Notes on a Return to the Ever-Dying Land
August marked 90 years since the birth of Blanca Varela, poet of Peruvian surrealism
“The solitude is what unites us in the humidity of the pea-pod, in the swelling of the wave, in the sweat of the root.”
(( La soledad nos une en la humedad del guisante, en la hinchazón de la ola, en el sudor de la raíz ))
- from a poem by Varela, quoted in José Miguel Oveido’s recent article in Spanish inVallejo & Co. Translation into English by Arturo Desimone
In August 2016, lovers of Peruvian poetry commemorated what would have been the 90th birthday of Blanca Leonor Varela, a poet associated with subversive movements of surrealism that were of great importance to a generation of Peruvian poets influenced by André Breton’s circle in Europe. Many of her generation (such as surrealist Peruvian poet César Moro, Xavier Abril, and Jorge Eduardo Eielson) spent extensive periods in Paris, often because of political exile and the threat of dictatorship in Peru. Varela’s poetic universe shows strong signs of the surrealism that influenced her, but it is also comprised of forces that could not be contained within intellectual or psychoanalytic experiments or absurdism associated with French surrealism. Passion, spirituality, humor, the rancor of frustrated love, the childish paradisiacal thinking of wanting to remain ever in love, abound in her poetry (yes, we are both ribonucleic acid/ but we are ribonucleic acid that remains forever in love from Monsieur Monod Does Not Know How To Sing, which can be read here, below in my English translation) Varela uses references to cooking, (Lima, the poet’s home-town, is spoken of as having all the colors of the clear liquid that spills from a cracked egg) and her time spent cooking— the poet names the elements of cuisine in a similar way to passing references to wild nature, sex, and scientific education. A futuristic Noah’s shipwrecked stampede of animals that dwell upon the sea coasts and river banks of Peru, are constantly rearing their crying heads in her poems. Her grasp of the intimate is that of a revolutionary romantic, (to the contrary of those whose aesthetics emphasize domesticity and the petty-bourgeois private — Blanca is hostile to placid terrains) hers is a poetry lived between many worlds, cities of migration, a poet at once worldly and cosmopolitan, drinking from the contaminated chalice of Dali-esque surrealisms in Europe, while spiritually, deeply engrained into her native and beloved Peru. Her verse is full of the humor of those poets who sing from radical wounds of love and solitude.
“I ascend and fall to the bottom of my soul
that regains its green, agonized by light, magnetized by light.
In this coming and going time beats its wings
detained for ever.”
Asciendo y caigo al fondo de mi alma
que reverdece, agónica de luz, imantada de luz.
En este ir y venir bate el tiempo las alas
detenido para siempre.
English translations of two poems by Blanca Varela.
(transl. Arturo Desimone
~with special thanks to Reynaldo Jiménez for illuminating conversations about Peruvian poetry and ‘’el surrealismo sudaka’’~
video of Blanca Varela reading Monsieur Monod no sabe Cantar
Monsieur Monod Does Not Know How To Sing
my dear one
I remember you like the best song
that apotheosis in the coming together of roosters and stars
that you no longer are that I no longer am
that we no longer will be
and nonetheless we both know very well
that I speak from the painted mouth of silence
with the fly’s agony
at summer’s end
and for all the badly closed doors
conjuring or calling that nefarious wind of memory
that record scratched before use
tinted according to the mood of the time
and its old sicknesses
of red
or of black
as a king standing in disgrace before the mirror
as the day of the viper
which is tomorrow and the past and always
night what do you precipitate
(that is how the song must speak)
charged with forethoughts
insatiable female dog ( un peu fort)
splendid mother (plus doux)
child-bearer, and always barefoot
to not be heard by the fool in you who believes
it is better to mash up the heart
of the unveiled
that dares to hear the dragged step
of life
of death
a mosquito’s pit* a torrent of feathers
a tempest in a glass of wine
a tango
the order alters the product
engineer’s error
what a rotten tactic it is,
to keep living one’s own story
like in a movie backwards-rolled
a thick and mysterious
dream with slimming effect
the end is the beginning*
a tiny light oscillates like hope
clear color of eggs
with the smell of fish and spoiled milk*
darkens the mouth of the wolf that will take you
from Cluny to Salazar Park
rolling carpet so speedy and so black
you can no longer tell
if you live or if you are playing at being alive
or playing dead
as a flower of steel
like a very last morsel, twisted and filthy and slow
the better to devour you with
My dear one
I adore all that is not mine
you, for example, I adore,
with your skin, like hide of a jackass covering the soul
and those waxen wings I gave you as a present
the ones you never dared to put on
you have no idea how ashamed I am of my virtues
I no longer know where to put this collection of keys
and lies
with my indecency of the child who must hear out the story’s ending
it is already too late now
for the memory, like the songs
is the worst one
the one you want
the only one
it does not resist ruining another blank page
my being here makes no sense
destroying
what does not even exist
my dear one
in spite of it all
all remains the same
the philosophical tickle after the shower
the cold coffee the bitter cigarette
the Green River-slime
of Monte Carlo
everlasting life continues to be good for everyone
intact is the stupidity of the clouds
intact the obscenity of geraniums
intact the shame of garlic
the little mockingbirds shit themselves divinely in mid-heaven
in april
Mandrake is breeding rabbits in some circle
of hell
always a little leg of a crab is trapped
in the trap of to be
or of not to be
of I don’t want this or the other thing
you know,
those things that befall us
and which have to be forgotten so that they may exist
only in verb-grace of the hand with wings
winged hand without a hand
the history of the kangaroo — meaning the one of the handbag, or the one from life, both —
or of the captain who is sealed inside a bottle
that is forever empty
and the womb, empty too, but winged
and wombless
you know
passion, obsession
poetry prose
sex success
or viceversa
the congenital void
the ovum with a mote in it
among millions and millions of little eggs with motes in them
you and me
toi et moi
tea for two in the immensity of silence
in the atemporal sea
on the historic horizon
for ribonucleic acid is all we are
but I mean only the ribonucleic acid that is always in love
Video of Blanca reciting “Canto Villano” at the Medellín international festival.
VILLAIN SONG
and all of a sudden life
on my pauper’s plate
a meager scrap of celestial pig
here on my plate
observe me
observe you
or kill a fly without ill-will
annihilate the light
or create it
create it
as would he who opens his eyes and chooses
a heaven that spills over
onto the empty plate
rubens onions tears
more rubens more onions
more tears
so many histories
black indigestible miracles
and the eastern star
brought to a blush
and the bone of love
so gnawed upon and so hard
shining upon another plate
this hunger in itself
exists
is the urge of the soul
which is the body
is the rose made from grease
that ages
in its heaven of flesh
mea culpa the turbid eye
mea culpa the black morsel
mea culpa divine nausea
no other one is here
upon this empty plate
without I
devouring my eyes
and yours
To read these poems and others by Blanca Varela in the original Spanish, go to the website of Poetas del Fin del Mundo, a Latin-American online resource for poetry.
A future post will by the maker Notes on a Journey to the Ever-Dying Lands will speak to Peruvian-Argentinian independent publisher, poet and historian of Peruvian literature Reynaldo Jiménez, who was given his first whiskey at the tender age of 16 by Blanca in her library in Lima. The importance of reverberations by the past Peruvian surrealists among a new generation of poets today, will be emphasized (thanks in large part to the information provided by Jiménez and the harrowing drinks provided.)
Monsieur Monod no sabe Cantar
querido mío
te recuerdo como la mejor canción
esa apoteosis de gallos y estrellas que ya no eres
que ya no soy que ya no seremos
y sin embargo muy bien sabemos ambos
que hablo por la boca pintada del silencio
con agonía de mosca
al final del verano
y por todas las puertas mal cerradas
conjurando o llamando ese viento alevoso de la memoria
ese disco rayado antes de usarse
teñido según el humor del tiempo
y sus viejas enfermedades
o de rojo
o de negro
como un rey en desgracia frente al espejo
el día de la víspera
y mañana y pasado y siempre
noche que te precipitas
(así debe decir la canción)
cargada de presagios
perra insaciable ( un peu fort)
madre espléndida (plus doux)
paridora y descalza siempre
para no ser oída por el necio que en ti cree
para mejor aplastar el corazón
del desvelado
que se atreve a oír el arrastrado paso
de la vida
a la muerte
un cuesco de zancudo un torrente de plumas
una tempestad en un vaso de vino
un tango
el orden altera el producto
error del maquinista
podrida técnica seguir viviendo tu historia
al revés como en el cine
un sueño grueso
y misterioso que se adelgaza
the end is the beginning
una lucecita vacilante como la esperanza
color clara de huevo
con olor a pescado y mala leche
oscura boca de lobo que te lleva
de Cluny al Parque Salazar
tapiz rodante tan veloz y tan negro
que ya no sabes
si eres o te haces el vivo
o el muerto
y sí una flor de hierro
como un último bocado torcido y sucio y lento
para mejor devorarte
querido mío
adoro todo lo que no es mío
tú por ejemplo
con tu piel de asno sobre el alma
y esas alas de cera que te regalé
y que jamás te atreviste a usar
no sabes cómo me arrepiento de mis virtudes
ya no sé qué hacer con mi colección de ganzúas
y mentiras
con mi indecencia de niño que debe terminar este cuento
ahora ya es tarde
porque el recuerdo como las canciones
la peor la que quieras la única
no resiste otra página en blanco
y no tiene sentido que yo esté aquí
destruyendo
lo que no existe
querido mío
a pesar de eso
todo sigue igual
el cosquilleo filosófico después de la ducha
el café frío el cigarrillo amargo el Cieno Verde
en el Montecarlo
sigue apta para todos la vida perdurable
intacta la estupidez de las nubes
intacta la obscenidad de los geranios
intacta la vergüenza del ajo
los gorrioncitos cagándose divinamente en pleno cielo
de abril
Mandrake criando conejos en algún círculo
del infierno
y siempre la patita de cangrejo atrapada
en la trampa del ser
o del no ser
o de no quiero esto sino lo otro
tú sabes
esas cosas que nos suceden
y que deben olvidarse para que existan
verbigracia la mano con alas
y sin mano
la historia del canguro -aquella de la bolsa o la vida-
o la del capitán encerrado en la botella
para siempre vacía
y el vientre vacío pero con alas
y sin vientre
tú sabes
la pasión la obsesión
la poesía la prosa
el sexo el éxito
o viceversa
el vacío congénito
el huevecillo moteado
entre millones y millones de huevecillos moteados
tú y yo
you and me
toi et moi
tea for two en la inmensidad del silencio
en el mar intemporal
en el horizonte de la historia
porque ácido ribonucleico somos
pero ácido ribonucleico enamorado siempre
Canto villano
y de pronto la vida
en mi plato de pobre
un magro trozo de celeste cerdo
aquí en mi plato
observarme
observarte
o matar una mosca sin malicia
aniquilar la luz
o hacerla
hacerla
como quien abre los ojos y elige
un cielo rebosante
en el plato vacío
rubens cebollas lágrimas
más rubens más cebollas
más lágrimas
tantas historias
negros indigeribles milagros
y la estrella de oriente
emparedada
y el hueso del amor
tan roído y tan duro
brillando en otro plato
este hambre propio
existe
es la gana del alma
que es el cuerpo
es la rosa de grasa
que envejece
en su cielo de carne
mea culpa ojo turbio
mea culpa negro bocado
mea culpa divina náusea
no hay otro aquí
en este plato vacío
sino yo
devorando mis ojos
y los tuyos