Article
Welcome to Colombian poetry - August 2005
January 18, 2006
The absence of ‘movements’, in Colombia’s specific case, does not imply the absence of original poetic voices. To be clear about it, we must distinguish between the existence of movements and of generations: in Colombia, as in any other country, there are fairly distinct generations, which are not necessarily movements. One could say that the Nadaísmo – Colombia’s own ‘beat’ movement was an exception, but it was a movement that did not go very far: it did not manage to be an aesthetic, social, or much less a political revolution, but its impact on national culture is still felt four decades later, to the point that such a lucid and critical reader as the poet Samuel Jaramillo can talk about a ‘before and after’ in Colombian poetry, with Nadaísmo as the dividing line.
But Colombia has poets that in the domain of the language cannot be ignored: those already mentioned, Silva and de Greiff, and Porfirio Barba Jacob, Jorge Gaitán Durán and Aurelio Arturo, and – among those whose names are not preceded by an ominous black cross and who we wish were many more – Juan Manuel Roca, Alvaro Mutis and Jaime Jaramillo Escobar.
The situation of Colombian poetry is strange: the country has the most massive poetry festival in the world, that of Medellín; the quantity of poetry books that are published (and that fortunately in many cases are not sold) makes the Canadian woods tremble; almost every passerby is convinced that he is a poet; some of our presidents have been poets or eminent grammarians; however . . .
There are works, voices and talents that encourage trust in our survival, including those of the poets that we now present. Whereas the poet, novelist, critic and painter Héctor Rojas Herazo’ novels anticipated García Márquez with truly masterly pages, his poetry has not had the impact or the extensive readership it deserves but that, doubtless, it will have in time. Fernando Rendón is sure of himself but not of his words, humble and sanely distrustful in his poetry, going in it nimbly from the transcendental to the ironic, from an open denunciation of the perversity in man to a fierce faith in the future. Lucía Estrada is a promise that is no longer so, because if today she decided not to write any more, what she has already written would survive. Her voice, though still developing, is firm and exceptional, a clear contrast to the mediocrity of almost all young Colombian poets, especially young women poets.
It is probable that in a rigorous history of Latin American poetry countries such as Chile, Argentina, Peru, Venezuela, Cuba and Mexico would be greatly ‘privileged’ for several reasons. In those countries there were true movements of advance and rupture whose impact, one can say, went beyond the local borders, something that did not happen in other countries such as Colombia, Bolivia, Ecuador, Panama and almost all of the Central American region.
The ‘great’ names from the latter countries have been more islands than anything else (Rubén Darío in Nicaragua, José Asunción Silva and Leon de Greiff in Colombia). However, and as we have said on this site before, Latin America’s literature in general – and its poetry in particular – has become less and less national, although certain features are associated with local idiosyncrasies and histories. The absence of ‘movements’, in Colombia’s specific case, does not imply the absence of original poetic voices. To be clear about it, we must distinguish between the existence of movements and of generations: in Colombia, as in any other country, there are fairly distinct generations, which are not necessarily movements. One could say that the Nadaísmo – Colombia’s own ‘beat’ movement was an exception, but it was a movement that did not go very far: it did not manage to be an aesthetic, social, or much less a political revolution, but its impact on national culture is still felt four decades later, to the point that such a lucid and critical reader as the poet Samuel Jaramillo can talk about a ‘before and after’ in Colombian poetry, with Nadaísmo as the dividing line.
But Colombia has poets that in the domain of the language cannot be ignored: those already mentioned, Silva and de Greiff, and Porfirio Barba Jacob, Jorge Gaitán Durán and Aurelio Arturo, and – among those whose names are not preceded by an ominous black cross and who we wish were many more – Juan Manuel Roca, Alvaro Mutis and Jaime Jaramillo Escobar.
The situation of Colombian poetry is strange: the country has the most massive poetry festival in the world, that of Medellín; the quantity of poetry books that are published (and that fortunately in many cases are not sold) makes the Canadian woods tremble; almost every passerby is convinced that he is a poet; some of our presidents have been poets or eminent grammarians; however . . .
There are works, voices and talents that encourage trust in our survival, including those of the poets that we now present. Whereas the poet, novelist, critic and painter Héctor Rojas Herazo’ novels anticipated García Márquez with truly masterly pages, his poetry has not had the impact or the extensive readership it deserves but that, doubtless, it will have in time. Fernando Rendón is sure of himself but not of his words, humble and sanely distrustful in his poetry, going in it nimbly from the transcendental to the ironic, from an open denunciation of the perversity in man to a fierce faith in the future. Lucía Estrada is a promise that is no longer so, because if today she decided not to write any more, what she has already written would survive. Her voice, though still developing, is firm and exceptional, a clear contrast to the mediocrity of almost all young Colombian poets, especially young women poets.
© Gabriel Jaime Franco
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