Now that the poet Gonzalo Rojas has left us, we remember with this speech he gave upon receiving the Cervantes Prize, but also poems he published the first edition of Literal, a fall 2004. To read the poems with which we opened the first installment of Literal, click here.
Majesties, ladies and gentlemen will
Speeches, speeches come and say no big deal.
I have measured the pages. I will not spend ten with lyrics grande.Ya Cervantes said it all in the language of birth and continue born from the plateau until the late beautiful island scenery, from the tropics to Antarctica, and one should enter this 23 faulting is not April but the breath of the world. For a time he says and says air breather eternity reckless and even says in English, syllable and more syllables, the wail to the wake, and the miracle continues to grow beyond adverse circumstance that is, beyond such of immolation and martyrdom in those days faster than the other strange part of Alcalá.Ser is to grow and said that Sanskrit , in such a way that when we grow more.
But praise is not appropriate at this time, but a confirmation that we live hanging of language, as Niels Bohr said, and that language is that we breathe and live every moment, both in the peninsula in the Andean highlands or in the vast ocean, or in large cities, from the tropics to the ice.
I'm not so sure the game for both the beautiful auditorium to say something new. No again. Apollinaire spoke with her insistence nouveau to start another century. What will you nouveau? One minute, and wrinkles. We live
time does not stop or stumble or returns. I am the son of coal miner and that I said twelve years ago, when the Reina Sofia, and it is written that poets are suddenly real, and not enough trade. Poetry as embodied in a chance. So I said there. You get word that does not deserve and you start to babble the world, like love magnetized by the enchantment and skinning. The Cervantes said: "I always work and sleepless
me to appear that I have of poet, the grace that would not give me heaven. "
I go back to my youth, those seventeen years I always walk with us, I go back to my youth with its epicenter in the Library of the street in Iquique Vivar, Ruy Díaz naturally de Vivar. In this Iquique which became something like my first exile, or rather my intraexilio on the borders of Peru. Here I am still reading without stopping the entire collection Rivadeneira, where he learned to read Darío Spain in depth . There still must walk between the tall shelves, naciéndonos from each other: Cervantes, Quevedo, Gongora, teresianos, why do not you, to follow Juan Yepes, king of the language. But not only follow the classical golden, but also those others, the writers, who wrote the New World in those days, beyond the seas, deserts, the deep, when the Discovery and Discovery more here , when the conquest and the great colonial minutes, it was not anything but a proposal to be bonded. To be and more to be like is freedom and the very exercise of poetry. Here I am also reading for the first time the Revista de Occidente, the newspaper El Sol de Madrid and Lorca's Gypsy Ballads, and poets from 27.
"There is no God or son of God without development," he once said Vallejo, the largest Peru poet, a genius of mestizaje as our Mistral or our Rulfo, our Darius or the very Neruda, whose centenary is on fire these days in the Patria Grande de Cervantes which is the language. Patria Grande that unites us all for blood and oxygen, it is understood from the Cid to Don Quixote and more here.
When I speak of the ties between the Golden Age and the chroniclers of the Indies, I'm thinking necessarily the parents of the great Latin American narrative, the Carpentier, the Rulfo, of Arguedas, the Cortázar for example, and even in our visionary poets : A Huidobro, a Mistral, a Rokha Paul, a Vallejo, a Neruda or a Octavio Paz.
more clear: it is that we only book, we are also open to imagination, great changes, and love and freedom at the same time. All that talking to children and reniñez incessant risk and courage.
Here we go on the bet. What will be the 3004 of us, for example?, "The 4004 what is it? There will again be reading Cervantes intact flicker in the history of the stars. Reading the world and releyéndonos. What will become of him and in addition, if you arbitrarily, what will become of us and Aleph Borges, Neruda and Residency, Vallejo and Trilce, Carpentier and his Lost Steps, Huidobro and Altazor, Dario Dario, and more?
a kid I taught myself, I just, you have to look forward and backward at the same time and not be afraid of fear. Why not give me the great Eliot beautiful sentence: "I will show you fear in a handful of dust." No big deal, it is never bad.
is written that the great rivers carry the wisdom, the Bío-Bío for example, that comes from Buy-Buy, the Aboriginal word to describe that vast sound like the Yang-Tze, or the Orinoco, the same Buy-Buy of my childhood that other wading Alonso many times back in the twenty-third of his youth, the Andalusian horse all sweaty. Pinto figure and unemployment: the real founder of Chile is he invented the myth in La Araucana, held by Cervantes in Chapter VI, a myth that still resonates in Neruda's Canto General. There goes that octave immortal part looks more like a clinic today with exact date and time:
Here was where another has failed,
Don Alonso de Ercilla, the first in a small boat
deballasting
with only
Desaguadero ten passed the fiftieth year and eight innings
about fifteen hundred, by February,
at two in the afternoon, the last day
left back to the company.
Ladies and Gentlemen, difficult to thread the needle for this barbarofonón lucid. Poetry as embodied in a chance. And is that one does not deserve to speak. Give it because it was given. Will be a thing of the gods, but also the more obsessed with being and being who walks in miserable lighting myself, that another birth mother's past, from childhood to reniñez of the funeral wail, and there thing that metaphysical physiology, animal over that crazy moment of eternity, but I always did my lines a parsimonious Teresa of Avila, Gabriela few millimeters.
I have a large and resolute determination not to stop until, come what may, come what may, work that will work, gossip murmurare who, even in the way I die, even plunge the World.
What I mean is that over eighty-and-desespacializado detemporalized and still intact, I think I still intact, swimming in the waves of cyclic puberties, haunting spell in skinning and skinning. I shall not disappoint and the world has haunted me, without insisting on the rope Quevedo. Neither of us made viejóvenes Huidobro forever. No step apprentice and gave me no sense to counsel, no less for the dazzling glare of being here. Put yourself in my case, I do not deserve what I deserve it?
"Alone", a pontifex maximus of official criticism Chile, postman or pericoloso of honor, threw me off the planet for 48, when my first book, what would that Sunday mercurial? "Over that range, he said, the national letters not augur well." Epitaph before birth, vanity is cured in the open as the great wounds, and also my book called The misery of man! Calls derision derision, and it is good that one would say no. No, because quite simply no, and that's it. Much yes it debases you and elevates. Oh, and another thing to write and disseminate this: demórate demorándote all you can, pace is leisure and rest (and that Cervantes knew no one), hurry to do, what laudatio, display advertising, advertising shameful for what. This office is not sacred and never arrives. Sure, you think the world suddenly says, and may be, why not?, Ten, five, three, each ever, why not? Is written and unwrite, Kafka, Rulfo, Vallejo incomparable. And Cervantes, my God!
And then something about the endless apprentice myself. I write every day at dawn when the cold showered me turn the arterioles of the brain. I always worked the morning twilight, the other, the vesperal, much less, will just break imaginary. Because I'm really air and that has to do with the ocean of the great Gulf of Arauco, where I was born, and the peaks of Atacama where (back in my twenties) copper miners taught me far more than the surreal: a language to decipher the endless wonder of the murmur, the flashing and flickering of the stars.
Let me be clear: I was twenty and she was there studying in a school of Santiago capital letters do not know why, a few feet of the great Huidobro whose house we used to attend some young people to get oxygen. Suddenly I was given the glut. "Surfeit of what? Anything, as is the glut, and in this hint when he says Heidegger. Then I was turned around and went to the heights of Atacama in search of myself as are all searches or looking for my dead father, which almost always is one. In addition he was a miner who came from mining, the same windy. So, I ended up north in loving dialogue with women, a clean and magical girl named British mother of the firstborn son. Then, free and avant vanguarderas academies and the wind of these peaks gave me everything.
I know I repeat myself but what can I do. I am the metamorphosis of the same. And the country is longilinear for laughter: it gives all its poets asphyxia and the gale of the highlands, the sun to the skinning, so rocky and steep, and tell the Mistral!, The piedrerío, the gardener and placidity, the shock that continues and sometimes explodes cataclístico, the fierceness of the long, diamond water, forests where all the birds fly, these forests!, the beauty that we are stealing from the East and West in the name of tecnolatría !, the geological and magic of lower and lower which start at the beginning, even beyond what Patagonian and Antarctic. King Juan Carlos went there the other day and could see the diamond of the Antarctic and its incredible projections for other periods of the planet. I also walked around a few years ago and founded a school for children in La Villa de las Estrellas. This I come to ask the great Cervantes date: back to the reunion of some and the others. Returning to rehallazgo in the Villa de las Estrellas.
Chile: country living! Personally I have lived a long long that country and not for literary tourism, God forbid!, But madness and, as a child, I went to dwell forever with each of its paragraphs geological and geographical north-south . But I'm not saying that a poet laric or earthquake but rather a family of worldliness poet, who believes in the dual parentage: the blood and the imaginary. That Cervantes knew none. For example, if the coal miner Juan Antonio Rojas bore me in his youth in the seminal gale of eight children at the end of the first war, I also begat Vallejo and why not?, Quevedo. Two animals
literary wonder I especially dazzled by the century he spent as much or almost as much as the genius of Alcalá throughout my childhood and my reniñeces two anarch wizards and magical at once to the marrow skinned, as would Quevedo said (without antepenultimate), two prodigious schizos speaking alone and is not just kid stuff or old: Ezra Pound, who spoke only; Borges, who spoke only, Roberto Matta, who is talking to himself. Matta include it in the dynasty because the poet himself is a thoroughbred, as Juan Rulfo, although neither has never written a verse. That Matta pije offender-broken at once thin and cracked (as they say in Chile), allendero like me, a supporter of justice to the very end as the ingenious hidalgo, defender of the insulted and injured, and the machine-gunned the maimed, the missing and the dead in the dreadful period of 73, that Matta is making good oxygen to the species! As for Pound, "gibberish and splendor," as Octavio Paz once judged, "was born in Idaho where they say they grow the best potatoes in the world (potatoes is said there), in this classic only beaten by crazy in our term, which will still be read Songs century beyond twenty-four, I saw this as intravitreous or Venice for 99 in the drizzle in the rush of San Michele cimitero half closed, because it would be four and the vaporetto fifty-two leaving San Mark does not hold. There he managed to put to bed under a pink marble and a few tears - why not - and say "Arrivederci. Migliore Fabbro: we see."
TS Eliot was right when he put the case in the dedication of his Waste Land (The Waste Land), "Al miglior fabbro." To the best doer. There was sleeping the idle chatter to the sound of water.
Borges, however, I saw him standing, walking stick in hand, Yale 81, but he naturally did not see me. Still there is it the only thing we have not been dead ever? There is something relentless resurrected him, as Huidobro or even more in Vallejo, who is right for me is, in fact of ancestry, the immediate parent of the century happened. Always talking about Borges, Neruda or ultimately, that of a hundred years is strange thing, who does not is a hundred years? Besides, who cares about the ephemeris misleading. The guy is young and the Aleph is the text written in great, like what happened to Neruda to his residence on Earth. What fascinates people is the popularity and the roar of the awards, but nothing more scarce than the eye to read. And Matta? Well, it is for me the lightning and everything seems to govern with his invention: the visible and much of it invisible. Not only is eye but different galaxy, part of the world, someone who really sees from day to the stars, like Don Quixote, a lighting purpose. And besides, what mode of syllabicate the world in his writings, to glimpse the primeval chaos, and how much love the whole man who one day will come after we are quartered. Suddenly
reniñez'm in and I say with the great Horace two thousand years ago: "Lusisti satis, edisti satis, atque bibisti. Abir Tempus est tibi." You played a lot, ate Roman, and drunk, while you go! We
closing with a piece I wrote down there in Antarctica between the hum and the crunch of the giant glaciers, turquoise, and the silence that remains for me the only voice.
I wrote in a fit almost instantaneous to 93 as a letter to No one who walks in the impermanence of man. Cervantes wants to hear from the eternity of the ice where they are timed our miserable centuries.
And now the last page, the ten as promised. I excuse the suffocation of the lines faster.
I read them there, without more,
I
Little confidence in the twenty-first in any case something happens,
men die again, born
one that nobody knows, a physical
on will ease next magnetization
land so that the eye win prodigy and the journey itself is mental
flight, there will be seasons, by opening the key summer
eg
we bathe in the sun, beautiful girls
endure the nine months by the grace
of galaxies and nine others to boot
postpartum
thanks to the growth of larch before the world, and dance shaken
airy tides other
term, another rhythm more blood cool, what will contradanza
by man into your hummus once and
be more humble, more
land.
II
Oh, and another thing without prophecy, gradually grow old machines
Reality
no drugs or movies or newspapers miserable archaic or
-dissipation and noise-merchants shameful applause, all this will age
bet on the creation, the eye will be
eye
touch touch, the nose
ether Eternity in constant discovery, the fornication
make us free,
not think of English as Darius said,
will read again to the Greek, Etruscan
will speak at all beaches in the world, at the height of the fourth decade
continents will join so that we enter into Antarctica with all its fascination
butterfly turquoise, seven trains pass underneath
in multiple directions at a speed unknown
.
III
far come to see Jesus Christ did not come
at the time, aluminum
invisible birds replace the aircraft, since the end of xxi
prevail Instant
witnesses will not be moving, sleep in parents
dust with our madres
que nos hicieron mortales, desde allí
celebraremos el proyecto de durar, parar el sol,
ser —como los divinos— de repente. ~
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