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Matilde Casazola Of Worms and Roots and Falling Waters

Commentary and translation by Roseanne Mendoza

Although her poetry has not prev�ously been translated �nto Eng-l�sh, Mat�lde Casazola �s one of Bol�v�a’s most prol�f�c and

popular l�v�ng poets. Sp�r�tual�ty �s a pers�stent theme �n her work, as are the memory of ch�ldhood, the presence of the Bol�v�an land-scape, and a b�ttersweet long�ng for lost loved ones. In Bol�v�a, Casazola �s also a well-known composer, gu�tar�st, and s�nger, and a strong lyr�cal and mus�cal tendency �s ev�dent �n her poems. her songs, wh�ch are also poet�c and embody the tenac�ous and t�meless sp�r�t of the Andes, have been recorded by many well-known art�sts from Bol�v�a and other Lat�n Amer�can countr�es. Two key �nfluences �n Casazola’s poetry are Lat�n Amer�can romant�c�sm and modern�sm, both robust and endur�ng l�terary cur-rents �n her home country. The passage of t�me as angu�sh and loss �s the most pers�stent theme �n her work, and related to �t are others ― the landscape as a source of enthus�asm and v�tal�ty, and an over-power�ng nostalg�a for departed loved ones, youth, and �nnocence. The four poems that follow are from A veces, un poco de sol (1978). The f�rst �s dom�nated by ch�ldhood memor�es of loss and of gu�lt for not ma�nta�n�ng �ntense bonds w�th an eccentr�c and lov�ng older relat�ve, a great uncle. The style here �s s�mple and stra�ghtfor-ward. As �n many of Casazola’s poems, death, l�ke l�fe, �s a sol�tary journey, a passage. The old uncle, who “wanders t�me’s streets” and seems to possess secrets of the cosmos, “the names of the stars,” passes to “the other s�de.” When f�nally “h�s old sun” goes out, “we,” the ch�ldren, “were very far away,” unable to accompany h�m at the f�nal hour. The second poem, t�tled only “Poem 56,” �s, �n effect, a po-et�cs, a tentat�ve declarat�on of �ndependence from the prec�ous and elaborate canons of a tenac�ous Lat�n Amer�can modern�sm and an aff�rmat�on of a more elemental, �ntense, and personal style �n wh�ch

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the poet prefers “to wr�te w�th worms and roots and fall�ng waters.” She rejects both self-absorbed, hermet�c verse (“m�rrors”) and, at least for the moment, her ex�stent�al�st preoccupat�on w�th l�fe as a journey (“streets”) �n favor of the tang�ble, almost erot�c relat�on-sh�p between the body and �ts natural env�ronment, “the d�ffuse l�ght that penetrates our pores” and br�ngs about commun�on and fulf�ll-ment. “R�b Cages” �s a more d�rect example of th�s �ns�stent preoc-cupat�on w�th the body. The poet sets up a d�alect�c between the secret unbr�dled “fandango” of the w�ldly beat�ng hearts and the ex-ternal c�rcumstance �n wh�ch the �nd�v�duals f�nd themselves, some sort of nocturnal pol�t�cal meet�ng related to wages and poss�ble str�kes, a commonplace event for both �deolog�cally engaged �ntel-lectuals and struggl�ng workers �n Bol�v�a. here, as �n the f�rst poem, the world of these seem�ngly mundane events �s l�nked to cosm�c forces, as ¨the planets watch the�r calendar wh�rl.” The harsh character of proletar�an l�fe �s st�ll more expl�c�t �n “The M�ner,” �n wh�ch the Bol�v�an m�ner, desp�te ―or perhaps pre-c�sely because of ― h�s extreme c�rcumstances, also appears as a cosm�c presence, even a de�ty, “whose eyes are metall�c stars” and who, together w�th the earth �tself, �s consumed �n a sacr�f�c�al r�te �n the name of econom�c development, of the construct�on of “resplen-dent c�t�es.” h�s descent �nto the m�ne represents another ep�c jour-ney, but th�s t�me a r�tual�st�c da�ly one, to that same “other s�de” of l�fe, where he must confront “the damp walls” that “l�ck your body w�th s�n�ster tongues” and then recreate h�mself �n the D�onys�an r�tual of dr�nk before descend�ng �nto the earth once aga�n. In all these poems then, suffer�ng and loss comb�ne w�th de-s�re for recuperat�on of lost happ�ness and redempt�on �n an almost myst�cal state of grace of un�on w�th the Other. yet the s�mple, transparent, and forceful �mages that commun�cate these sent�ments speak to people of var�ed soc�al classes and levels of educat�on.

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Poema II para el tío Germán (de La noche abrupta)

a Germán Mendoza

El hermano de nuestro abuelose mur�ó.él sabía el nombre de los astros,él, con su sombrero gacho.

El tío Germán se perd�ócon pas�to menudo por las calles del t�empo,él con su bastón y con su abr�go v�ejo.

El tío Germán dobló la esqu�na y nos m�ró pero no estábamos.

El v�ejo tío huraño de cabellos al v�entoy largas uñas de profeta o erm�taño,que sabía de memor�a l�bros enteros,cam�nador empedern�do,f�lósofo p�cante y med�o áspero,no se levantó más.

Sus ojos se asomaron al otro ladoy susurró “me voy”,y fue apagandodulcementesu v�ejo sol.

El tío GermánEl otro abuelo,Se mur�ó la otra nochey nosotros estábamos muy lejos.

Poem II for Uncle Germán (from Abrupt Night)

for Germán Mendoza

Our grandfather’s brotherhas d�ed.he knew the name of the stars,he w�th h�s slouch-br�m hat.

Uncle Germánwanderedt�me’s streets w�th short, qu�ck steps.he w�th h�s cane and h�s old coat.

Uncle Germán turnedthe corner and looked at us,but we weren´t there.

Our old tac�turn unclew�th h�s w�nd-tossed ha�rand h�s long f�ngerna�ls of a prophet or a herm�t,who knew whole books by heart.Th�s obsess�ve walker,th�s caust�c and gruff ph�losopher,d�d not get up aga�n.

h�s eyes looked out on the other s�deand he wh�spered, “I’m go�ng.”And sweetly and slowlyh�s old sunwent out.

Uncle Germán,our other grandfather,d�ed last n�ght,and we were very far away.

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Poema 56 (de A veces, un poco de sol)

he escr�to con encajesadher�dos a las f�nastelas br�llantes;

he escr�to sobre mesas sól�dasen p�ezas confortablesdonde la ventana está en su s�t�oy no hay que cam�nar mucho para encontrar un láp�z.

Ahora me gustaría escr�b�r con gusanosy raícesy aguas despeñándose;

con el br�llo furt�vo de la arenasobre las p�edras vírgenes.

Me gustaría escr�b�rno de espejosn� de callesn� de angust�as desmed�daspoblando nuestra sangre

s�no de la luz d�fusaque penetra en nuestros porosy transforma sab�amentelas sustanc�asInv�s�bles, reservadas en el fondode los cuencos mas secretos.

Poem 56 (from Sometimes, a Bit of Sun) I’ve wr�tten w�th laceattached to f�nebr�ll�ant fabr�cs.

I’ve wr�tten on sturdy tables�n comfortable roomswhere the w�ndow was where �t should beand I d�dn’t have to walk farto f�nd a penc�l.

Now I l�ke to wr�tew�th wormsand rootsand fall�ng waters,

w�th the furt�ve sh�mmer of sandon v�rg�n rocks.

I l�ke to wr�tenot about m�rrorsnor streetsnor exaggerated angu�shthat �nhab�ts our blood

but about the d�ffuse l�ghtthat penetrates our poresand craft�ly transformsthe �nv�s�ble substancesreserved at the bottomof the most secret recesses.

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Un poema elementaly perfecto, como una almendrade har�nas �nsopechadasprem�ándonos repent�namente;

Un poema rec�én vest�docon sobr�a tún�cas�n costosos labradosre�terados.

Me gustaría escr�b�r en la corteza lechosa de la luz de luna, apoyando m� mej�llaen su almohadónfantást�co;

escr�b�r s�mplementecon una sonr�saque pregone la grac�ade ex�st�r.

An elemental poem,perfect – l�ke a surpr�s�nglytasty almond,an unexpected reward for us.

A poem newly dressed�n a sober tun�cw�thout elaborate repeat�ngpatterns.

I’d l�ke to wr�te on the m�lky bark of moonl�ght, rest�ng my cheekon �ts fantast�c cush�on.

Wr�te s�mply, w�th a sm�lethat procla�ms the graceof ex�st�ng.

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En las cajas torácicas (Poema X de Los cuerpos)

En las cajas torác�cas,Los corazones golpean su fandango.Están en plena farra,c�egos de alcohol y lumbre.

Abren y c�erran caudaloso párpado,laten pañuelos rojos, se regoc�jan en su salto.

Analfabetospoderosos,�gnorantes del d�ar�o y el cam�no,v�ven neurót�cos por atrapar el t�empo y d�spersarlo.

Soles de nuestro cuerpo, relojes sumerg�bles y automát�cos.D�os gusta a vecesde sentarse a reposar en su tr�ángulo.

Irresponsables de nuestra ru�nacada vez mas cercana,salt�mbanqu�s glor�ososnos acompañancomo s� nada h�c�eran.

Este lunes a las once de la noche, los corazones están locos, nacen y mueren �ncontables vecesen sus cajas torác�cas

In Rib Cages(Poem X from The Bodies)

In r�b cages,hearts pound out the�r fandango.They are at the he�ght of the�r b�nge,bl�nded by alcohol and l�ghts.

They open and close caut�ous eyel�ds,the�r red scarves pulsate,they rejo�ce �n the�r leaps.

Powerful �ll�terates,unaware of newspapers and roads,they l�ve neurot�cally,try�ng to capture and scatter t�me.

Suns of our bod�es,automat�c d�v�ng watches.Somet�mes �t pleases Godto rest �n state �n your tr�angles.

Not accountable for our ru�nthat each moment comes closer,glor�ous acrobatsaccompany us through l�fe, as �f not do�ng much at all.

Th�s Monday n�ght at eleven,the hearts are crazy mad.They are born and d�e, over and over,In the�r r�b cages.

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Nosotros, mansos, nos saludamos,esqueletosun�formes y abr�gados.Conversamos del hambrey atendemos negoc�os �mportantes.

Los corazones, no.Enterradosen su cárcel estrecha, zapateansollozan,se regoc�jan en su salto.

¡Oh tambores que tanto resuenaneste lunes a las once de la nochetodos los corazones convocadospara ped�r aumento de salar�oo �r a la huelga!

Cu�dado: El mundo de los corazoneses bl�ndado.

Arr�ba, los planetasobservang�rar su calendar�o.

C�egos de alcohol y lumbre, golpean y golpean su fandango.

We gently greet one another,skeletons,look-al�kes, all bundled up.We talk about hungerAnd deal w�th �mportant bus�ness.

The hearts don’t.Bur�ed �n the�r narrow ja�lsthey stamp the�r feet and sob,they rejo�ce �n the�r leaps.

Oh drums that resonateth�s Monday n�ght at eleven,when hearts are called togetherto ask for a ra�seor go on str�ke!

Beware!The world of the hearts �s armor-plated.

Above, the planetsobserve the�r calendar wh�rl.

Bl�nded by alcohol and l�ghts,they pound and pound out the�r fandango.

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Minero (Poema 44 de Tierra de estatuas desteñidas)

El sol de tu l�nternate �lum�na los díasque noches son, adentro de la t�erra.Ap�ñado en la jaula,con otros compañerosbajas al fondo de la m�na.Las húmedas paredes te lamen los contornoscomo lenguas s�n�estras.

De la t�n�ebla extraetu sudor, la r�quezaque áv�das manosblancas y pul�das,negoc�arán mañana.

y la t�erra cont�gova envejec�endole duelen sus pulmones perforados.Esplendorosas urbes se levantana costa de su sangre y de tu v�da.

Tus ojos son metál�cos lucerosque en el reflejo de tu vaso br�llan.¡y todavía hay qu�én preguntapor qué se emborrachan los m�neros!

Miner (Poem 44 from Land of Faded Statues)

your headlamp’s sunl�ghts up your daysthat are n�ghts �ns�de the earth.Crammed �n the cagew�th your compan�ons,you descend to the m�ne floor.The damp wallsl�ck your bodyw�th s�n�ster tongues.

your sweat extracts from the darkness r�ches that av�d hands,wh�te and pol�shed,w�ll traff�c �n tomorrow.

And the earth l�ke you �s ag�ng,�ts lungs cruelly perforated.Resplendent c�t�es ar�seat the cost of �ts blood and your l�fe.

your eyes are metall�c starswhose gleam reflects �n your glass.And st�ll some people askwhy the m�ners get drunk.