercely proud of her daughter’s strength, determination, and talent. The talent of a true poet.


I thank Lúa for baring herself for us in this book, I thank her for showing me the beauty in shitting with the door open and I hope she will keep being strange and a bird, in spite of the jerks. This book will stir something inside you, this I assure you. I am not a literary critic, nor do I need to be, I am not going to talk about metrics, allegories and shit like that which although important, have here of which I am speaking the same importance as sex education classes or porn when, in fact, in your eyes and in theirs sex takes on a new meaning, different from everything else. What I am talking about cannot be trained and no advice can be given, one must simply buy this book, find a spot, and devour it. Devour it as I have, unable to follow Lúa’s advice and had I had it open on the first page in the bathroom, I am sure my legs would have gone numb and sooner or later somebody would have knocked on the door to see if everything was OK in there. I’m sorry Lúa, but I wasn’t able to put it down once I opened the book. I promise it will be there to go back time and again to its pages when life gets angry with me, but also when I want to see the beauty in a hungover afternoon or think about those photos your parents would take of you to make you understand that anger, sadness, and life itself is so fleeting that it’s not worth it to waste time on anything, or anyone.  At least not on those who don’t understand the need a poet has to spread their wings.


By Daniel Seixo

Translation by Aira da Gama