The Dissonant Legacy of Modernismo. Ramón
López Velarde
Gwen Kirkpatrick
Ramón
López Velarde, best known as a poet of the Mexican
Revolution, reshaped modernismo's, canon to write poetry with a
distinctly local and personal stamp. Octavio Paz has described the
essential themes of López Velarde's work as provincial life
and eroticism, while noting also the influences of Laforgue and
Lugones on the amalgam of the provincial theme with
eroticism1.
Pablo Neruda calls the force of López Velarde's poetry,
«el líquido
erotismo» («the liquid eroticism»)
that circulates deeply throughout all his work, and names
López Velarde as modernismo's final master:
En la gran
trilogía del modernismo, es Ramón López
Velarde el maestro final, el que pone el punto sin coma. Una
época rumorosa ha terminado. Sus grandes hermanos, el
caudaloso Rubén y el lunático Herrera y Reissig, han
abierto las puertas de una América anticuada, han hecho
circular el aire libre... Pero esta revolución no es
completa si no consideramos este arcángel final que dio a la
poesía americana un sabor y una fragrancia que durará
para siempre. Sus breves páginas alcanzan, de algún
modo sutil, la eternidad de la
poesía2.
(In the great trilogy of
Modernismo,
Ramón López Velarde is the last master, the one who
closes an entire period. A noisy epoch has come to an end. His two
great brothers, the opulent Rubén and the lunatic Herrera y
Reissig, have opened the doors of an antiquated America; they have
brought a breath of fresh air... But his revolution would not be
complete if we didn't consider this last archangel who gave to
American poetry a flavor and a fragrance that will last forever.
His few pages achieve in some subtle way, the eternity of
poetry.)
According to Neruda, López
Velarde captures the scenes of his poetic heritage in a sidelong
glance, «como si alguna vez
hubiera visto la escena de soslayo y hubiera conservado fielmente
una visión oblicua, una luz torcida que da a toda su
creación tal inesperada claridad»
(«as if at some time he had glimpsed the
scene out of the corner of his eye and had faithfully conserved an
oblique vision, a twisted light that gives to his whole creation
such unexpected clarity»)3.
The question of perspective is crucial in understanding
López Velarde's relationship to his modernista predecessors.
Abbreviating modernismo's stylized descriptions, he clearly
sets forth the contrast between the old and new worlds, identifying
his personal voice with the unsettling pendulum swing between two
worlds, as in «El son del
corazón»:
López
Velarde wrote three books of poetry: La sangre devota (1916), Zozobra (1919), and
El son del
corazón (published posthumously in 1932), as well as
many essays. Profoundly influenced in his early poetry by Lugones,
he integrated the legacies of Baudelaire and Laforgue, filtered
through the eyes of a Mexican provincial reality and years of harsh
revolution. Xavier Villarrutia also finds López Velarde's
poetic antecedents in Luis Carlos López and Julio Herrera y
Reissig5.
In his essays,
López Velarde devotes special attention to Leopoldo Lugones,
Enrique González Martínez, and José Juan
Tablada. In defending Tablada's spare experimental verse against
its critics, he writes what could be his own art poétique;
Ciertamente, la Poesía es un ropaje;
pero ante todo, es una sustancia. Ora celestes éteres
becquerianos, ora tabacos de pecado. La quiebra del Parnaso
consistió en pretender suplantar las esencias desiguales de
la vida del hombre con una vestidura fementida. Para los actos
transcendentales -sueño, baño o amor- nos
desnudamos6.
(Certainly Poetry
is a dress; but above all, it is a substance. Whether celestial
Becquerian ethers, or tobaccos of sin. The shattering of Parnassus
came about by trying to supplant the unequal essences of man's
existence with a dress that didn't quite fit. For all
transcendental acts -sleeping, bathing, or love-making- we undress
ourselves.)
For López Velarde, there are
no objects that enter into poetic language in a totally innocent
state. Even childhood or virginity form their own codes. Following
Lugones and Herrera y Reissig, López Velarde chooses the
provincial, the quiet side of Mexico, as the range of the unmarked,
the space still undefiled by a weighted, cosmopolitan scheme of
values. In his literary criticism, López Velarde is always
clear about his contextual scheme of values:
El hecho
próspero consiste en que se ha conquistado el decoro de los
temas con el hallazgo de lo que yo llamaría el
criollismo. No lo criollo de hamaca, de siesta tropical...
Eso queda en devaneo. No; trátase de lo criollo neto,
expresión absurda étnicamente, pero adecuada para
contener el sentido artístico de la cuestión que
someramente voy fijando, como un prendido de alfileres.
Trátase de lo que no cabe ni en lo hispano ficticio ni en lo
aborigen de pega. Trátase de lo criollo neto: las calles por
cuyo arroyo se propaga la hierba; ... las anilinas de la botica que
irradian rojas y verdes y enorgullecen a los paseantes nocturnos de
la plaza...7
(The happy deed consists of the
fact that the propriety of themes has been conquered by the
discovery of what I would call criollismo. But not the criollismo that relies heavily on
visions of hammocks and tropical siestas... That ends up becoming
total nonsense. No, I'm talking about the genuine criollo, an absurd expression
in ethnic terms, but quite appropriate in expressing the artistic
meaning of the matter that I'm trying briefly, and somewhat
loosely, to establish. It deals basically with the elements that
don't fit within what is considered false Hispanism or patched-up
indigenous characteristics. It deals with what is genuinely
criollo: the
streets with their water courses full of grass; ... the anilines of
the drug stores radiating red and green, filling the nocturnal
stroller of the plaza with pride...)
For López Velarde, the
child, the native past, the woman, and the elderly may participate
in this special world.
Deeply marked by
the devastation of the Mexican Revolution, the move from quiet
provincial life to the city («ojerosa y
pintada» [«hollow-eyed and
painted»], as he describes it in «La
suave patria»), and by a tormented religiosity,
López Velarde shows the distance between the two worlds.
City/country, purity/transgression, and tranquillity/violence are
the thematic oppositions he draws in his portraits. On a technical
level, one can see other contrasts in his verse construction. His
poems show traces of conversational prose and parenthetical,
densely wrought syntax. Like Lugones, López Velarde often
departs from fixed meter and, unlike Lugones, leaves behind rhyme.
He moves between fixed meters and versolibrismo and experiments with subtle
rhymes, internal assonance, and alliteration. Like Lugones and
Herrera y Reissig (as well as Vallejo) he sets side by side the
modernista
paradigm with a prosaic detail, often mixed with a nostalgic
religiosity, as in «El son del
corazón»:
Una música
íntima no cesa
porque transida en
un abrazo de oro
la Caridad con el
Amor se besa.
¿Oyes el
diapasón del corazón?
Oye en su nota
múltiple el estrépito
de los que fueron
y de los que son.
(LV, 233)
(An intimate music doesn't
cease,
because fainting in a golden
embrace
Charity and Love kiss.
Do you hear the diapason of the
heart?
Hear in its multiple note the
deafening sound
of those who were and those who
are.)
López Velarde's verses are
rarely as explicit as these, however. Elliptical expressions,
hyperbaton, and syntactical breaks make comprehension difficult.
His poetry resists overt signification, and the language of dreams
or the ramblings of childhood memory make their own logic, as they
do in Vallejo's poetry. This is why «El
retorno maléfico» is such a threatening
poem. Its silences and ambivalences are the response of a village
that does not know how to speak to an intrusive attack by forces
which partake in other dialogues, those of revolution and politics.
Like the prostitution in the city, the mutilation of the town at
the hands of an enemy from without leaves it mute. The town can no
more marshal itself against physical devastation that it can call
forth a discourse to describe it.
Like Vallejo's
house in «Aquí no vive
nadie», where only sounds and gestures of past
lives resonate, the return to the village in «El
retorno maléfico» is an impossible one:
«Mejor será no
regresar al pueblo, / al edén subvertido que se calla / en
la mutilación de la metralla»
(LV, 174) («It will be better not to return to the
village / to the subverted Eden / hushed in the machine gun's
mutilation»). The return of the prodigal son to the
«edén subvertido»
(«subverted Eden») removes all blame from the village
itself and attributes its destruction to an outside force, a
tangible one that comes in the shape of military violence. The
elliptical questioning of a destroyed past echoes in the complexity
of the poem's sound patterns. For example, the repetition of sounds
takes on the effect of an incantation: «un
cubo de cuero, / goteando su gota categórica / como un
estribillo plañidero» («a leather
bucket, / dripping its categorical drop / like a mournful
refrain»), «el lloro de recientes
recentales / por la ubérrima ubre prohibida / de la
vaca» («the crying of recent calves / for
the plentiful forbidden udder / of the cow»), and
«el amor amoroso / de las parejas
pares» («the amorous love / of the
even-numbered couples»). The most prosaic elements are those
that receive the most «poetic» treatment, either by
latinate construction («ubérrima
ubre» [«plentiful udder»]) or by
the distance between terms of the metaphor («muchachas / frescas y humildes, como humildes
coles» [«young girls / fresh and humble,
like humble cabbages»]). The Edenic, timeless atmosphere so
lovingly detailed contrasts with the tomblike entrance of the
village. The town's present, broken state -locked, closed, and
sealed off as if by death- must be left alone, unentered. Its
evocation must respond to «una íntima
tristeza reaccionaria» («an intimate,
reactionary sadness») which closes off any possible entrance.
This last verse reestablishes an intellectual distance, combining
the personal and political into a present that cannot return.
The oscillation
between extremes and the impossibility of resolution mark
López Velarde's poetry. Like «Dos
péndulos distantes / que oscilan
paralelos» («Two distant pendulums / that
oscillate parallel»), the dualities are never to be resolved.
Erotic love and death are intimately connected in
«Hermana hazme llorar».
Fuensanta, his love of the province, is the emblem for the woman
left behind, and she embodies the longing for purity and innocence
of the past8:
Fuensanta:
dame todas las
lágrimas del mar
Mis ojos
están secos y yo sufro
unas inmensas
ganas de llorar.
..............................................
Hazme llorar,
hermana,
y la piedad
cristiana
de tu mano
inconsútil
enjúgueme
los llantos con que llore
el tiempo amargo
de mi vida inútil.
(LV, 89)
(Fuensanta:
give me all the tears of the
sea.
My eyes are dry and I feel
an overpowering need to cry.
..............................................
Sister, make me cry,
and let the Christian merey
of your seamless hand
wipe the tears with which I
lament
the bitter time of my useless
life.)
The figure of Fuensanta always
evokes the communion with the past and with wholeness, and
contrasts with later loves.
«Mi prima Águeda»
from La sangre
devota highlights the memories of childhood, and the poem's
parenthetical condensations show only fragments of the femme fatale in the
transformation into her rustic counterpart: «Águeda era /
(luto, pupilas verdes y mejillas / rubicundas) un cesto policromo /
de manzanas y uvas / en el ébano de un armario
añoso» (LV, 59)
(«Águeda was / [black dress, green pupils, and rosy /
cheeks] a polychrome basket / of apples and grapes / in the ebony
of an old armoire»). Seen through the child's eyes
-«Yo era rapaz / y conocía laopor lo
redondo» («I was a young boy / and I knew
the o by its roundness»)- Águeda represents
the inaccessible distance and beauty of female power. However, the
trappings of her power are the most common traits of everyday
village dress, «con un contradictorio /
prestigio de almidón y de temible / luto
ceremonioso» («with a contradictory /
prestige of starch and of fearsome, / ceremonious mourning
dress»). In this poem the mixture of colors, sounds, and
bewitching movement -«me iba embelesando un
quebradizo / sonar intermitente de vajilla / y el timbre caricioso
/ de la voz de mi prima» («I was becoming
enchanted by the brittle / intermittent sound of silver on
porcelain / and the caressing tone / of my cousin's voice»)-
is no less complex than modernismo's compositions, but the effect is one
of simplicity. Taking his direction from Lugones and Herrera y
Reissig, López Velarde transforms interior landscapes and
the idealized female figure within contexts of provincial life and
a child's experiences.
In López
Velarde's «Mi corazón se
amerita», the last strophe could be read as a
commentary on Herrera y Reissig's Tertulia lunática:
Así
extirparé el cáncer de mi fatiga
dura,
seré
impasible por el Este y el Oeste,
asistiré
con dura sonrisa depravada
a las ineptitudes
de la inepta cultura
y habrá en
mi corazón la llama que le preste
el incendio
sinfónico de la esfera celeste.
(LV, 156)
(And so I will destroy the cancer
of my harsh fatigue,
I will become impassive from East
to West,
I will respond with a harsh,
depraved smile
to all the ineptitude of the inept
culture
and there will be in my heart the
flame lent by
the symphonic fire of the celestial
sphere.)
The element of pose, the
Baudelairian disdain, the emphasis on hardness and ugliness, is
turned around by an equally exaggerated proclamation of faith:
«el incendio sinfónico de la esfera
celeste» («the symphonic fire of the
celestial sphere»). It honors the pendulum's swinging back
and forth, and by plainly placing side by side two extremes of
now-familiar phrasing, as if they were pieces unto themselves, he
acknowledges the reality of both theatrical modes.
«Te honro en el
espanto...», from Zozobra, is a tribute to death, as well as a
collection of all the usual images that fill up «una perdida alcoba / de
nigromante» («the lost bedroom / of a
necromancer»). As the yo binds
together the memory of a woman, reclaiming her from death's
funerary fetishes, the eroticism and lightness return in a strangly
playful image of a game:
mis besos te
recorren en devotas hileras
encima de un
sacrílego manto de calaveras
como sobre una
erótica ficha de dominó.
(LV, 214)
(my kisses travel your body in
devout rows
above the sacrilegious cloak of
skulls
as if over an erotic domino
chip.)
Here López Velarde takes
modernismo's
fetishistic attraction to rare objects and clearly shows their
elaboration, and thus destroys their power as objects
«bewitched».
In
«Suave patria» López
Velarde celebrates the grandeur of Mexico's simple, rustic life, as
well as its glorious indigenous past. In this long poem, divided
into «Proemio»,
«Primer acto»,
«Intermedio:
Cuauhtémoc», and «Segundo
acto» («Preface», «First
Act» «Intermezzo: Cuauhtémoc», and
«Second Act»), Mexico's daily life is pictured against
its enormous expanses as well as its turbulent history. In the
«Proemio», the narrator
states his purpose, «Para cortar a la epopeya
un gajo» («To cut a branch from the
epic»). Rejecting the grandiloquence of past national epics,
«Diré con una
épica sordina: / la patria es impecable y
diamantina» (LV, 264) («I
will say with a muted epic: / the homeland is impeccable and
glittering»). As in «Mi prima
Águeda», López Velarde shows the
astonishing beauty of the mundane in the «Primer acto»:
Patria: tu
mutilado territorio
se viste de percal
y de abalorio.
Suave Patria: tu
casa todavía
es tan grande, que
el tren va por la vía
como aguinaldo de
juguetería.
(LV, 265)
(Homeland: your mutilated
territory
dresses in calico and glass
beads.
Gentle Country: your house is
still so vast that the train runs
along its track
Like a Christmas present in a
toyshop.)
Here the train is not modernismo's mythological
monster; it is a toy dwarfed by natural and human splendors. In the
«Segundo acto»,
López Velarde continues his exaltation of the
commonplace:
Suave Patria: te
amo no cual mito,
sino por tu verdad
de pan bendito,
como a niña
que asoma por la reja
con la blusa
corrida hasta la oreja
y la falda bajada
hasta el huesito.
(LV, 268)
(Gentle Country: I love you not as
a legend,
but for the truth of your blessed
bread,
as I love a young girl appearing at
the railing
with her blouse reaching her
ear
and her skirt down to her
ankle.)
Like Vallejo's evocation of
childhood scenes, there is a reverence for elemental satisfactions
and a reduction of the grandiose to the commonplace. López
Velarde's portrait of Mexico is a kaleidoscope of past and present.
Even though his experiments in lexical and syntactical distortion
in no way approach Vallejo's innovations, his expansion of content
boundaries has been an important source for later poets.
In López
Velarde's work the heritage of his modernista predecessors is clearly apparent,
and he pays tribute to them as well in his literary
criticism9.
But like many of his generation, López Velarde will
transform the provincial setting and the dynamics of eroticism with
his apparent «simplicity». In this way he closes the
modernista
chapter and paves the way for another generation of Mexican poets.
In his swings between the pull of a provincial past that can no
longer be recaptured and the attraction of cosmopolitan
temptations, López Velarde does not parody his poetic models
as does Lugones. Leaving the paradigms to coexist side by side, he
shows their incongruity with a fleeting sidelong gesture. As Neruda
describes his practice:
Como si alguna vez
hubiera visto la escena de soslayo y hubiera conservado fielmente
una visión oblicua, una luz torcida que da a toda su
creación tal inesperada claridad10.
(As if at some time he had glimpsed
the scene out of the corner of his eye and had faithfully conserved
an oblique vision, a twisted light that gives his whole creation
such unexpected clarity.)
With no need of twisting the swan's
neck, a gesture enacted previously by Enrique González
Martínez, López Velarde changes the perspectives in
viewing many of modernismo's favored scenes. He redecorates their
interiors, sees them with the rapt wonder of a child, and changes
their profusion of harmonies to sing to «el
son del corazón».