Farewell to Gonzalo Rojas, a Chilean poet Chilean poet Gonzalo Rojas, who died el 26 de Abril en una clínica de Santiago, se consideraba "un poeta del asombro", "lentiforme" (de los que no se apresuran) y a sus 93 años se sentía "como un jovenzuelo" que, como tal, no temía a la muerte y pensaba que iba a vivir mucho.
Por: Nelson Sandoval Díaz
Su obra, dijo en una entrevista con Efe hace algunos años, "está marcada por el asombro", que definía como "el encantamiento" desde el cual escribía.
Rojas sostenía que no era necesario versificar para ser un poeta del asombro y consideraba como tales the Chilean painter Roberto Matta and the Mexican writer Juan Rulfo, "not written any verse, but the surprise made them look out the miracle of being."
The Chilean poet, much of whose work confronts death and love, brilliantly cast, from both a romantic and an ebullient eroticism, was convinced that the poets are also subject to chance.
"The poet is a subject of chance, in whom poetry is embodied by the word that you do not deserve, they give," he claimed.
Poetry, Rojas said, "is erotic, Thanatos, but also immediacy, sparingly sociological, social and political. "
Upon the death, argued that we should not fear," it goes with you from the moment they are born. "
August 18 2010, Rojas was surprised when he learned by Efe that he had died the Nobel José Saramago: "how old was Joseph? 87, was a boy, imagine, I have 93 and I feel like a youngster, "he said that day.
receive the Cervantes Prize
led him to expose all his admiration for the author of Don Quixote, whom he considered also a poet, whose work maximum can perfectly recite and "sounds so pretty."
Rojas Cervantes was for "the wonder that said it all in a language that is a miracle," which launched a way to deal with reality and show it. "There is in him a trait that strikes me as critical, which is the land," he thought.
Despite its recognized status of "lentiform" Rojas was ultimately a bit prolific author, as was thought at one time because between the first and second book ("The misery of man" and "Against death ") mediated sixteen years (1948-1964).
"Yes, I am lentiform; me demoro, me fastidia la prisa, no entiendo para nada la celeridad ni la publicidad, ni los famosos premios, aunque le caigan a uno", contaba.
Cuando en 1992 ganó el Premio Nacional de Literatura de Chile y el Reina Sofía de Poesía Iberoamericana, su creación no pasaba de dieciocho títulos. Tal vez esa lentitud creativa provino de su dura niñez, adolescencia y juventud, cuando sus prioridades debieron ser distintas a llevar al papel los versos que germinaban en su interior.
Nacido el 20 de diciembre de 1917 en la sureña ciudad de Lebu el poeta perdió muy niño a su padre, minero de oficio, a quien en diciembre de 2003 dedicó el Premio Cervantes.
literary
His departure was not easy. "The misery of man," his first book, was poorly received by critics but embraced by poets.
"At the rate the national letters are not augur well," he added Hernán Díaz Arrieta (Alone), the critic of the newspaper "El Mercurio", whose word was law.
"It has taken me a long, stretches me and let me removed the glare of the very original," he wrote as Gabriela Mistral.
Although "Anti-death" it became known in Latin America, its international recognition occurred in 1977 with "dark", published in Venezuela during the period of exile from the dictatorship of Augusto Pinochet.
Carlos Fuentes and José Donoso considered that the frequent seminars and literary gatherings organized Rojas in the 50's and 60 contributed to the gestation of the "boom" in Latin America, it led to new perspectives of the continent.
Since then ceased to move through the world. The trips contributed "a shaken" to his literary creation, especially for being in Chile, a country where the geology and geography we determined "an island very strong."
Until he decided to spend most of their time in Chillán, where according to his namesake son, "was happy."
Some poems of Gonzalo Rojas
TO SILENCE
Oh
voice, one voice: the entire opening of the sea,
entire opening of the sea would not suffice
around the hole in the sky,
entire cavity of beauty
not be enough to contain you,
and although quiet man and this world would sink
oh majesty, you never, you never
cease to be everywhere,
because you have plenty of time and being, one voice,
because you're not, and most are my God,
and most are my father when I'm darker.
STONE
Because of this stone, no one will cry. There
fateful asleep in her mother's
this stone precipice
cerebral unimiento
pace where wine called
and off, you've seen
unseen to other eyes
music, and
so meekly
lying on the fragility of the report, the dull dry've
night without Noise albatrosses
against closure gone.
hesitated about this decision will not
of the imperfection of his dark figure which never saw anyone
because nobody ever sees these stones that are no
in the outgrowth of an opacity rather
Hence the cold to the touch as clouds
neutral, amorphous, without
airy nor luxurious marble
of turquoise, as ambiguous
if you want but that is why so close!
No, no hesitation, there will be left intact
by its trace others ferruginous
and heavenly, it will have at most that the tree: "Goodbye
gave me shade tree, the river," Goodbye
River you spoke for me, rain, goodbye, I mojaste
. Goodbye,
white butterfly.
Because of this stone, no one will cry.
CHORD CLASSIC
anyone born of rhythm, throw him naked and crying
like the sea, they rock stars, tapering to spend
by the beating
precious blood, flowing, glows in the marble
of girls
up in the majesty of the temples, burning in the number
fateful of needles, said in November behind the
curtains, blinking
on this page.
Baudelaire
Tips and tricks to it that you are
Ovid said:
heels you are, hopefully higher, visible
bestial, nipples, no matter
the smallness of the format, the kiss
well painted, the Parisian
aroma, without excess
bluish eyelids, stealthy blow
the
longilinear druggie and his pride, visionary
glare, especially that visionary glare.
And of course, the golden one hundred and seventy centimeters
charm ankle
the torrential
strands of hair. - "Think
breaks then at that point asphyxiated Borges, who
but could Aleph entire
schizophrenia and beast and sniff, kiss on the snout,
durarla, lingered in his enigma, aerating,
stain so deeply, be it, galloping
laying of boredom? Who
especially that, fed up? "
Especially anything, boys, blind
of another age! Borges, Publio Ovidio
!, Nothing: the truth
is that there is nothing but
every 28, blood
delivers and that's the game. Thus came forth the poets
badly injured woman screaming, moaning
beauty
Eternity is not, especially that guys, it
not seen.
Paris, November 2003
