As a guest rustic. Rancor against Dulce Maria Loynaz tribute speech 
At dawn on April 27, 1997, 14 years ago today, died at his home in Vedado Cuban poet Dulce Maria Loynaz del Castillo. I started reading his work precisely the year of his death, when he began studies at the IPVCE Frederick Engels. As his work life in me began with his death. In the classroom, under the table with my girlfriend, along with the books of Biology and Mathematics was a specimen lined with white paper, its
Complete Poetry , edition of Letras Cubanas, 1993, and today we have borrowed from the Library of the Universidad Autonoma de Madrid, not as young reader optimistic, as the boy of fifteen years and lilac sandals amazed at the wet line , beautiful, languid and clear the daughter of Cuban Liberation Army General Enrique Loynaz del Castillo, disclosed to that of "if you say one more word I shall die in your voice" or "only silence suggests" or "no name you but you like the music in me in the throat of the nightingale, but not singing "or" when the tide comes rushing ... Does the strokes or hits? " or "things that die should not be touched." There are many good and not so good lines I could remember right now, quoting from memory as I write. But I have not seen this issue, the issue I began to read his work with the same eagerness of my youth, I have returned incredulous, as the prodigal son repented not resentful, critical, ungrateful, questioning, to parody. Now what of "So that light? - It's your shadow "seems so ridiculous to write the sentence and feel it offends me right now. I'm ungrateful, I'm a bad son, I know. My offense is the best tribute I can offer today to the Loynaz.
The poetic work of Dulce María Loynaz has had a strange influence on me. In writing, love, life, health. Sick when I read his novel
Garden , I fell into bed with high fever, unexplained. I hated his poetry during my early college years because it hurt me to read it, remember his words, returning to her writing, there was something true in their stale kitsch that made me sore as if his words were sugary pieces of cans. The light, the rose, the cup with wine, water, a pebble are symbols that are repeated more than once with the same sense, with the same images in paraphrased versions, they become redundant and unnecessary which affect their style. We know that a style is formed, in large part by the repetition of certain motifs and images, but not by the redundancy of these. And Dulce Maria lost the boundary between one and the other on several occasions.
His poetry takes foreign channels within its space and time, not very busy in the twentieth century Cuban poetry. The languor and sadness in Dulce María become mannered, affected gestures derive, in sentences of extreme effeminacy, pose on the flight over that slice into the ground upright. However, in poems like "The Bride of Lazarus", "Last Days of a house," a hit lands Lifts veils, feels a character and a hieratic fruitful feared.
Dulce Maria is like a subject that has been beaten after not eager to give back to her. But when it has been read thoroughly the reader will know where to go back, reread what poems, what voices anthology meantime thrill of water.
oblivion after she was under his figure and his work for over 30 years, it was logical that the redescubirmiento, the rereading of the texts having culminated in an over in an explosion of studies in oversize figure and poetry. But really that's not his fault, our fault. And that guilt leads to nationalism, because the identity of a country is also in error, and the Cuban tend to overindulge, to no avail palabreo hyperbolize what has corresponded only to silence. Varona and verbiage mentions that reaches Lezama visible incarnation in the twentieth century Cuban literature. We are bombastic in a sentence, and, in the case of Dulce María and other figures overshadowed by the officers for decades, then we, intend, to release the spring tightly against the floor, to recognize both the author to make up more than we give what touches, and even more than what he requested. And Dulce María never asked for anything. Mannered, but sincere when he writes "Many things gave me in the world: it is only my sheer loneliness. "
essays in this proliferation are comments (sad, very sad) on the work of living Loynaz did Aldo Martínez Malo, possibly the least understood Cuban writing Dulce María and yet, something that I can not never explain but for the love and appreciation that she had personal and not the intellectual capacity of this was the man who was closest to her in her last years and had more access to his work. Both had access to some friends and admirers of nature Martínez Malo person I have come to admit that among the poems of this collection of texts discarded by the author herself collected in Autumn Melancholy
by Malo Martinez (featured in the latest edition of his Complete Poetry
, but not in 1993, when the author was still alive), more than a poem are not exactly Cuban, but of Pinar del Rio. And indeed the texts collected in this little volume are lower in quality (in general) that the poems published in the author's life. That's "you're missing Mañanita by the way ..." is a bad taste almost unbeatable, a kitsch that shows why even the author herself rejected them. Or the poem will Martínez Malo?
The best legacy we owe to this woman is his unwavering conviction, character and consequential act or silence or loneliness or fame and prizes marred ever. He remained impassive, grateful, but not flattering. I admire this woman when she writes:
"My husband, an expert in the world, when he was to die I said that was not given to young people, they came to see me as the monkey from the zoo. I have not forgotten the advice and try to follow it. "
[...]" At least you will see that I am sincere, which is a rarity in these times. "
(See: Letters to Alberto Lauro http://www.eforyatocha.com/2010/07/dulce-maria-loynaz-cartas-lauro.html)
The voice that narrates
A summer in Tenerife and the interplay with the metaescritura, the coldness of Barbara, the eyes of pond water, the time of memory and the endless scrub the memories embodied in your garden writing, this mixture of poetry and prose that attacks against such parochial schoolhouse narrators in recent years, the transgressive and almost blasphemous hardness of your unforgettable Wedding Lazarus essays and poetic moments that is categorically and proverbial, without hesitation "For you the infinite or-nothing all this is what I've saved without rancor of this writer.
But at this point has been too Dulce María harmful to me, and that makes me hate her, there is my devotion. When a lost love of his little poems come to me and told me I mock your cursilísima "Love Letter to King Tut-Ank-Amen" from his involvement when he writes "do not give me your roses fresh sea dame ". Because knowing his work I can find their weaknesses to disarm the surface enamoradito and rose water. The author's own comments on his letter to the young pharaoh are superior to his letter, there is the Dulce María I think Callable:
"Yes, I love Tut-Ank-Amen because it is the silence of death, prestige Death. I love it because it is dead ... If you see sitting on the last of his sarcophagus, mummy unleashed their bands and go to wipe the dust of centuries of shoes [...] would in the act of love. "
comments Aldo Martínez Malo this fragment in the small volume of Egypt
Letters, published by Loynaz is most regrettable that I have read. The distinguished essayist and researcher of Pinar del Rio says that this passage demonstrates the peculiar sense of humor that always characterized our author. Ironic, caustic, cutting, inaccessible, but does Dulce María comedian? I do not see. I think in this passage the poet speaks with all the seriousness metaphorical lyrics and you can imagine a competent reader.
mellifluous portion of his poetry has been one of the most distressing evils that attacked the Cuban poetry of the 90, not always with good results. At the same time is the misreading and to rewrite the Lezama style has been confused with a metaphor and a bizarre little hollow anthropology would like the same fat Trocadero. But do not blame or not to Loynaz Lezama than just up to our responsibility. Own letter to the Tut-Ank-Amen contrarrespuesta has had a hand in the winning poet Luis Manuel Pérez Boitel which evidence can conceive of a letter of bad taste that written by Dulce Mary.
The consequent transgressive biblical and mythological themes, the woman who inherits the cold kiss of Juana Borrero, the Barbara Frost and pale as death itself, the verb as a whip inflexible, winter girlfriend, her lover of Lazarus mess the miracle with the logic of his speech overwhelmingly opposed to the other part of your writing weak, overrated and repeated in such exegesis as hollow and singing to the pink and petal.
At fourteen years of his death is my intellectual and personal grudge the best way to honor her that meeting. My offense is valid as long as I have read from my fifteen years continuously. Today I return to poems, now I laugh at a verse, a phrase now bothers me naive, now I find to be both Tagore could be accused of plagiarism, and some of his texts that were most dear to me seem almost inconsequential, which makes me wonder if the fault is in me as a reader or perhaps the time has turned what was once routine descubirmiento. One thing is certain: poems like "Love Ballad late" and the number of
Poems LXXXI not leave nameless to rattle from his own apparent prudery from a device sweetened and even ridiculous. But this involvement is also sincerity amid the word appears cold, and before preferred roses immensity of the sea. These texts are so effeminate that look like the pompous voice of an actor in drag. I can not imagine them in another way when I read them.
I had never dared to write even a line on this woman, the Cuban poet I read further. These are the twisted textures that bind us and keep us. In our dialogue, nurture them, as death, total and fourteen. LXXXI
The Lord has stayed in this world made their own hands.
has placed a transparent thin air so I can breathe and see while through it the beautiful landscapes, loved faces, the blue sky. The Lord the sun has been shining on my steps, and the tempered light of the stars who watches me sleep at night.
has subjected the sea at my feet with a strip of sand and mountains with a stem of flower.
The Lord has been released, however, the rivers and birds that refresh and gladden the world that has given me, and also has increased the soft grass, shrubs flexible, good trees, setting them on necklaces of dew, clusters fruit, bunches of flowers, a gift from my lips and my eyes.
All this has made the Lord. And yet I, as a guest rustic, I move awkwardly and reluctantly, I vaguely missing other things ... I do not know what intimacy, what my old house ...
