02-13-2018, 10:56 PM
One evening in Spain - capital "e"?
Madrid in darkness
lit only by flashes from
Luftwaffe bombs.
On a downtown rooftop - comma at the end?
refugees, poets, and painters
in fancy-dress - remove dash? or even remove the line entirely...
drink champagne, dance and sing - comma at the end?
while around them
death rains. - although one would think the first stanza makes these last two lines a little too redundant.
What madness they share!
Pablo Neruda, Cesar Vallejo,
Octavio Paz, even Siqueiros
the Mexican, in his shiny
cavalry boots.
What joy.
I don't think I could do this piece much justice, for three lacks: knowledge on the Spanish Civil War, knowledge on the four artists referred to, and knowledge on 'The Years of Laura Diaz', which a brief internet search has told me is set at around the same time as the poem.
Still, I try. I don't see much of a lesson in this, especially since I don't know what sort of judgment the speaker is applying to the four artists. Both "madness" and "joy" may be positive or negative, referring to either an optimist's joy or a decadent's madness. I took, for my initial read, the second meaning first, but looking into the artists further -- the only artist of the four with whose work I was already somewhat familiar with is Neruda -- complicates things.
First, "the Mexican" is nothing special, as Octavio Paz was also a Mexican. In fact, all of these artists were Latin American, with Neruda a Chilean and Vallejo from Peru. Paz and Neruda both became diplomats for their native countries -- only Vallejo stayed on in Europe, eventually dying in Paris. This consideration gives it a bit of a postcolonial edge: the four artists, aside from being strangers, are also laughing at the face of their former oppressor's suffering.
The edge is dulled when one considers their politics. As far as I know, all four of them, when they were in Spain at the time of the Civil War, were helping the Republicans out, and three of them would die committed communists: Paz, after hearing about one of his friends getting murdered by the Republicans, became disillusioned, eventually criticizing the various totalitarian regimes of his day (including, of course, Stalin and Castro). Essentially, though, all four were humanists, and thus would have suffered, in their own way, as the people around them suffered.
Perhaps I don't consider their works enough, which at this point in time is a task for someone more well read. Perhaps I lean too much in their having come from nations colonized by Spain, rather than from nations that share the Spanish language, which would tilt my thoughts on their nationalities further in favor of considering their "madness" as valor. But still, from my end, there's a very subtle contradiction in the details highlighted by the piece that somehow confuse my judgment as a reader -- maybe elaborate further on what the speaker sees, or cull one of the culprits.
Anyway, I hope this helps. Funny thing: I've recently been reading Harold Bloom's 'The Western Canon', and right when you posted this, I'd reached the chapter on Borges, Neruda, and Pessoa. That tempered my reading more than colored it, I would say, especially since Bloom seems to be kinda against political readings.
Madrid in darkness
lit only by flashes from
Luftwaffe bombs.
On a downtown rooftop - comma at the end?
refugees, poets, and painters
in fancy-dress - remove dash? or even remove the line entirely...
drink champagne, dance and sing - comma at the end?
while around them
death rains. - although one would think the first stanza makes these last two lines a little too redundant.
What madness they share!
Pablo Neruda, Cesar Vallejo,
Octavio Paz, even Siqueiros
the Mexican, in his shiny
cavalry boots.
What joy.
I don't think I could do this piece much justice, for three lacks: knowledge on the Spanish Civil War, knowledge on the four artists referred to, and knowledge on 'The Years of Laura Diaz', which a brief internet search has told me is set at around the same time as the poem.
Still, I try. I don't see much of a lesson in this, especially since I don't know what sort of judgment the speaker is applying to the four artists. Both "madness" and "joy" may be positive or negative, referring to either an optimist's joy or a decadent's madness. I took, for my initial read, the second meaning first, but looking into the artists further -- the only artist of the four with whose work I was already somewhat familiar with is Neruda -- complicates things.
First, "the Mexican" is nothing special, as Octavio Paz was also a Mexican. In fact, all of these artists were Latin American, with Neruda a Chilean and Vallejo from Peru. Paz and Neruda both became diplomats for their native countries -- only Vallejo stayed on in Europe, eventually dying in Paris. This consideration gives it a bit of a postcolonial edge: the four artists, aside from being strangers, are also laughing at the face of their former oppressor's suffering.
The edge is dulled when one considers their politics. As far as I know, all four of them, when they were in Spain at the time of the Civil War, were helping the Republicans out, and three of them would die committed communists: Paz, after hearing about one of his friends getting murdered by the Republicans, became disillusioned, eventually criticizing the various totalitarian regimes of his day (including, of course, Stalin and Castro). Essentially, though, all four were humanists, and thus would have suffered, in their own way, as the people around them suffered.
Perhaps I don't consider their works enough, which at this point in time is a task for someone more well read. Perhaps I lean too much in their having come from nations colonized by Spain, rather than from nations that share the Spanish language, which would tilt my thoughts on their nationalities further in favor of considering their "madness" as valor. But still, from my end, there's a very subtle contradiction in the details highlighted by the piece that somehow confuse my judgment as a reader -- maybe elaborate further on what the speaker sees, or cull one of the culprits.
Anyway, I hope this helps. Funny thing: I've recently been reading Harold Bloom's 'The Western Canon', and right when you posted this, I'd reached the chapter on Borges, Neruda, and Pessoa. That tempered my reading more than colored it, I would say, especially since Bloom seems to be kinda against political readings.