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Articles tagged "Chilean Poetry"

Ode to Ángel Cruchaga

Ángel, I remember in my childhood, southern and shaken by rain and wind, suddenly your wings, the flight of your sparkling poetry, the starry tunic filling the night, the roads, with phosphoric resplendence, you were a pulsating river full of fish, you were the silvery tail of a green mermaid crossing the sky from west to east, the shape of light gathered in your wings, and the wind allowing rain and black leaves to fall  on your clothes. So it was far away, in my childhood, but...

Ode to the Andean Cordillera

Once again, from up high, flying over  the sky, you appeared, white and obscure  cordillera of my homeland. Before then, the great airplane  crossed great seas, jungles, deserts. Everything was symmetry, everything was ready on the earth’s surface, everything from above was path, until, in the middle  of heaven and earth, your planetary snow lodged itself, freezing the towers of earth. Volcanoes, scars, caves, ferruginous snows, skinned titanic heights, heads of...

Ode to the Flowers of Datitla

Under the pines, the earth concocts small unsullied things: slim grasses from whose threads minuscule lanterns hang, mysterious capsules plump with lost air, and shadows are different there, filtered  and flowery, long green needles scattered by the wind attacking and disheveling the hair of pine trees. On the sand stand  fragmentary petals, calcified bark, blue pieces  of dead wood, leaves the patience of beetle-like woodcutters moves around, thousands of minimal cups left...

Making the Ordinary Extraordinary: Pablo Neruda’s Odes

When Pablo Neruda published his first of three collections of odes—the Odas elementales (Elementary Odes)—in 1954, he was probably unaware that his Russian hero, Pushkin, had written 130 years earlier that odes were the lowest form of poem because they lacked a “plan” and because mere “rapture” excluded the kind of “tranquility” which, Pushkin said, was “an indispensable condition” of the highest beauty.”  Fortunately,...

Ode to Juan Tarrea

Yes, you know America, Tarrea. You know it. In the helpless Peru, you looted the tombs. To the small villager, to the Andean Indian, Tarrea, protector,  gave his hand, but retreated it with its rings. He destroyed wealth. He left for Bilbao with the vessels. Later he hung from Vallejo, he was lucky to die and then he opened a small store of prologues and epilogues. Now he has spoken with Pineda. He is important. He might be selling something. He has “discovered” the New...

August Song

My love many things could have happened in August but will not happen many fireflies could have shone in your eyes but will not shine and the month of August will be buried without pomp or circumstance without flowers or processions like so many days that never got to be trees like so many trees that never got to be birds like so many birds that never got to fly

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