Poetry of Pablo Neruda

                                                                                                                                                     

I have really enjoyed reading Neruda’s poetry.  I had read some of his poems before, both English translations and in the original Spanish, but I had never read any of Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desperada.  Upon reading the first poem, the thing that struck me was its sensual nature, and I found that that tone of eroticism is strong throughout the poems.  It sort of has the air of young love (or lust) with its focus on physical love, so it makes sense that it was written by such a young poet.  Still, though, it’s very impressive (and sort of intimidating) that this book was published before the time that Neruda was 20!

            After reading the poems included in the course package and a few of the others from Veinte poemas it sort of seems like the poems form a sort of cycle that moves from lusty, young love and physical attraction (in the first poem), towards a more contemplative mood (as in the somber tenth poem with lines like “Por qué se me vendrá todo el amor de golpe / cuando me siento triste, y te siento lejana?”), to a happy portrait of a more romantic love (poem #15: “Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan./  Y estoy alegre”), towards, finally, the end of a relationship in the twentieth poem.  The twentieth poem is a sad and beautiful lament to lost love, with lines like “Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería./ Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos. / Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. / Pensar que no la tengo.  Sentir que la he perdido.”  This is followed by the “Canción desperada,” where the poet despairs after the end of the relationship, remembering “la alegre hora
del asalto y el beso,” and repeating the exclamation “Todo en ti fue naufragio!”

            I don’t know if Neruda conceptualized the book this way, but it seems to me like a sort of story, if not of a particular love or relationship, then at least a story of how relationships begin, evolve, change, and eventually end.  Since most people can identify with these feelings and experiences, maybe this is why these are some of Neruda’s most read and beloved poems worldwide, perhaps broader in their appeal than poems about politics and Augusto Sandino and Jesús Menéndez, for example.

Week 3 – Second Half of Cumandá

 

When reading the second half of Cumandá, I noticed a shift in tone and content.  The flowery, descriptive prose of the first half gave way to more action, plot and character development.  A quick look at my classmate’s blogs this week shows that others noticed a similar change between the novel’s first and second halves.  I wrote about enjoying the first ten chapters, and especially the description of the indigenous plants and landscapes as well as the tribes and people of
Ecuador.  Still, even though Mera’s writing style is still very descriptive in the latter half of the novel, it would have probably gotten tiresome if it had continued with the long passages of description without moving along the central plot, the one concerning Cumandá and Carlos.  I enjoyed reading as the plot progressed, but I was quite confident from early on that Cumandá would die before the end of the story.  I guess her death made sense for the story, and it made her character a romantic tragic heroine.  Anyways, I have enjoyed reading Cumandá, but I have to admit I am already looking forward to reading the poetry of Neruda.

Juan Leon Mera’s Cumandá

         

          The description in Friday’s class of Cumandá as a canonical (and the first) novel in Ecuador that everyone in that country has read and studied in school, made me think.  If Mera’s Cumandá is to Ecuadorian literature as Shakespeare and Dickens are to British literature, is there a Canadian equivalent?  When that question was put before the class on Friday, no one had a real answer.  Will there ever be a novel that we can point to as “the great Canadian novel?”  Does that matter? 

            After Friday’s class, I finally started reading the book, and I got to thinking about what makes it such an important book to Ecuadorians, with, according to the book’s back cover, “Su importancia no soló radical en su character inaugural, sino sobre todo en haber sintetizado casi todos los temas que han tejido la historia idealólogica interna del romanticismo hispanoamericano.”

            In the opening chapter of the book, Mera’s rich, evocative descriptions of the Ecuadorian jungles and volcanoes are captivating.  I don’t often enjoy reading lengthy passages of description at the beginning of a novel, but I found myself immersed in the landscape of Mera’s Spanish prose.  If this novel is to typify and represent Ecuador and Ecuadorian literature, then Mera seems intent on making the land of Ecuador itself an important part of the novel.  If “the great Canadian novel” began with passages describing frozen lakes, snow-covered trees, huge snowbanks, and more snow, would many readers continue past the opening chapter?  Not that those images can’t be beautiful, but I have a tough time imagining an author describing them as fascinatingly as Mera’s tropical landscape. 

La literatura y la familia

 

“Mis abuelos, mis padres y yo” por Frida Kahlo, 1936

January 9^th 

            The relationship between literature and family is complex and fascinating.  The American writer Alex Haley (the recipient of the Pulitzer Prize, appropriately enough, for Roots: The Saga of an American Family) claimed that “In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future.”  In this way, one can understand the family itself as a sort of story, a narrative that tells one where their ancestors came from, what they did, and how that tells one who she or he is.  When one can see the family story continue into the future by way of one’s progeny, it is (unlike literary works such as novels) an endless narrative.  Of course not every family line is continued, and not every person has knowledge of their ancestry, or indeed any connection to a family.  But to me, Haley’s quotation suggests the idea of the family as a continuing narrative and I can imagine a family tree as a visual representation of this story (or stories).

            Personally, literature has always been closely connected with my family.  For me, and probably for most of the people in the class, my earliest experiences with literature were stories read to me from my parents.  My parents read me children’s stories, then as I grew older, they read me novels, short stories and poems.  I also remember my aunts and my grandmother telling me folk stories and fables. 

            Though my lack of knowledge precludes my discussion of Latin American literature specifically, it seems interesting that the family unit is at the centre of so many beloved and important works.  My mother loves the work of Austen and Dickens (though I personally do not enjoy them), which are largely concerned with families and family issues.  Some of my favourite works feature the different generations of Sallinger’s Glass family and Puzo and Coppola’s Corleone family.  And though the “literary” content of my one final example may seem questionable to some, I feel as though I can’t close this discussion (my first blog entry ever) without mentioning the Simpsons.