By Eduardo Garcia Aguilar * historical periodization's friends would find great difficulty in placing Eduardo Carranza in the panorama of Colombian and Latin American letters. If you were correct the idea that a movement follows another by the grace of an evolutionary process, poetry, which is perhaps the deepest form of human knowledge and light, it would lose the character that makes it timeless lightning on centuries. In a secret Olympus and delightfully anachronistic, meet the poets and find it difficult to understand, for one reason very simple: they know the essence of things, or at least perceive the impossibility of knowing. Always, through the centuries, over the wars and disasters, mankind will produce those strange beings who seek to stop the impossible with words. The day in this world and no light and everything looks like a huge cave, there will be a solitary crow to the mosses, humanity, into the darkness. And that song, though it only has the same strength and lightness in identical times of Propertius, Joachim du Bellay and the future poet.
Eduardo Carranza, who was born in 1913 in the vast eastern plains of Colombia, have had to sing to airplanes or bombs, if it were true that the minutiae of time to be reflected in the poem. Such poetry lists and objects just desedeña man, not knowing that the ideas happen and are men, with their natural surroundings and nostalgia, their woes and triumphs. The voice of a poet, even of those unknown and secret, is always a window that opens to distant cities whose domes have a brightness proportional to the delivery of the speaker. Carranza In a poem dedicated to a great mystic poet of Colombia who died insane and always went against the tide, "Cantata in honor of Antonio Llanos," the poet tells us
the day as a red hawk
flew between palms and crossed
A white doe with his tape
Azul. Youth with a grilled
Or a star in his hand crossed
Among maidens as a forest
O an island with fruit trees.
"What once was will always be! "
We only memory, time
With music footprints, rain,
Like your poetry, my Master.
Sometimes the beaches of insomnia,
I return to find the angels then
voices buried by time
Kisses by apenumbrados time,
The steps that lead to love
Covered silence and nostalgia.
And I hear the heart beat of time
submarine And the rumor of the past.
dreams I hear the sighs and I hear
The moon walk among palm trees, alone.
Carranza published in 1936 "Music to start a party," becoming the standard bearer of "piedracielismo" poetic movement which claimed the world of Juan Ramón Jiménez. It was then a boy of 23 or 24 years. Editions thin fakirescas, the piedracielistas Carlos Martín, Arturo Ramírez Camacho, Tomás Vargas Osorio Gerardo Valencia and Dario Samper caused a scandal in Colombia, not because they were devoted to scare women but because they returned to the voice of Garcilaso, sought in an ideal world the rhythms of poetry to science, progress and the academy had become a awful dull papier mache camel to operetta. Piedracielistas Carranza and made a small revolution in Bogotá to undress and walk slowly floating through the lofty grove of persimmons and Guam. A man, very piernijunto him, Don Juan Lozano y Lozano, once said of this movement "in all that confusion wordy gibberish there is nothing original, nothing stable, nothing lasting. To who have a vision that strong and big country, is the inescapable duty to go and meet every symptom weak, sick, lost, disruptive, decadent, EROSTRATO, which appears on the horizon of nationality. "
That country, the nationality, is for Carranza to CAEV "a desire to mourn and to sing sometimes." In the early works of the poet's poems are not heavy and seems to fly from the page to leave it blank. His world are odors, perfumes, aromas, dreams and gardens. As heavy spirits are always a rusty anchor and heart, could neither be hedonic understand this poem.
In the poems of "The Forgotten" (1948-1954), for example, says "The spring with his long legs, / ran away laughing like a girl" or "white flame a burning jasmine "or" grow, sometimes when you're sleeping / through the gardens of your dreams "or" The silence around the corner of your street "or" A boat goes down, parallel, / full of flowers, due to morning "or" doors open from the rain, / and something we so beautiful / like a house of air and flowers. "
These verses rocked the poetry of the South American country. To them and appear just before the demure and beautiful Aurelio Arturo, author of Residence to the south, poetry was a huge cardboard replica of basilicas on each day the farmers of the country pseudo Greco-Roman, Guillermo Valencia as his disciples and other minor , with emphasis placed increasingly stifling statues of cement, steel crosses, madonnas, plastic, elastic camels necks, hermaphrodites asleep. The poets of that time, with the exception of Smith, the alien, ending a tradition of politicians in the "honorable" Senate. Poetry was to them a variant of the speech, a minor form of the harangue. Sheathed in shiny Levites, with their hats and starched collars Chaplinesque, who had the misfortune of living in those years, were lit with candles to write poems about cedar coffins. As a tie for lead, incense clung verses to drown. The Grotto of the Symbolic, all bloody, emerged in the late nineteenth century to become the other side, much grimmer still, of that year that came to aerate piedracielistas. In the attic of Colombian poetry found carved femurs and pelvis with cobwebs July Flórez. After cleaning, were flower gardens, girls, hair in the air, half-naked tennis players, observed with desire, and that was, indeed, a mortal danger to the nation, according to Don Juan Lozano y Lozano.
hear "Singing in the distance '
grow flowers to your lashes.
music surrounds you as well
That song islands of foam,
Your face loses its leaves in clouds pure
of silence, grace, and nostalgia.
As the trail of floating clouds
That follows the course of large rivers,
Alta, blue, going over my blood.
And their margins are like a
forest White wings and dreams.
morning tiptoed
As a maid of mist
in your window and learns your voice.
supports his golden afternoon against
in your glasses. You think the afternoon.
Rivers carry to the sea its image
would shine in the future nacres.
What invisible gestures Pompeii
And images of you in the air:
For she is my soul, eyes rapt!
Before the shadows of the end came to disturb Epistle to produce eternal deadly rebellion Carranza continued to grow with a flame of joy and reconciliation with nature as in "The Sing to the plains of the country into a metaphor of girl" or the sonnets of "Blue You", which alone names indicate their stuff, "Alazul", "an island girl," "Sonnet traversed by a river", "Mary with tears jasmine", "Space of my voice ',' Sonnet leaning out the window" or "The Poet goodbye to the girls. "
The poet is still in the middle of the road of life and nothing is disturbed as a skin or a hands, a breath or a hair, a silk, a breast, eyes, a perfume. This pleasant set of texts that seemed to contradict the tragic fate of the unfortunate, are, however, crossed by a river accident. Behind the most beautiful and pure, with the blue windows of an imaginary world, demons lurk and laugh. In the white angel of the sonnets, some fatal caries are barely covered with ivory of a happiness that always brings its load of sorrow. In these verses of Carranza, the lucid reader discovers paradise after the tunnels, caverns, the overwhelming noise of the detritus, the suddenness of some galloping chestnut funeral. Such beauty resembles the face blossomed a dead girl.
In "The steps sung," says
... Well stop is sometimes a bit
in the way of life,
and look in the distance, as rapt.
We go from the memory to hope
For the instantaneous bridge present;
From yesterday morning walk,
United by air and flowers.
We pacing like a soft meadow
That child we were, walked
Treading as garden soil
Fired, that teenager
With his suit kisses sleepwalker
also went when God wanted.
As soil mixed with the sky
We stepping on young dreams,
Dreams,
Of Dreams, dreams, dreams ...
Hence forward Carranza try to rescue the child, and all his poetry, which is charged with loneliness, strangers and violets, sing the nostalgia of their world. While the terrible antropolatría atheist, with his chariot of science and techniques, trying to find reasons for unreason, Carranza was riding a horse as a child. He was not wrong. The poet, the word verdaero instrument is an eternal child who sees death of his body, and Emperor celebrated as a fire in the city of his dreams. Poetry is the evil voice of children, a beautiful and terrible voice. Rilke's angel is dictating the door. The great tragedy of Carranza and all human beings is to be aware of being children. The nostalgia in his voice, poignant memories of his contact with the earth and the forest, the memory of a bird's nest destroyed at random, the dream of a dusty road, are just some of the shootings that hurt us every day . Youth, it should be said, charging the shadow inatajable an end and a tear of the size of the world floods and drowns us. In the poem "The Child's portrait "Says the poet:
Among those who have been disturbed me,
More than any other that
From the boat, sailor dress
forehead and everything I dreamed that
and helpless eyes.
And sometimes I imagine sleepless
As I can play this hand of mine,
As I return to that look
Where angels fly visionary
at me now:
Where walk quietly on
Towards the secret teen sad
And the young victorious in his lightning
And his life went through, rider
The red pony.
I was asleep I sometimes waiting
Awakening that child's portrait
sleeping for ever and ever
-and at the bottom of the time and my life -
and already looked at you.
Then in fatal epistle, which is one of the most successful poems of his work, Carranza rebels against death. The great poet Propertius, furious because Cinthya two millennia ago was cheating and refused to be his, scorning his love, owned it forever in the eternity of the poem. Using the power conferred upon this wonderful art, makes his prisoner forever. Similarly Carranza conjured an end in this epistle, which begins:
Miro portrait: they're all dead
my teens loved Poets
leaf through a family album and spend
suits and shades and perfumes dead.
(lie bled blue dream)
Carranza reviews his life and calls to friends, girlfriends, to landscapes, to say that "we are ancestors of other dead" and only hope "the coup de grace." This terrible truth appears in all its splendor, and Carranza has no compassion for sounding the trumpets of the trial. This long poem is completely disitinto tone of his work. It seems a given text of the night. The result of a drunken supernatural, proof that the poet is a choice, a being endowed with certain secret senses. If poetry is a terrible illness Epistle mortal is most noticeable symptom of the virus glorious already mastered his temper. It's time for call and the poet who has already spoken with the deep concave tells us the truth. Each of the verses of this poem is equipped with devastating force and who reads it can not help but shudder. The allegorical view of evil could have angled this revelation:
Girls First Communion
In whose hands a dove flies,
White burning brides in your fireplace,
Days and dancing kings for
And crowns fall in the dust,
Cambulo The apple and the turpial,
El tigre, the doe, fish,
Dew, my shadow, these words:
all died tomorrow! It's already dead.
Dust is our true face
That tells us whether he is alive Eduardo Carranza and walk with us today.
* Essay published in Mexico in 1984.
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