DGD: Landscape 14 (clonografía), 2001 * Argentine poet Mario Morales (Pehuajó, 1936), author of Letters to my blood (1958), shared with Robert Juarroz the direction of the magazine Poetry = Poetry to late fifties and early sixties. In number 8 of this magazine, Morales issued a poem to reflect on the making poetry in its highest expression. The untitled poem begins with this stanza:
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In the rhythm, the rhythm
a look when it breaks
and seeks its chips into sleep.
*
This boot is perfect. Repeating the first verse in the second creates a rhythm, almost like a composer who sets the tempo the beginning of a score. The initial image is thus determined by a rhythm: a look when it breaks in waking and then seeks re dreaming. The original impulse of the poem is so high, powerful and torrential, the poet does not even have time (or less need) to tell us why or how to break a look. This would be another poem officer, a fork that the poet does not drink, seized by the urgent need to be faithful to the lightning that have fallen into. In these three verses is the seed of a whole collection of poems, which will grow into a tree in sight, in waking, the dream of the reader. For even when the image is not developed, the recipient recognizes a clear way, certainly is true that the fragmented wakefulness look at a pace that is complemented when, in the dream, that look looks re . The poem goes like this:
This boot is perfect. Repeating the first verse in the second creates a rhythm, almost like a composer who sets the tempo the beginning of a score. The initial image is thus determined by a rhythm: a look when it breaks in waking and then seeks re dreaming. The original impulse of the poem is so high, powerful and torrential, the poet does not even have time (or less need) to tell us why or how to break a look. This would be another poem officer, a fork that the poet does not drink, seized by the urgent need to be faithful to the lightning that have fallen into. In these three verses is the seed of a whole collection of poems, which will grow into a tree in sight, in waking, the dream of the reader. For even when the image is not developed, the recipient recognizes a clear way, certainly is true that the fragmented wakefulness look at a pace that is complemented when, in the dream, that look looks re . The poem goes like this:
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The insane pace, pure, a clam
colored deaf, angry,
decapitated with all the juice of the day
his heart still burning sword smoke.
*
Here the poet makes an abrupt change of registration. This second image appears elusive, perhaps a little giddy. We can imagine a color clam deaf and angry, but not how to be beheaded with an insane pace and pure, and even less with all the juice of the day, much less to be beheaded by "burning" (the great danger of gerunds ) "even" (a fake bridge) "the heart of rock and smoke."
* The image of the first stanza, even with all its complexity, was perfectly represented in the reader's mind, but instead, here is a bundle of proposals that fail the crystalline perfection of the three opening lines. Adjectives like insane, pure, dull, angry, do nothing to support as many nouns, rhythm, clams, colors, juice, day, heart, sword, smoke ... The strength of the home is diluted in this sequel whose image is so farfetched, that we spend waiting for it as the following passage illuminates the shadows.
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unleashed in all the tenderness
in the hair of a sleeping woman.
*
Here the poet, as tired of the inability of the above, go back to simple. Has masterfully used the reader quickly to seek out new rhythms in each stanza. And therein lies the simplicity of the statement: the rhythm of tenderness unleashed in the hair of a sleeping woman. The image is intimate, eloquent, accurate. In the previous stanza, the poet, almost surreal frenzy, requiring us to imagine how a clam could be beheaded, not only that, but decapitated "with all the juice of the day", which somehow burning "heart of sword and smoke. "
Here the poet, as tired of the inability of the above, go back to simple. Has masterfully used the reader quickly to seek out new rhythms in each stanza. And therein lies the simplicity of the statement: the rhythm of tenderness unleashed in the hair of a sleeping woman. The image is intimate, eloquent, accurate. In the previous stanza, the poet, almost surreal frenzy, requiring us to imagine how a clam could be beheaded, not only that, but decapitated "with all the juice of the day", which somehow burning "heart of sword and smoke. "
*
The immense effort required to imagine that a clam has a heart of rock and smoke, and that has colored deaf and angry, and they make an insane pace and pure in this one verse becomes the opposite: the smoothness of an eloquent metaphor that does not require any mental representation. Although we had never noticed that the hair of a sleeping woman contains a wealth of tenderness unleashed, now costs us no effort or removed (only wonder, only recognition) the realization that this is not only possible but real, everyday.
* (The sharpness of the image transforms to an act and becomes both a symbol and transparency: the same way that a woman sleeping, her hair loose, shedding networks, headbands or barrettes or simply undoing a braid, is freed from all Typical containers wakefulness including clothing and self-awareness day. The naked woman for love as for the sleep-both body and consciousness are unleashed, "and the act secret, invisible by custom, is returned to us in its purity by the sleeper who sees everything and that it restricted during the day, released in more reflective time.)
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clouds in a tower
exploding in the distance like a blind man.
* In this new verse the poet attains enlightenment and fall. "A bell of clouds" is an image so precise, so amazing, so true, that the reader gasps and stops, stunned and ecstatic: How many times have you seen the clouds, and how many times have you seen a steeple. But the meeting is both a revelation and a shock: the reader almost does not move to keep the discovery of this picture, realizing that the clouds bear sometimes (or always, as we see it) a sacred liturgical church steeple, while concert and call. Clouds like bells ringing ... Mass calling, ie the ritual, communion, unity.
* In four words the poet has become reality and reality has forced us to kneel and mentally, before the liturgy that has been revealed. The reader need not be part of any religion, even the most recalcitrant atheist has felt the beauty of a bell in musical action, on the roll of call. Convey this image to the clouds is given a religious sense of nature, is a call to hear the song of heaven constant and permanent. The poet has reached satori .
* And then the second verse. Again betrayal, contrived image that requires effort, almost sacrifice. What needs to see the bell tower of clouds with the fact that a blind man to break out away? Do blind pop? "Explode in the distance? How far away from what? To explain this image, the reader almost has to forget the satori that the poet has been launched with the first verse. First of all, the league is done through the always dangerous gerund: "exploding." What was a pristine image, almost primal, is chained to something that is alien to him through a gerund that turns dark and impenetrable. Satori The reader is pulled. The bell tower of clouds exploding in the distance like a blind man. A blind man is the one who does not see. The reader did not see, hear the song of the clouds, celestial bells. It is therefore bound to see, then, not to see. And worse, explode in the distance.
* In the first verse, the poet had driven all previous rhythms (the gaze when it breaks, the clam to be beheaded, that of a sleeping woman's hair) to the stratum sacred. With the second verse breaks the pace up and carried away by a murky image, illegible, heavy. Struggle, perhaps, with that immense magnitude that is released as is touched by poetry.
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Anywhere, instant, things or rhythm,
is the place, time, pace and things of death,
landscapes,
as a circumcision at the height of the words,
like a sponge sleepwalking
founding rate of craft and sign
a still image while dislocating.
*
In this stanza the poet withdraws: not want to know what he did, he becomes angry and deaf, he forgets the findings, carried away by the dark pulse. Write, even evil. He says: "In any place, time, things, or rhythm," as if "any" could illuminate "things" (in this case would be "any"). It begins with "In" when it should delete it if you say "Any place is the place of death." The reader is to understand this anger, this voluntary deafness, and it is said that the poet spoke, therefore, the rate of death.
In this stanza the poet withdraws: not want to know what he did, he becomes angry and deaf, he forgets the findings, carried away by the dark pulse. Write, even evil. He says: "In any place, time, things, or rhythm," as if "any" could illuminate "things" (in this case would be "any"). It begins with "In" when it should delete it if you say "Any place is the place of death." The reader is to understand this anger, this voluntary deafness, and it is said that the poet spoke, therefore, the rate of death.
*
Without attempting an interpretation and based solely on the images, the reader comes to understand, therefore, that the poet but not talking about their break-beats, ie "a circumcision at the height of the words, this fatality that disintegrate to reaching the heights and returns to low. It seems, therefore, the subject of the poem, and so the poet tells us it is like "a sponge sleepwalker" (strange image that parallels that of decapitated clam) "founded" (the gerund mortal again, when should perhaps say "holster") "a craft and pace of sign / a still image while dislocating."
* However, the poet does not seem to stop once entered your subject (the rate of death), at the same time makes clear that pursues, or is haunted by "something else, difficult and painful: a still image which dislocated the time (it release). And here reaches its highest indirect evidence: make us see the whole picture, though it seems still, is actually moving: all photography is film. An image that actually manage to be quiet, dislocaría time. Time is the pace death. All previous images are transformed into two levels. In the first, the look when it breaks, clam decapitated, the hair of a sleeping woman, the bell tower of clouds, containing mobility, ie the rate of death. However, in the second level of transfiguration these images have been immobilized on the verse in a way that dislocates time.
* Faced with the horror that leads to discovery of the rate of death, the poet takes a first image of himself: a sponge sleepwalking, is a sentient being who gets it all, all-absorbing, in fatal insomnia and unfathomable, and I wanted to create "a pace of trade and sign ", ie, a single still image that while dislocated. All runs, including the immobile: the poem could only find a picture has still to disrupt the rhythm of death, which again beats all means life.
*
The poem ends this way:
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is the death rate
drawing this question, this maelstrom of sounds
accurate for a poem without beginning or
the beginning of a wing still
imaged by the tree one night fell from the white eye of a bird in flight and woke
nails constant of the earth.
The poet accepts that even his question ("Is it possible to found a picture has still to dislocate the time?") Is part of the rhythm of death, and the drawing (result) of that pace. Hence the stripping, the poetry that turns on itself: "This sounds swirling exact or to a poem without beginning."
*
The poem concedes defeat: no start on it, ie foundations. Every time you think you begin, what he did was give another version of the same death rate. The second verse of this last stanza contains another fatal gerund: this rate "drawing" to this question of yours, namely that the poet is recognized as spokesman for the rate of death. However, it is marvelous that at once recognizes it as a "whirlwind of sounds accurate." Although recognized as son and spokesman extension rate of death, the poet, in his stubbornness deaf and angry, wanted a glimpse (if found) an other pace.
* So full is dropped onto another image impossible for all the effort required of the reader, "or the beginning of a stationary wing" (note that "the wing still is twin" image quiet ")" imaged by the tree / one night fell from the white eye of a bird in flight / and woke the incessant nail on earth. " And could not imagine without a supreme effort to "color clam deaf, angry, / decapitated with all the juice of the day / your heart still burning and smoke sword" and we find it almost impossible to create the image of a tree imagine a stationary wing while falling white eye of a bird in flight and then awakened to fingernails incessant land.
*
But then the reader, exhausted by forced and terrible journey, he realizes it is perfectly possible to see that image "if the shred. In the final image is the culmination of hubris the poet and the core of the poem: the encounter between the bird and tree. The white eye of a bird in flight (ie the alternative in his eyes) provides a tree which in turn provides the bird and imagine a stationary wing. The image still occurs in both directions: the tree immobilizes the bird in flight, like the bird to the tree viewer.
*
That bird in flight is the tree with its white eye, that is, the whites of your eye ( say, what is not supposed to look), which causes the tree to fall and wake up to the relentless land nails. The latter is a wonderful metaphor for the death rate of the force that seems to draw the living into the low, fatality against which the poet returns. The tree becomes the bird in a still image (a wing stationary), while the bird does the same with the tree. This is not possible in nature, but it is "stately" in the poem (and therefore after the poem is possible in nature ). Deaf and angry, the poet refuses to surrender to the rhythm of death and through a verbal miracle it disrupts: the miracle happens nowhere else in mind, in imagination, in the heart of the reader. The pace of death has been disrupted: the fatality has been reported as conventional transgedible. The poem is the miracle of a still image that establishes the rhythm of life.
* Interestingly, in the same journal in which this poem appeared, Roberto Juarroz published another (later included with the number 32 in the vertical poetry II, 1963) in which he explores the mystery:
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A mountain of birds
tie the afternoon winds
to sign thinner, but
wind of death is still at large. And choose your banners
round
fair skinned her hair, her laughter
without corners.
And it comes from the bottom of those laughs or hair or flags
to train in the stillness of things,
to invent the cinema of
still and movie longer,
which does not need another projector that a thin body,
as projected in the instant it is filmed.
*
But the wind of death is also seeking a bird,
a body and so fine that it
the film, projection, it finally finished and start another quiet
much more quiet.
This poem by Robert Juarroz is more content than Morales and no cholera deaf, images strenuous, but it is an intimate dialogue, a shared pride: as satori two different manifestations. Both poems attempt to "train in the stillness of things," inventing cinema as still "beat the rhythm of death and finally recover other much more quiet stillness : that of the simultaneous (the loose ) . These poets have served the greater hubris: to establish the pace impossible: that of life.
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