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Poetry in the Valle del Cauca.
Prologue and selected assortment of Octavio Gamboa.
Cali: Pacific Publishing, 1986 242 p.
Thanks: This work had its origin in an initiative that Octavio Gamboa presented to the Corporation for Culture, as a contribution to the celebrations of 450 years in Cali. Completed the original, the Association of Sugarcane Growers of Colombia, Asocaña, provided the money needed for editing. We express appreciation to the management of Dr. Hernan Borrero Urrutia, President of Asocaña, and once again we thank you for it.
This publication is being mayor of Cali Dr. Vicente Borrero Restrepo and Director of the Corporation for Culture Dr. Jorge Ernesto Holguin Beplat.
. Gamboa Octavio
· 1986 Cali, Colombia
Pacific Printing and Publishing Layout Phone: 808911.
Cali Photo: Franco Fernell Design
Cover: Coordination
Andreina Carvajal Publisher: Corporation for Culture: Ma Isabel Caicedo.
This anthology brings together 160 poems by 26 poets, including introductory text "Poetry of the Valle del Cauca", which intends this work as a fine example of poetic production in the region, stop at some authors, with notes on style, themes, and finally focuses on the poetry of the moment, which lists surreal. . Foreword
For Octavio Gamboa ( 1 ) (Image: book jacket)
The faith that makes you see the young monk's angels Paradise
power is lower than the old monk to the sample. Honoré de Balzac
- Eliminating
poets of all time have had one job: to give a response to things that nobody has asked. That is what poetry unit, the equality of all links in the chain of thorns and flowers. In this beautiful book, the most beautiful that can offer one of the regions of the country, we see that the landscape becomes melody.
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If the oft-deserted island had to take four poems written in the Valle del Cauca, they would be: "In the sea," Isaiah Gamboa, "Blue's son dead" Garrido Gilberto; "La via dolorosa" of Carlos Villafane, and "If not for you" Antonio Llanos. That would be the most inclusive anthology of this region passionate realization of the music of the river running through the soul of wind that beautifies, burning light of sunsets.
Isaiah Gamboa wrote his poem "Facing the Sea" on the island of Trinidad, in the mouths of the Orinoco. It was just a boy then and had already traveled a long and painful way through the civil wars that heaven empurpuraban innocent of the country. Had fallen by the Meta River as secretary of General Rafael Uribe Uribe, fleeing to Venezuela to seek weapons for a new revolution. And after the immensity of the Orinoco, came the violent confrontation with the infinity of the sea. The first lines straight out of a spontaneous conversation and involuntary:
In my eyes hesitant, vague, humid and
sad that reflect your flashes golden, pale and red ...
But the man who must have felt the shock wore the sky, the flash of revelation, as prophets. Not for nothing was named after one of them. And there, amid the endless forest, overlooking the shore of eternity, Isaias Gamboa heard the resonant response of the sea, and felt the salt on the skin burn.
"With the Sea" is a dialogue. Half of the poem is framed by the word (sometimes outright, other peaceful) of the sea. Between the poet and the sea is a battle of lightning. The poem is a rude curses decalogue. A harsh confrontation between vertical and horizontal mysteries was the sole witness to the frightened silence of the stars.
"With the Sea" is a curious example of poetic maturity written in a fit of passionate youth. Then the poet was closer to intuition than science. And parodying Neruda, closer to blood than ink. Only it was real blood, which had nothing to do with rhetoric, because it speaks soaked his humble warrior soldier. Only the vastness of the ocean was able to wash so much blood, so many tears dry, dissolving much pain. It was not a river but a great poet who then led in the end of the Caribbean, this island of death in this desolate corner of the world.
As the years pass, increases my admiration for the poetry Gilberto Garrido. Every time I reread or repeat from memory the air in the afternoon, I find it more perfect, closer to the overall beauty, minimal and transparent as the dew, deep and bright as the stars. And to the extent that they spend time and wind, I admire more and more strongly recall the figure of the man who wrote it, the white giant, endless, with two flashes blue eyes filled with tenderness involved. In his presence transcended a rude male strength that reminded us of Sisyphus and Prometheus, because his men could with all the pain and at the same time as the vector was enthusiastic about life. Because she had in her hands flare poetry.
I define it as the greatest of the unknown poets of Colombia. It pains me that so few people have read. And I think that the lack of a national edition of his poetry is a source of disgrace and shame for the country. Gilberto Garrido's greatness should be measured by the silence that is around his name, by the ignorance we have of his work and the ignorance that raises poignant poetry. When real rivers of literary fraud minted in Colombia, the work of one of our greatest lyric remains obscure.
said his intelligence is sometimes produced the short circuit of genius. It was disconcerting penetration ability, your comment stabbing, its original sharpness. Because it did not come from books or university: the great mystery came of the forest, in lashed the harshness of life. It seemed that the storm brought a hand and the other a bunch of spikes.
A great pain, immense pain, the death of his son Leo, turned it into a stream of tears. His poetry has acquired over the years the size of that pain. And for that absent son wrote some of the most beautiful verses that I read has been given in life.
My son was when a coal
me he was burning.
He was fading and I was turning
this agony to live.
had enough personality
to rhyme a lyre in gerunds. And genius enough to make it as large as those of San Juan de la Cruz. He knew the music and life as understood, it apologized and applauded. He liked to play with language, as the old gods were playing with the clouds.
had what musicians call perfect pitch: analytic intuition combined with prodigious memory. Hence the formal perfection of his verse, which were born as water from rock crystal. It was logical that product, if it came from a huge rock: Before coming to light, had passed through all filters of the rock underground. His poetry, following the death of the child acquired the diaphanous quality of tears
Leon mine
lump in my clay. Sweet song.
do you hear my heart up!
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VILLAFAÑE
Carlos Villafañe was a great poet who lived in hiding behind a meaningless prose. It was logical that they paid · by writing in prose, and that he lived. Many men, especially poets, appreciate them for what they are not, it seems that the burden and responsibility of poetry are excessive for the type of society we live in, and then is better than the poets are journalists, professors, accountants and even civil engineers.
For the anthology of prose in the Valle del Cauca have reviewed much of the journalistic work of Carlos Villafañe and have not found anything worth playing. Under the pseudonym of Tic Tac filled many pages. If you laugh before, now seems his innocent humor, which hardly causes smiles of benevolence. Nothing is as ephemeral as the humor. It is necessary to be Rabelais and Cervantes to continue to laugh after four centuries.
Therefore, it is necessary that the people of Valle del Cauca recognize (ie, meet again) Carlos Villafañe as one of the stellar poets of this Valley, this sky and river.
The sea comes to rest at the bank
in a faltering peace, in a tearful
exhaustion, as if he had stayed
the spell of the moon .
Oh, my romantic and lonely hours of rare
suggestion that a soul like glass
like waves
to die crying in the bank! Oh
ebony hair, a dawn departure
front in oh
lovely flower soft light of what you do not forget,
deep sound of what you love so much.
Poetry requires an excessive refinement of the senses: we must learn to "hear" in the hair of a woman, the rumor of what we love. Poetry lives in the distant frontiers of the subtle, far from the commonplace, millions of miles from the vulgar, of domesticity, everyday.
knew this very well Carlos Villafane, a simple and humble man who went through life without being noticed, confident in the durability of his verses.
If it achieved some fame due to the sonnet "La via dolorosa" which is a perfect work of art, undoubtedly the most beautiful that readers will find this book. Rather than write it, was pulled without anesthesia, half of the chest. The great pain of the death of the beloved was expressed fully in the fourteen lines of classical sonnet, with its eleven syllables absolute, his rhymes docile. Round has the clarity of a tear.
buried I myself, myself one day
shut her eyes to light
earth and wiped his forehead lily of the tragic
sweat of agony.
white is a reminder:
still the name in the silence of my sorrow.
Rest in the Lord ... if it was so good!
sleep in my heart ... if it was as mine!
eyes and mouth and hands all illusory
mortuary under the covers as a lamp was extinguished.
and I in my madness under the weight
let the soul in a kiss
pain and barely left me life!
That sonnet proves that poetry is far from the drama, despite being besieged by pain and tears. The poet left to decay by grief, remains the challenge of perfection, the right path to beauty. Romantics who were left dishevel today are ridiculous. The torrent of tears Julio Flórez today makes us laugh. That bitter side of human suffering, without the reservoir of good taste, now used by the film to provoke laughter. Well said, a maker of phrases that poetry is the dictatorship of intelligence on the demagoguery of the heart. Example of such a wise expression is the sonnet by Carlos Villafañe.
Many references to Antonio Llanos found in this prologue. But I do not spare remember that the sonnet Villafañe always lived near the author of the sonnets perfect "Secret Rose."
There was a gap between the Llanos and Villafañe. But that abyss filled the poetry of "Via Dolorosa." Antonio would repeat, take it out on the street, exposed to the sun in the parks, let him go on stream. Never tired of admiring it, thinking it over, to propose changes always failed. Because in this sonnet is buried beauty. It dies again Mary. This is the final evening, the final dispossession, which does not produce a flood of tears but the crystal size of a tear. Leave a lifetime to mourn.
Antonio Llano.
few years before losing my mind, Antonio Llanos wrote this poem, whose beauty is a flame that disturbs me:
If not for the things you would not
that vague tenderness, the light of darkness .
If not for you, this melancholy dream and mourn
not the sweetness.
If not for you, O death, so many things were
unnoticed. Give your silent solitude
roses,
my eyes for you star in waiting.
If not for you, what would be trivial
love and join hands, love.
And what also sad every day
sun in the afternoon if I had not dying glow.
If not for you love would be so soft tenderness
so firm hold
of the things we love: clouds, flowers, poetry, and this divine
evening.
many times I walked with him along the avenue that borders the river, watching the sunset, mourning the loss of light, and have repeated many times that poem, I feel that in his poetry is all poetry, all my poetry and that these verses were written by the wind alienated from the Valle del Cauca.
Antonio Llanos, the largest of the elegiac poets of Colombia, was on death positive values \u200b\u200bin the last years of his life. Signal as if it were not for death, the order of the world would be truncated, altered, incomplete.
not hurt by final loss that it represents, not frightened of slipping on his grim decline. But provides, as the law of beauty, the contrast of nothing is indispensable for the existence of everything loved, cloud, flower, poetry. Beloved things are held in our hands for fear of finishing. And the beauty of light is defined by a divine evening, for an evening that he, a Catholic mystic, was like God.
That idea about death is the culmination of the confrontation with the mystery English poetry that began with Don Jorge Manrique, continued with Don Francisco de Quevedo and flew into the unknown in the hands of San Juan de la Cruz. On this side of the ocean continued to Ruben Dario, and Gabriela Mistral, both scared to death, helpless against her as all men, but believe transcendent hopes to overcome with the Judeo-Christian culture. None so faithful, so on, in his ardent faith, as Antonio Llanos.
I feel like a huge melodic line, wet with tears, filled with saline transparency, culminating in the poem of Antonio Llanos. He wrote on the edge of madness. In real crazy, those who remain in psychiatric hospital, very different from those crazy fake fed hallucinogens abound today to forge poetry.
The Christian idea of \u200b\u200bdeath, based in Castilla and the whole campaign is "in the" country of armed Theologians, quixotic and rocky, ends here in the Valle del Cauca, in this green and peaceful area. Any lawyer who has admired, he referred to the plain with two words required: georgica and idyllic. It was not the case for Antonio Llanos.
is true that he admired the beauty, and in its red sunsets reminiscent of the bloody English Christ, but not to levitate towards them, but to "scolded their distance" and to complain of these innocent and blue skies that had led him to anguish, despair, and alienation final.
Few years after his death, Antonio Llanos would continuer: Andres Caicedo, a formidable writer, a child who was troubled and committed suicide at twenty-five years. Both wept, with the verse of Darius, "the loss of the kingdom that was for me." None of them could resist the perceived universal dislocations in the Valle del Cauca, on the streets of Cali, in the bells of the evening or at dawn, in the harsh beauty of the landscape that overwhelmed. And in ending anti-human society destroying in the rack.
Antonio Llanos and Andres Caicedo saw the landscape of Valle del Cauca and saw El Greco of Toledo, with shades varying from gray and black. Perhaps eventual spoke so limpid blue and pink sunrises. But his inner truth was dark surroundings, the oppressive and implacable principle of death.
Antonio Llanos wrote the most beautiful poetry of which he himself called the Shire of God. For understandable paradox, the poet who escaped to infinity was the one who came closest to the heart of man. His poetry served as throwing weapons to hand back to the spear. A hand of Antonio Llanos, after the sky hawk, newborn stars dripping again, bringing eternal truths and absolute beauty, that which arises in the infinite mystery border with nothing. Well someone said that his poetry was a reverse rain toward God. In big storms, lightning sometimes jump from the top of the mountains into the clouds. And is the light that illuminates the earth and the moon red. Poetry is such a phenomenon, beauty, we return to the deep fried, part of the portion of eternity we receive.
RODRIGO ESCOBAR HOLGUÍN
It is fortunate that poetry has nothing to do with advertising, or at least, is on reverse with respect to it. Sometimes the great poets can be measured by the silence that is around them. And those who are not, but want to seem, by the advertising clutter that they help create. So it's very nice to know, and find a person like Rodrigo Escobar Holguín , brother and confidant of silence. And even more pleased to present it in public for the first time in the pages of this anthology.
Sometimes it's just a shy watercolor
August afternoon after crossing the wind.
the way of the Gualanday,
planted around a purple carpet, walk
lovers.
output looks like a watercolor and wise old hands of Shi-Bai-Shi, two or three strokes of the brush with one color, such as wind draw.
But there are trees, flowers on the ground, and lovers. More important thing is that there is drawn the air. And the air is poetry.
Sometimes they seek the roots of being, of love and lovers who make it possible:
Fragments of love and lover,
burning, shaking,
scattered through a myriad of bodies passionately
confused, violent
looking at each meeting the warm
illusion of being full. Beautiful
love become over time, as captured so beautiful with so few words. The whole being is just a fleeting illusion, produced at the time of the meeting. Before and after him, we barely half of Being beautiful biological-logical truth that disturbs the peace of philosophy. And besides, eternal love sublime.
Rodrigo Escobar Holguín Sometimes confused with the silence, the deepest of the elementary entities, which enables music and poetry:
When there is no wind or light in your window and on the streets
not or hear other songs,
when Silence surrounds your body like a bird
night, no, do not think it is only silence.
Nothing left in me than silence: silence
am, I went silent, I remain silent.
I am nothing now, but the silence that follows you.
In these three very short poems, I've taken at random from fifty, the completeness of the essence of poetry Rodrigo Escobar Holguín. And in a dozen of his poems I have chosen to be part of this anthology, ends poets writing in the Valle del Cauca are alive in 1986 when Cali meets 450 years. Undoubtedly Rodrigo Escobar Holguín is the biggest of them all. To the writer of these lines, presented and honored to witness such a lucky discovery.
He comes to poetry with the security of a master, as if he had worked with her for a long life. It was not lightly or in vain did the comparison between him and the noble ancient Chinese. Before writing the first line of a poem, all the surplus has been previously deleted, the beautiful foliage, elegant stem, flower cheat, delicious flesh. Because it comes to delivering only the seed, that part of life that has ensured durability. That is the miracle that comes out of the hands of Rodrigo Escobar Holguín.
is difficult to trace the origins of his poetry. I advance the hypothesis leisurely reading of Pedro Salinas, but nothing more. I can not say that look. But they do have in common the desire, the aspiration towards a pure lyricism, ontological, naked, helpless faced temptation on worldly and ostentatious.
And poetry is a very typical of Valle del Cauca. It is not a result of previous work. Like the wind, no history. But it's the same air that moves. The air of the Casa de la Sierra, including the scents of the garden. The odd air of the Blue Plains and Gilberto Antonio Garrido. The air around the ceiba trees at six in the evening, in Cali, where paradise begins.
POETRY WRITING TODAY (1986)
This book gives a broad welcome to the poetry written in the Valle del Cauca in our days, when Cali meets its 450 years. In general it is poetry with young people, and against it is the traditional strength among older people. The main argument is that it is not understood, and this is worth some considerations.
When Beethoven spread among musicians his Quartet No. 7, the first of the Razumovsky, was believed to be a joke, a product of black humor attributed to the composer, and said he could not play. The same is said Chaicovsky famous violinist who dedicated his concert for that instrument. In both cases, the score was not understood. Today, these statements produce astonishment. Rubén Darío
When released at the end of the last century, his famous "Responsa," someone said in the verse "that offends you pubertal canephori the acanthus" the only one who had understood was the word "that." And when I was a kid, there was a poem that was not understood: that of Stone and Sky. Eduardo Carranza, is now transparent for all seasoned player, so it was an impenetrable darkness. The same was said in Cali Gilberto and Antonio Garrido Llanos. Today was the same claim repeated the young poets, many of which have honored us with his poems in this book.
What happens first is that the difference between very random intelligence judgments about the clarity, as noted by Paul Valéry. When someone says they do not understand a sculpture, a painting, a poem, because they are dark, is accusing himself of a lack of clarity, information, knowledge and experience.
why the poems of young poets from Cali and Valle del Cauca, which may seem confusing now, tomorrow will be transparent. Not because the poems themselves have changed, obviously it will not happen, but because the ability of the readers will improve.
To give a name, say that most poetry is written today is surreal. As dreams, is beyond reality. Moves away from it because it has a logic which, before Freud, it might seem absurd. Today it is not. The insight that psychoanalysis has made human motivations, became transparent what was confusing. A succession of seemingly irrational concepts, ideas, words, comes in a very close to free association in psychoanalysis, and with a little experience can find the thread, to stop clear r unconscious fantasy that author produced.
Things get complicated when you see the fraud. Because it's not worth doing some analysis work on a poem by some counterfeiter. It is fortunate that the man has the intuition of truth, and that quickly and safely discard the orifice similar. But things get more complicated still when you see the clever fraud, aided by an accomplice v advertising trade today. So vast social nuclei begin to believe in the genius of the fakes, and that belief does not destroy but time. It is logical to require several years for the Colombians destroy two or three talented clay idols that are out there. Fortunately, none of them is vallecaucano.
made these clarifications, perhaps also a bit cumbersome and unnecessary for most readers, let's deal with the poetry written in Cali today, very well represented by two young women over the vocation they have the talent: Orietta Lozano and Elvira Alejandra Quintero.
Orietta
Both Elvira and like all young poets today write in the Valle del Cauca, have rebelled against the traditional values \u200b\u200bof lyric writing. If this has happened to youth from all periods of history, more so in this most unjust and disgraceful, the most damaging to the man, the first that has been on the brink of destruction not only the human species itself but to other forms of life. Before this next holocaust is generally understood all forms of rebellion, and first of poets, which is the origin of biology, because it is they who are peering out the dangers, discovering the round eyes of hurricanes.
In a way, the poetry of the young people we did, the largest, is the result of the injustice that we as a legacy. It is logical that when they raise their fists against the sky insurgents, they're rising up against us, once we carry the torch that will burn your hands today. Just do not get any easier this mission consolidated company with mortar of despair.
If we let the darkness as the only legacy we can not complain about that are dark, as we can not criticize our children to have pigment in the skin. What we must do is to enter the darkness, because, after Freud, we have all the elements to make it. We lower our consciousness to its crystalline doubtful subconscious and we have done another day on the road to beauty. Then we can repeat the last verse of Hell: "E Dopp uscimo to IVEN le stelle" * , because at the end of the tunnel that young poets are opening, find all the light. Gamboa Octavio
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----- * Notice of NTC (March 17, 2011)
...
My guide and I by that hidden way
were to return to the bright world;
and without concern to rest,
climbed, he first and I then
until we watch the sky
left a hole on the which we
to watch the stars again.
http://www.ciudadseva.com/textos/poesia/ita/dante/dc1.htm
uscimmo to IVEN E quindi le stelle.
http://www.tsoules.com/Dante/Concordance/
of a rivulet that here descends
for the hole of a rock, it has gnawed
With course that winds about and slightly falls.
The Guide and I into that hidden road Now entered, to return to the bright
world
and without care of having any rest We mounted up
, he first and I second
until I 'saw the beauteous things
leading 'the heavens for a round hole.
And then we went to see the stars.
+ + + +
ANTONIO Zibari en
Poetry del Valle del Cauca. Cali, Editorial Pacífico, 1986. 242 p.
Prologue and selection of Octavio Gamboa.
This book included poems ANTONIO ZIBARA . P. 179 to 183. Scanned and disseminates
NTC ... (March 15, 2011)
. POEMS
SON
thought at that time.
"hurry Once the potion of love, transfiguration
are nine pm
stamping a universe in the waist" Merciless
presence
way to feel spoiled
light gray under the window, strange
way to populate the angle
committed the landscape,
to speak out,
supply its shadow next to the spring wind
age in the ocean,
wise columns, pyramids
dead.
A further ...
recount in doubt,
the bottom of a surface.
.
CITY OF THE ABSENT
In this city a few omens
no means of steps:
devices is experienced, stubborn
ambitions.
umbrellas sun drops
slide on fresh prints, flowers
buried. Crowd
train alone on the streets,
on stage in the transport office,
in the legendary land of the houses.
where it is headed this endless caravan
vain efforts, sacrifices
crazy?
not going anywhere,
the pain was always on this site,
(we fanaticized his empire)
the air is still in the air, burning the bodies
in high ash,
pull down, is
Nothing to pay.
.
THE RING
That place where you stand could have been a cemetery.
The truth is I do not know.
But how to know?
When life just goes
everywhere
right here wheel, listening
come in compact form, between oiled
timepieces,
flowers and constant
saumerios artifice.
For those who do not know,
for anyone (just arrived)
there is doubt that
his face, "(fading)
slowly in the smoke, clean air
docking
skin at the corners,
licking light in crystals,
dust in the cracks, dark
swords discuss
source where insects
drink and the paper boat capsizes
with a naked face in the fire.
for you also vaguely remember
have stayed here.
Antonio Zibara.
+ + + +
Scanned, publishes and distributes: NTC ... * we encounter ... (Year 11), http://ntcblog.blogspot.com/ * ntcgra @ gmail. com. Cali, Colombia. * Updated March 17, 2011
Posted in: Poetry in Valle del Cauca. By Suzanne Gamboa. 1986. http://literaturaenelvalle.blogspot.com/2011_03_16_archive.html
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15 POETS OF Valle del Cauca. TRIBUTE. RECOGNITION INSTITUTIONAL AND THRILL
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