Miedo y violencia en Historia de Mayta

Fear is a powerful force in Historia de Mayta. In the very first paragraph, we are told that “el miedo asfixia de rejas, muros, sirenas y reflectores” (essentially that fear, in the shape of gates, walls, sirens and spotlights is suffocating the atmosphere in question). Vargas Llosa’s ability to manipulate words in such a poetic fashion in order to create such striking imagery is quite impressive. It baffles me that someone can create something so beautiful (the poetic nature of his descriptions) and simultaneously so hideous (the images called forth by the descriptions of the garbage and filth). Similar to my experience while reading García Márquez’ La Hojarasca, I swore I could smell the mountains of garbage he was describing and could barely keep from swatting at imaginary insects while reading about the disintegration of the slums in Peru.

There are many hideous things described in Historia de Mayta, but above all, the all-pervading atmosphere of fear struck me to the core. As fortunate as we are to live in a privileged country with economic and political stability, there are some material luxuries I feel that I could survive without if I had to. What I can not understand, however, is how some people manage to live day to day with the psychological trauma of living in perpetual fear. Fear is the primary motivating factor for the majority of people the narrator encounters on his long journey through the past of Alejandro Mayta. Fear is what keeps people from rebelling and joining forces with the revolutionaries, although in theory the civilians are likely just as disenchanted with the governing forces as are the revolutionaries. Fear warps people’s stories, whether causing them to lie to protect themselves or to substitute less painful memories for their true past, suppressing emotionally distressing truths. Fear causes people to discriminate against people of different ethnicities or sexual orientations, hoping to deflect attention and potential persecution away from themselves. Fear breeds ignorance in all shapes and sizes in the narrator’s Peru and the devastating consequences of such an atmosphere take shape in an environment of unending cruelty and senseless violence. As Vargas Llosa has described it:

Un ingrediente esencial, invariable, de la historia de este país, desde sus tiempos mas remotos: la violencia. La moral y la física, la nacida del fanatismo y la intransigencia, de la ideología, de la corrupción y de la estupidez que han acompañado siempre al poder entre nosotros, y esa violencia sucia, menuda, canalla, vengativa, interesada, parasita de la otra. (Vargas Llosa 52)

No one is safe from it. The violence simply breeds more violence and meanwhile the impoverished civilians of Mayta’s Peru are left paralyzed by fear of the imminent threat of death, torture or disappearance. What have they done to deserve such a cruel fate? How can they hope to escape it?

La perspectiva narrativa en Historia de Mayta

Mario Vargas Llosa is an ingenious writer. The extent to which he is able to manipulate the reader’s perceptions of the Peruvian atmosphere through the structure of his writing alone is truly impressive. Vargas Llosa spends the entirety of Historia de Mayta telling us about the corruption, the disintegration, the physical and moral decay of Peru, but his assertions about the hostility of the nation’s atmosphere are brilliantly and subtly compounded by the narrative structure he employs. The fragmented manner in which the story jumps back and forth between past and present with no warning, sometimes mid-sentence, contributes greatly to the atmosphere of confusion, disorientation, and the seemingly random nature of events in the story. The narrative structure in Historia de Mayta is slightly reminiscent of that of García Márquez in La Hojarasca both for the air of chaos and confusion it contributes to the story’s atmosphere as well as the fact that it’s random, disorganized sequence of events hints towards the non-linearity of time.

Vargas Llosa’s narrator is a very perplexing character. Not only does he devote a year of his life to the investigation of a seemingly insignificant man in the overall socialist struggle in Peru, but he actually ventures out on perilous journeys, speaks to rather obnoxious people, wades through the repulsive, filthy slums, has his possessions robbed and vandalized, while constantly being frisked and searched by policemen and guards. We never, however, seem to hear him complain. His level of dedication is astounding and often quite puzzling. The narrator’s obsession with retracing the steps of the revolutionary Alejandro Mayta becomes more and more interesting as the story progresses. In fact, in the sixth chapter, as we get closer and closer to the Jauja climax, the narrator begins to transition away from his third person narrative description of Mayta’s life and begins to speak as if he were taking on the persona of Mayta, in the first person. There follows some fluctuation back and forth between a first and third person Mayta, which appears to indicate some confusion on the part of the narrator. The narrator has apparently retraced the steps of Mayta so completely that he appears to be subconsciously taking on his identity and losing pieces of his own. These fluctuations are extremely subtle and strategically placed so that there is usually a much more interesting incident taking place to overshadow the structural minutiae. An attentive reader can, however, most certainly conceive of the narrator as a three dimensional character in the story, although he is nameless and his personal life and qualities are rarely discussed. I find myself contemplating and theorizing about this narrator. What has caused his obsession with Mayta? Why is he so hell bent on finding out the truth so he can know what he is doing when he lies? For me, the narrator is without a doubt the most interesting character in Mario Vargas Llosa’s Historia de Mayta.

Tiempo en el laberinto de la soledad

The posited non-linearity of time is a concept that keeps cropping up in the literature of Latin American Nobel Prize winners. We saw this in La Hojarasca, both directly through assertions that time didn’t progress in the stagnant room of the dead man until the little boy moved and indirectly through García Márquez’ unconventional, non-linear narrative structure that jumped around from narrator to narrator and between past and present. We see a similar narrative style in Mario Vargas Llosa’s Historia de Mayta, as the narrative jumps around between past and present, sometimes mid-sentence, occasionally transitioning between first and third person narration. In El Laberinto de la Soledad, Octavio Paz explicitly remarks on this very phenomenon:

Hubo un tiempo en el que el tiempo no era sucesión y tránsito, si no manar continuo de un presente fijo, en el que estaban contenidos todos los tiempos, el pasado y el futuro. El hombre, desprendido de esa eternidad en la que todos los tiempos son uno, ha caído en el tiempo cronométrico y se ha convertido en prisionero del reloj, del calendario y de la sucesión. Pues apenas el tiempo se divide en ayer, hoy y mañana, en horas, minutos y segundos, el hombre cesa de ser uno con el tiempo, cesa de coincidir con el fluir de la realidad. Cuando digo "en este instante", ya pasó el instante. La medición espacial del tiempo separa al hombre de la realidad, que es un continuo presente, y hace fantasmas a todas las presencias en que la realidad se manifiesta. (Paz 88)

Paz tells us that there was once a time when time was non-linear, but we gave away that truthful, pure existence when we became prisoners of the clock and calendar and lapsed into chronometric time. He believes that we are now living in chronometric time, in which we divide, record, schedule every miniscule moment into quantifiable segments until we are far removed from reality and constantly living for the future. As he says, by the time one has uttered “in this moment,” the moment has already passed and thus due to our insatiable need to control, cluster, allot ourselves time we are instead robbing ourselves of time and essentially losing out on the present. I really liked the distinctions that Paz drew between chronometric time and the eternal present by saying that chronometric time “no es una aprehensión inmediata del fluir de la realidad, sino una racionalización del transcurrir” (89). I particularly enjoyed this comment, because I felt like it pointedly demonstrated the fundamentally human need to control or at least rationalize things beyond our realm of influence. Because we are unable to control neither the passing of nor our perception of reality, we must rationalize and quantify its passing. What a refreshing and insightful point of view! I could not agree more, although I wish that with this revelation there came any indication of how to escape from the prison of the clock and calendar… Paz’ solution for throwing off the shackles of chronometric time is the fiesta, in which he insists that chronometric time is destroyed, because for a brief moment the fiesta is reproducing, rather than merely celebrating an event. The result is that “por espacio de unas breves horas inconmensurables, el presente eterno se reinstate” (88). As wonderful as this sounds, I am doubtful about its real life applications!! Perhaps I’ll have to venture down to Mexico and see if I can escape the clock by attending a fiesta…

La modernidad del Pachuco

I have genuinely loved the work of every Nobel Prize winner we have studied so far in the class, but at this precise moment in time Octavio Paz is blowing everyone else out of the water! I feel a strong kinship with Paz, perhaps because I feel as though he and I view the world and our countrymen through a similar lens. I myself am extremely analytical and hyper-observant of social tendencies, norms, patterns of behaviour, etc.. I find myself constantly questioning the very same aspects of my society that Paz questions about Mexican society and so I find his essays to be fantastically interesting, thought-provoking and culturally intuitive.

I was shocked to find Paz’ observations about the Mexican persona to be devastatingly accurate over sixty years after the fact. I got halfway through the first essay before it occurred to me to check the publication date, because although the actual book I was reading looked like it had seen better days, Paz’ observations were either quite modern or timeless. Descriptions of the Pachuco sounded a great deal like many of the troubled youths that join gangs in the United States and Mexico. These young men can be seen sporting bright, flashy colours, rhinestone studded clothing, gaudy jewelry or “bling,” all the while oblivious to just how insecure and threatened this spectacle makes them look. Like a peacock fanning its feathers to appear powerful and intimidating, many of these youths likely choose to rebel in this format out of a mixture of fear and a lack of belonging. Just like the Pachuco, however, they ultimately lose out on the entirety of their cultural inheritance by refusing to partake, while paying homage to the thwarted society with their clothing, thus failing to ever fully reject society.

It is fascinating to contemplate the troublesome relationship between the United States and Mexico, plain old ignorance and racism aside, in light of the many starkly contrasting fundamental beliefs Paz has reported. For instance, Paz claims that in Mexico defensiveness is emphasized over aggression in matters of manliness. Paz also sides with José Gorostiza in the opinion that the USA is essentially lost in a wilderness of mirrors, having created their world in their own mirror image, but no longer able to recognize themselves in it. In contrast, Paz posits that Mexicans feel as though they did not create their own circumstances, but rather were torn from the centre of creation and suspended between hostile forces. Paz insists that Mexicans feel any divulgence of confidence or display of weakness is an abdication, while Americans are, for the most part, more open and trusting in their relationships. The impression I am getting so far from “El Laberinto de la Soledad” is that the Mexican people have been irreparably damaged from their totalitarian governments and the resulting atmospheres of fear and repression. The atmosphere of fear and suspicion described by Paz in “Máscaras Mexicanas” is palpable. I could actually feel myself tensing up as I read this essay. The feeling that, for the Mexican, “life is combat” indicates to me that their governments have really done a number on them! I found this essay to be both sad and brilliantly informative. I wonder how much of his observations still apply today…

GGM: La subjetividad de la percepción temporal

As always, García Márquez’s descriptive language paints a picture so vivid that you swear you can actually see it before your eyes, you can actually feel the stagnant atmosphere of death of decay on your skin and smell the pungent odor of the rotting corpse and twenty years of dust and neglect in your nostrils. Vocabulary consisting of such poignant words as “sofocante,” “zumbido,” “estancado,” “cadáver,” “olor de secreción a flor de piel,” and “rabiosa” strike the reader by surprise within the first few paragraphs of the story, instantly setting the tone of “La Hojarasca” and creating an image of disintegration that will last throughout the entirety of the story.

One of the most poignant metaphors in “La Hojarasca” exists in the parallels drawn between the evolution of the doctor and the evolution of the town of Macondo. The doctor is essentially an hojarasca in the lives of the Colonel and his family, mirroring the precise impact the banana company had on Macondo. He appears out of nowhere, comes into the lives of the family unbidden, changes everything, sets up shop in their house with no indication that he will ever leave, accelerates the atmosphere of chaos, elevates tensions within the Colonel’s home and then suddenly moves to the house on the corner without warning, where he allows himself to disintegrate, crumple, dwindle and blow away into emaciated nothingness, leaving behind him only an environment of decay and a dilapidated house that indicates to the outsider that it once served a purpose, but is now nothing more than the shell and ruins of a distant, forgotten past. Although it is said from the beginning that the hojarasca is a metaphor for the banana company’s impact on the town, not much is said of the banana company while the entirety of the plot focuses around the doctor and his strange presence in the lives of the Colonel and his family. It appears after careful analysis that the doctor is in fact the true hojarasca in García Márquez’ story.

I particularly liked García Márquez’ unconventional treatment of time in “La Hojarasca.” Many subtle references can be found that hint towards its non-linearity, while his fragmented narrative technique jumps around between past and present with no apparent structure, creating an atmosphere of chaos and compounding the perceived non-linearity of time. Interesting comments about the passage of time hint towards its relativity according to perspective. This depressing, revolting Wednesday, focused around the burial preparations of a corpse, appears to last an eternity, while time generally flies by when it is being enjoyed. The fifth chapter opens with the statement,

“Hay un minuto en que se agota la siesta. Hasta la secreta, recóndita, minúscula actividad de los insectos cesa en ese instante preciso; el curso de la naturaleza se detiene; la creación tambalea al borde del caos y las mujeres se incorporan, babeando, con la flor de almohado bordada en la mejilla, sofocadas por la temperatura y el rancor; y piensan: “Todavía es Miércoles en Macondo” (V).

In the fifth chapter, Isabela is remarking that time appears to be standing completely still as they all sit motionless in the presence of the corpse until she notices her son move and makes some rather insightful comments on one’s perceived passage of time:

“Entonces el niño vuelve a moverse y hay una nueva transformación en el tiempo. Mientras se mueva algo, puede saberse que el tiempo ha transcurrido. Antes no. Antes de que algo se mueva es el tiempo eterno, el sudor, la camisa babeando sobre el pellejo y el muerto insobornable y helado detrás de su lengua mordida. Por eso no transcurre el tiempo para el ahorcado: porque aunque la mano del niño se mueva, él no lo sabe. […] Pero el nuevo movimiento se frustra, mi padre entrá a la habitación y los dos tiempos se reconcilian; las dos mitades ajustan, se consolidan, y el reloj de la señora Rebeca cae en la cuenta de que ha estado confundido entre la parsimonia del niño y la impaciencia de la viuda, y entonces bosteza, ofuscado, se zambulle en la prodigiosa quietud del momento, y sale después chorreante de tiempo líquido, de tiempo exacto y rectificado, y se inclina hacia adelante y dice con ceremoniosa dignidad: `Son las dos y cuarenta y siete minutos, exactamente.´ (V).

Time is described as a malleable, manipulable, precarious phenomenon, ever elusive and at times even liquid. García Márquez’ personification of Señora Rebeca’s clock is both brilliantly poetic and strikingly relatable, as we have all experienced the tendency of time to slow to an almost complete stop at the most inopportune of moments. The problematic clash of perceptions is described with tremendous finesse and the incongruity of these viewpoints is glossed over and reconciled almost instantaneously by García Márquez’ silvery language. It is this masterful command of the Castilian language that sets Gabriel García Márquez on an entirely different level from his peers.

La Hojarasca: Una Narrativa Fragmentada

I came away from “La Hojarasca” as I always do from a García Márquez work: thoroughly impressed, considerably confused, left wondering about the many loose ends he refuses to tie up and obscurities he chooses to leave unexplained, and still trying to figure out the significance of the many seemingly trivial details he intersperses throughout yet another strange and morbid tale. What is García Márquez driving at by incessantly comparing the doctor to a barnyard animal and/ or El Cachorro (The Pup)? What is the significance of Martín? Of Abraham? Why is the Colonel Aureliano Buendía indebted to the doctor? What has become of Meme and what happened to her baby? Some readers may be frustrated by the lack of closure found at the end of most García Márquez works, but I find it to be an ingenious technique for drawing in the reader. One is unlikely to become bored or lose focus while struggling to comprehend the numerous strange parallels drawn between the doctor and a mule. His head is reportedly shaped like the skull of a donkey, he snubs fancy meals for bowls of ordinary, boiled grass (IV), he is said to have brought as much love and warmth to Meme’s bed as might a mule (I), and his voice and mannerisms are repeatedly described with the words “parsimonioso” and “rumiante” (IV), vocabulary reminiscent of a stubborn donkey chewing grass. A reader of García Márquez must be actively engaged to grasp the complexities of the plot and the intricacies of his characters. It is these very intricacies, these minute and seemingly irrelevant details, that make García Márquez’ characters so genuinely believable. The side story of Isabela’s experience with her con-artist husband, Martín, the child’s somewhat homoerotic feelings toward his friend, Abraham, and the barber’s daughter’s alleged encounters with ‘spirits’ are all side stories that give García Márquez’ stream-of-consciousness style its legitimacy. The manner in which the narrative perspective shifts seamlessly from one character’s point of view to the next, with the slight repetition of notable dialogue or events indicating continuity amidst the fragmented narrative, adds to the atmosphere of confusion and strangeness. The technique of neglecting to disclose the names of certain characters, such as the child and the doctor, also adds to the atmosphere of mystery and obscurity. These characters are very well-rounded, often appearing selfish, distracted, or disturbed by the fulfillment of the deceased doctor’s dying wish. There are no heroes, no stock good or evil characters. There are only real people, explaining every thought that crosses their mind as they wade through the bizarre and risky task of burying a man the town of Macondo would rather see rot away in the dilapidated house on the corner for all eternity. The combined impact of García Márquez’ unconventional literary techniques is an unmistakably unique and signature style and an intensely bizarre, yet fascinating read.

Gabriela Mistral y Pablo Neruda: Dos gran poetas del siglo XX

Tanto Gabriela Mistral como Pablo Neruda son figuras literarias increíblemente prominente de América latina. Ambos son poetas Chilenos y hay muchas similares entre las temas y los estilos de sus obras, pero Mistral y Neruda escribían de perspectivas ideológicas muy diferentes. Sin embargo, ambos han logrado éxito grande y han captado la conciencia de su nación exuberante y vibrante con sus palabras emotivos.

La poesía de Mistral y Neruda revela una reverencia profunda para la naturaleza que reflecte su amor compartido para su nación. Ambos poetas usan apostrofes a los elementos y al paisaje frecuentemente, invocando la tierra rica, la lluvia fresca, la luz del sol dorado, el viento poderoso, los flores coloridos y los árboles y las plantas verdeantes para expresar sus intenciones literarios. A menudo usan la personificación de un aspecto de la naturaleza para simbolizar aspectos del cuerpo, para enfatizar la belleza de la conexión entre el mundo natural y los seres humanos.

Ambos aparecen abrumados con emociones complicados y mezclados a varias veces en su poesía; transmiten pasión, tristeza, amor, enojo, desilusión y desesperación y casi siempre enfocan en temas conectado con sus inmensos dolores personales. Producen imágenes muy emotivos, hermosos, trágicos y coloridos, porque su pasión es tan genuino. Mistral y Neruda describen relaciones imperfectos y deteriorados entre amantes infelices, ausentes y descontentos. Es claro al lector observante que ambos tienen una tendencia a idealizar y presionar las personas y situaciones en sus vidas y el resulto es siempre desilusión, frustración, y lentes mas hastiados con la que ver el mundo.

Ambos escritores apoyan y abogan para causas y ideales grandes en sus obras, pero Mistral viene de una perspectiva muy religiosa, espiritual, y maternal, mientras Neruda viene de una perspectiva muy política, patriarcal y eróticamente enamorada. Mistral es un madre poderosa (si biológicamente o no), una educadora, una figura instintivamente maternal y protectiva. Neruda es un hombre muy patriarcal y su tratamiento de las figuras femeninas y las cualidades femeninas que el narrador aprecie en sus obras puede ser insultante y machista a algunos.

Hay un ausencia crudo de mujeres con agencia en la atmósfera patriarcal de Neruda. Cada poema de “amor” revela una alta nivel de alabanza para el mujer, pero usualmente no es para una mujer singular, pero para el sexo entierro; también no es para sus mentes e ideas, pero para sus cuerpos sensualizados ( “cuerpo de mujer, blancos colinas, muslos blancos” y “ah los vases del pecho, a su voz lenta y triste”). No me gusta la manera en que el cuerpo de mujer está deshumanizado en la poesía de Neruda. No obstante, no pienso que Neruda es necesariamente una machista, pero que estaba simplemente un hombre joven, frustrado y hormonal, cuando escribió Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada al edad de solamente veinte años. Sus heridas son muy personal y salvaje y tiene gran coraje a contar al mundo los pensamientos mas hondos de la alma.

En el otro lado, la poesía de Mistral es igualmente afligado, sin las problemas de género. Mistral es mas preocupado con la muerte y amor de la alma que con el amor erótico. Neruda quiere cumplimiento sexual mientras Mistral quiere cumplimiento espiritual. Mientras Neruda enfoca en su frustración sexual, desdeñado y rechazado por una mujer ausente y fría, Mistral habla de la pérdida de amor causada por la muerte de su amante. Neruda estaba un pródigo joven, publicado al edad de trece, mientras Mistral solamente asistí a escuela al edad de doce y comenzó escribiendo mas tarde en su vida. La poesía de Mistral aparece a mí de todo más madura de la de Neruda, y eso es posiblemente un simple diferencia de la sabiduría que viene con edad.

Neruda's Poema 12 - Refreshing Sentiments

I found Neruda’s Poema 12 to be a refreshing contrast to the lustful, objectifying tendencies displayed in some of his earlier poetry (particularly in Poema 1 of Veinte poemas de amor). Poema 12 revealed a genuine desire for a deeper connection with the narrator’s beloved. The opening two lines “Para mi Corazon basta tu pecho, / Para tu libertad bastan mis alas” created an atmosphere of intimacy, acceptance and unity; a very positive first impression for the reader upon entering the poem. I found these two lines very beautiful in their simplicity and their sentimentality.

The progression from Poema 1 to Poema 12, for me, almost displays a development of character; a deepening of emotion and expansion of perspective (if we are to assume that the poems are told from the same narrator/perspective). This narrator is in search of a higher satisfaction, a higher sense of pleasure which can not be attained from mere sexual gratification. I really enjoyed the fact that at no point in the poem did the narrator focus on the superficial aspects of the woman on which he doted. As opposed to Poema 1, where the female body was objectified and praised for its physical, sexualized attributes, the narrator in Poema 12 addressed his beloved’s soul, her liberty, her singing voice, her free spirit and her quiet, reserved nature. Her chest was mentioned in an entirely non-sexual context, only as the vessel for his heart. Whereas the emphasis in Poema 1 was on the “cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos, [y…] vasos del pecho,” the woman in Poema 12 is described in affectionate, sentimental, romantic and nostalgic terms. She is fondly compared to the coziness of an old road, dew drops on flowers. She is likened to the pines and masts for their gentle singing in the wind. The tone achieved in this poem was calm, serene, romantic and relaxing, even though it was a story of a somewhat conflicted relationship.

As usual, the imagery was stunningly beautiful. I particularly enjoyed the image of the woman undermining the horizon with her absence, eternally in flight like the waves. Like many of his Neruda’s poems, Poema 12 revolved around an enchanting female whose distance and reservations prevented a fulfilling emotional and spiritual connection with her. It was, however, devoid of the sexual frustration and consequent bitterness displayed in some of his other poems.

I feel as though Neruda, master of personification, used the sleeping birds to represent the dormant nature of her soul. I took the ending of the poem to be a positive, somewhat uplifting statement. I saw the migration of the birds that were sleeping in her soul as an awakening, a coming to life, a release from the conflicted absence and reservations that plagued their relationship. Did anyone else interpret the end of the poem this way?

“Neruda is like catching a condor with a butterfly net…”

His passionate volatility has been likened to that of a volcano, his magnificence to that of a condor, the invaluable nature of his contributions to those of a rainforest. The vivacious, energetic, larger-than-life quality of Pablo Neruda’s poetry is truly unparalleled and a close critical analysis of some of his most intricately chosen words reveals some very interesting conclusions about his conflicted narrator’s underlying sentiments.

I found it interesting that Karl Ragnar Gierow’s Presentation Speech upon Pablo Neruda’s acceptance of the 1971 Nobel Prize in Literature focused largely on the notion of ideals. Ideals and the tragic human tendency to idealize the objects of our most basic human desires is a topic that pervades much of Neruda’s conflicted poetry. Poema 1, of Veinte poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada, reveals Neruda’s narrator’s tragic tendency to idealize the female human being, and more specifically her body.

The high flown language used to describe the feminine sex – not a woman specifically, but rather women in general (“cuerpo de mujer”) – quite frankly begins to sound more suited for the description of a statue of a Greek goddess than of the living female form. She is described in romanticized tones and shades of pure white which purify and almost deify her saintly body, while simultaneously being sexualized with descriptions of her sensual voice, her abundant bosom and rosy pubic region. By putting women on a pedestal and allowing his imagination to create a vision of femininity that does not coincide with reality, Neruda’s narrator reveals his fatal flaw.

An interesting experiment conducted in Tuesday’s class cut away the intoxicating, flowery language and revealed the artist’s most passionate concealed intentions. Students were charged with the task of choosing the most essential and meaningful word in each of the poem’s sixteen lines and the findings were quite surprising. A poem which appeared upon first glance to be overflowing with beautiful sentiments of love and powerful emotion was laid bare as an expression of sexual frustration and objectification of the female body.

Neruda, a literary wizard by the looks of things, managed to hide the bitterness and somewhat shallow desires behind the guise of feigned affection and intimacy until we extracted the most crucial words from Poema 1: mujer, entrega, labriego, saltar, túnel, invasión, sobrevivir, flecha, venganza, cuerpo, ausencia, triste, cuerpo, sed, sigue, and dolor.

The atmosphere which resulted from this dilution of Neruda’s words was one of aggravation, conflict, struggle, and war; one of conquests and reluctant submissions to the will of an aggressor; one of superficiality and bodily objectification; one of vengeance, sadness and pain. These words were in many ways reminiscent of a rape; sexual gratification motivated not by love but by desire or simple lust. I would very much like to apply this experiment to other poems of Neruda’s to determine whether I have missed out on any other vastly different interpretations of his layered works.

Disclaimer: I love Neruda. He is probably my favourite Latin American poet. My intention is in no way to portray him as some kind of rapist or sexual deviant. I just thoroughly enjoy analyzing his brutally honest, multi-layered poetry the fullest extent and was exceedingly intrigued by the results of our in-class experiment!!

Veinte poemas de amor... por Pablo Neruda

I genuinely enjoyed reading Neruda’s poetry, even more so than that of Mistral, whose words I found to be very moving. I was pleased to see many correlations between the poetry of Mistral and Neruda. I don’t know whether the similarities stem from their Chilean roots or whether these two poets simply share similar passions, but both poets were able to move me deeply with their allusions to the elements and their heartfelt praise for the natural world. My favourites of all Neruda’s poems were Poema 4, Poema 5 and Poema 6.

I found Poema 4, an allusion to wind, to be beautifully descriptive. I loved Neruda’s ability to personify natural forces as if he were talking about a passionate lover or fellow human being. His description of the wind, “buzzing between the trees, orchestral and divine, like a language full of wars and of songs” was deeply emotional. Neruda does not simply state facts as facts. His romantic perspective pervades all of his poetry, as he compares a phenomenon commonplace as wind to a tempestuous morning in the heart of summer. Neruda’s ability to make even trash blowing in the wind sound like romantic poetry is dumbfounding.

I found Poema 5 to be sophisticated in its level of metatextuality. Reflexive in nature, the poem comments on the poet’s words, slowly wasting away as we read the very words of which he speaks. The imagery of words thinning and slowly fading away like the footprints of seagulls on the beach was beautiful. Neruda’s use of repetition of a line from the beginning of the poem, near the ending helped to give his poetry a cyclical quality. It seems as though we end back at the point where we began as he emphasizes: “todo lo llenas tú, todo lo llenas” and “todo lo ocupas tú, todo lo ocupas.”

Poema 5 was my very favourite of all the poems. The imagery achieved was truly breathtaking. Rich, fiery colours of rust, auburn, red, gold and grey came to mind with every image Neruda described: boina gris, crepúsculo, hojas de otoño, hoguera, sed ardiente, brasas y humo.” The images produced an atmosphere of autumn, of nature dying to make way for rebirth, but its rich palette was also reminiscent of fire and ash, which also fits with the cycle of destruction and rebirth. The figurative burning of unquenchable desires was a common theme that ran throughout the poem as Neruda described his deeply passionate love for an unknown woman. My favourite lines of the poem were "Y las hojas caían en el agua de tu alma" and "Y caían mis besos alegres como brasas," strictly because of their beauty. I feel as though the colours, the imagery, the similes of the poem effectively combine to produce the image of an intensely fiery, passionate, attractive woman.

I found Neruda’s Poema 9 to be both interesting and fairly sexually suggestive. It sounded to me as one extended metaphor for sexual desire and glorified male gratification. The images at the beginning of the poem were reminiscent of a day of surfing, but definitely appeared to possess a double meaning. I found this to be his most bold and blatantly sexual poem. Did anyone else feel this way?

Madre Bisoja

I definitely found this week’s readings to be both more challenging and time-consuming. I did, however, continue to love reading Gabriela Mistral’s emotional, moving poetry. The sections “Locas Mujeres” and “Vagabundajes” revealed an even wider variety of religious beliefs and creation stories than previously observed in “Cuenta-Mundo.” Not only is the balance between indigenous spirituality and Catholicism valued by Mistral, but a strong knowledge of classical mythology is also revealed in “Locas Mujeres.” References to strong figures of ancient Greece abound – Antigone, Gaia, Electra, Castor and Pollux. Mistral’s adherence to classical mythology does, however, continue to be interspersed with biblical references to Jesus Christ, David, Raphael and Cain.

Mistral’s maternal instincts also continued to pervade her poetry throughout “Locas Mujeres,” as did her constant reverence for the natural world. I found “Madre Bisoja” to be a particularly pleasing read, both for its eloquence and for the beautiful classical myths it reminds me of. Gaia is a truly beautiful and empowering female figure in classical mythology and Mistral’s representation brought new beauty to her story.

There is an atmosphere of feminine empowerment in Mistral’s poetry, as she portrays Gaia, the earth mother, with such love, reverence, and awe. She represents the Earth in an exceedingly selfless manner, as a lone shepherd, bearing all creatures, allowing none to fall from her wide lap:

A todas las criaturas

soportó en rodillas anchas

y rebosando, ninguna

se le cayó de la falda

I loved the image of a cross-eyed mother, with one black eye and one blue eye, that accounts for the daily alternation between day and night we experience on Earth. I did a bit of research and as far as I can tell, this detail was of Mistral’s invention. Mistral’s personification or attribution of a scientifically justifiable truth to the individual qualities of a mythological figure is quite classical in nature.

La poesía de Gabriela Mistral

He disfrutado leyendo la poesía de Gabriela Mistral, especialmente "La Tierra." Mis otro favoritos selecciones son “El Aire,” “Carro del Cielo” y “El Arco-Iris.” Su interpretación del ambiente es muy bonito y emocionante. Ella tiene un profundo respeto por la tierra en la que ella es tan privilegiada para vivir. El estilo de Mistral es muy maternal, muy cariñoso. Su poesía exuda afecto. La voz narrativa de su poesía es sin duda una de una educadora. A menudo hay una invocación a un niño, a veces un hijo a quien imparte su sabiduría sobre la tierra.

Sentí una conexión fuerte con la tierra y la naturaleza, que podría derivarse de sus raíces mestizas. Me encanta que el poema enfatiza una conexión física con la tierra. Mistral alienta postración con la intención de acercar al lector a rebajarse al nivel de la tierra para obtener una experiencia más amplia de los sentidos. El énfasis en el placer derivado de sonido y el sentimiento revela su alta valoración de la simplicidad. El hecho de que el final de "La Tierra" enfatiza la conexión espiritual entre las personas y la tierra revela el amplio alcance de su fe. Me parece interesante que Mistral representa su linaje indígena tan firmemente en "La Tierra" y se adhiere con tanta devoción a la fe católica en "La Casa".