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Friday, August 9th, 2013
posted evening of August 9th, 2013: 1 response
➳ More posts about Pretty Pictures
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Wednesday, August 7th, 2013
por Félix Fojas
tr. Jeremy Osner
Sintiéndome una mezcla entre curiosidad
y aburrimiento entro en el paisaje
encantante de ese maestro francés
del siglo diez y nueve que muestra
un parque en alguna parte
en el campo con los hombres
que lucen bigotes dalinianos
y chisteros mientras las damas
de pecho abultado que llevan
corsés debajo de sus vestidos
elegantes, que agarran paragüas
y cestas de picnic mientras
se pasean deliberadamente
esta mañana de domingo, linda
mañana. Son de ojos grandes
estupefactos
por la intrusión súbita
y sorprendente de un tipo siglo viente
 como yo, fuera de lugar,
voy pésimo vestido,
sudadera azul y vaquero
a juego. Indignados
se unen en una multitud
y me desalojan
groseramente
del encuadre ancho
me empujan al presente
donde me encuentro
transportado al Museo
del Prado en Madrid en que figura
entre otras una obra
por Hieronymus Bosch
que poblan caracteres grotescos
del renacimiento que me hacen seña
a entrar en una orgÃa salvaje. Estoy
abrumado! Sostengo mi aliento
precioso, como protesto sacudo la cabeza
y me nego a participar en esa pesadilla
surrealista, en esa choque cultural
peor por lejos que lo que soporte
mi condición postmoderna
de desvelo y sensibilidad.
posted evening of August 7th, 2013: Respond
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Tuesday, August 6th, 2013
not an Airplane.
posted evening of August 6th, 2013: Respond
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Monday, August 5th, 2013
One more Bogotano poem -- this is the final image in the book, from Aurelio Arturo's poem "Dream City" (previously untranslated -- in her note, Anne McLean thanks Lillian Nećakov for help translating it. I wonder if Anne or Lillian wrote this post at WordReference?*) Searching for the full text of the poem brought me to the pdf of GuÃa Literaria de Bogotá, which seems like a useful resource to have at hand; the website is Museo Fuera de Lugar which itself looks pretty interesting.
Ciudad de sueño 
Yo os contaré que un dÃa vi arder entre la noche
una loca ciudad soberbia y populosa,
yo, sin mover los párpados, la miré desplomarse,
caer, cual bajo un casco un pétalo de rosa.
Muros que yo formé con mi sangre hecha esfuerzo,
puertas al sol doradas que elevé a mis espaldas,
ciudad de mil mujeres de ojos dorados, brazos
lentos y bocas rojas que en su silencio cantan.
Asà como en la sombra desciende una cabeza
al fondo de una idea, rápida como piedra,
aquella ciudad loca, oh rúas de mi júbilo,
se hundÃa en silencios duros y en soledades negras.
ArdÃa como un muslo entre selvas de incendio,
y caÃan las cúpulas y caÃan los muros
sobre las voces queridas tal como sobre espejos
amplios...¡diez mil chillidos de resplandores puros!
Y eran como mis mismos cabellos esas llamas,
rojas panteras sueltas en la joven ciudad,
y ardÃan desplomándose los muros de mi sueño...
¡Tal como se desploma gritando una ciudad!
 * Or hm, no, it appears that message was posted by the translator of Falling into Turkish! Düşen Şeylerin Gürültüsü is in Everest Yayınları's Dünya Edebiyatı Dizisi series and is translated by Süleyman Doğru.
posted evening of August 5th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about The Sound of Things Falling
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Sunday, August 4th, 2013
Speaking of Antonio, and thinking as always about identification with the narrator, I just want to note that Antonio's description, at the beginning of chapter 2, of his stay in the hospital reminds me very strongly of my own extended stay as a child after an auto accident -- the circumstances obviously quite different but the feeling of being kept in the bed not fully understanding what's going on around you is instantly recognizable.
I don't remember, however, the three days of surgery: they have disappeared completely, obliterated by the intermittent anesthesia. I don't remember the hallucinations, but I do remember that I had them; I don't remember having fallen out of bed due to the abrupt movements that one of them provoked, and, although I don't remember that they tied me down in the bed to prevent that from happening again, I do remember quite well the violent claustrophobia, the terrible awareness of my vulnerablility.
 (Incidentally: Is Antonio 42 or so at the time of writing? is a question I find intriguing.)
↻...done
posted afternoon of August 4th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Juan Gabriel Vásquez
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The sound of things falling is a book about Bogotá, and poetry is a huge part of that city's history. A part I don't know much about at all... Looks like I am going to be learning a bit as I make my way through the book. Early in the second chapter we find a reference to León de Greiff, Antonio quotes from his "Admonición a los impertenentes" as he says he doesn't want his family visiting him.
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio. Non me peta mormurio
ninguno a la mi vera. Si la voz soterraña
de la canción adviene, que advenga con sordina:
si es la canción ruidosa, con mi mudez la injurio;
si tráe mucha música, que en el Hades se taña
o en cualquiera región al negro Hades vecina...
Ruido: ¡Callad! Pregón de aciago augurio!
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio, mi sóla golosina.
Como yo soy el Solitario,
como yo soy el Taciturno,
dejádme solo.
...(Y no un poeta pero) En la aula donde Antonio enseña cuelga retrato de Francisco José de Caldas:
posted afternoon of August 4th, 2013: 1 response
➳ More posts about Readings
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The tape Antonio listens to in the Casa de PoesÃa while Laverde is listening to his message, is a reading of one of José Asunción Silva's Nocturnes.
Una noche
Una noche toda llena de perfumes, de murmullos y de músicas de alas,
Una noche
En que ardÃan en la sombra nupcial y húmeda las luciérnagas fantásticas,
A mi lado lentamente, contra mà ceñida, toda,
Muda y pálida
Como si un presentimiento de amarguras infinitas,
Hasta el más secreto fondo de las fibras te agitara,
Por la senda florecida que atraviesa la llanura florecida
Caminabas,
Y la luna llena
Por los cielos azulosos, infinitos y profundos esparcÃa su luz blanca,
Y tu sombra
Fina y lánguida,
Y mi sombra
Por los rayos de la luna proyectada
Sobre las arenas tristes
De la senda se juntaban
Y eran una
Y eran una
Y eran una sola sombra larga!
Y eran una sola sombra larga!
Y eran una sola sombra larga!
Esta noche
Solo, el alma
Llena de las infinitas amarguras y agonÃas de tu muerte,
Separado de ti misma, por la sombra, por el tiempo y la distancia,
Por el infinito negro
Donde nuestra voz no alcanza,
Solo y mudo
Por la senda caminaba,
Y se oÃan los ladridos de los perros a la luna,
A la luna pálida,
Y el chillido
De las ranas,
Sentà frÃo, era el frÃo que tenÃan en la alcoba
Tus mejillas y tus sienes y tus manos adoradas,
Entre las blancuras nÃveas
De las mortüorias sábanas!
Era el frÃo del sepulcro, era el frÃo de la muerte
Era el frÃo de la nada...
Y mi sombra
Por los rayos de la luna proyectada,
Iba sola,
Iba sola
¡Iba sola por la estepa solitaria!
Y tu sombra esbelta y ágil
Fina y lánguida,
Como en esa noche tibia de la muerta primavera,
Como en esa noche llena de murmullos de perfumes y de músicas de alas,
Se acercó y marchó con ella
Se acercó y marchó con ella,
Se acercó y marchó con ella... ¡Oh las sombras enlazadas!
¡Oh las sombras que se buscan en las noches de negruras y de lágrimas!...
posted morning of August 4th, 2013: Respond
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Saturday, August third, 2013
Oh boy!
—and in the rich neighborhoods of Bogotá people wore T-shirts saying Save The Hippos...
posted afternoon of August third, 2013: 1 response
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Friday, August second, 2013
Decir que uno no entiende
la conversación en que se está
sumergiendo
decir que Ay, no puedo
escuchar
estos poemas que ando leyendo
que los poemas en que se esté
dispersando/ sean ininteligibles
serÃa últimamente
no justificable
y por éso, debo
pedir
perdón
posted evening of August second, 2013: 1 response
➳ More posts about Poetry
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Kind of flabbergasted that I have never encountered any mention of Glen Island amusement park in the writings of Thomas Pynchon -- it seems utterly implausible that the Chums of Chance (for instance) would never have paid a visit.
 A stone's throw from David's Island, which was devoted entire to the Army post, was Glen Island. This wooded islet had been rented, for the purpose of exhibiting little colonies of foreign people, by a good old sport, who confided to me that he liked champagne when it wasn't too "corky," and who had spent his whole life up to his present ripe age in exhibiting pretty girls and tickling the American palate with new and outlandish sensations. One year he would have Eskimos living in glass huts frosted to look like ice, with real Eskimo dogs and sleds; another, he would show a community of Hottentots, as unclothed as New York laws would tolerate, with their round straw huts and African drums. And lo and behold! this year he had imported and exhibited, alongside of a group of Sioux Indians living as they lived, a colony of Puerto Ricans, living as they lived, in their little thatched houses, and making the so-called "panama" hats. These jÃbaros were from Cabo Rojo, a coast town noted for the excellent straw hats made there for a century or so. And they ALL had hookworm. A most intimate friendship sprang up between the young military doctor and these homesick sons and daughters of Borinquen, who were perfectly delighted to find someone who could speak to them in their own tongue, and to whom they could complain —for the jÃbaro loves to complain. They were useful to me not only as sources for a continuation of my study, but also as living examples of this new disease, on which I now was asked to discourse at Me annual meeting of the Westchmer County Medical Society. I did so; and no detail was missing—even the sacred eggs were brought into the glaring sunlight of New York's sophistication.
↻...done
posted morning of August second, 2013: 5 responses
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