Selected Poems

by César Vallejo, Michael Smith (Translator), Valentino Giannuzzi (Translator)

César Vallejo is one the greatest poets of the twentieth century. His first publication, in his native Peru, was a book called "The Black Heralds," a fine collection of lyric poems in a largely symbolist style. This was followed by the book by which he is best known, "Trilce" (1922), which has become one of the monuments of the Hispanic 'vanguardia'. After "Trilce," now resident in Europe, Vallejo wrote stories, essays, a novel, and several plays, but did not collect any of his subsequent poems for book publication. Since his death, these poems have usually been referred to as the "Poemas humanos" after the title of one of the posthumous volumes. This Selected Poems draws on both of the volumes published by Shearsman Books in 2005: "Trilce" and the "Complete Later Poems 1923-1938," and adds to this selection a group of early poems from "The Black Heralds," thus giving an overview of the author's career and a sample of the whole range of his remarkable work. The translations are by the prize-winning Irish poet-translator, Michael Smith, and the Peruvian scholar, Valentino Gianuzzi.

Genres: Poetry, Latin American Literature

136 pages, Paperback

First published May 9, 1942

About the author

César Abraham Vallejo Mendoza was a Peruvian poet. Although he published only three books of poetry during his lifetime, he is considered one of the great poetic innovators of the 20th century. Always a step ahead of the literary currents, each of his books was distinct from the others and, in it's own sense, revolutionary. Clayton Eshleman and José Rubia Barcia's translation of "The Complete Posthumous Poetry of César Vallejo" won the National Book Award for translation in 1979.

Reviews

[Teresa · Rating 3 out of 5]

Esta antologia contém os poemas dos livros Os Arautos Negros e Trilce e também dois grupos de poemas póstumos.
Certamente será digna do máximo de estrelas, mas apenas de um leitor que consiga entender o seu significado. Algures no prólogo diz assim: "Em Trilce foram destruídas as pontes que possibilitam o acesso ao leitor habituado a ler livros de poemas: não já o sentido, ainda que difícil, de cada frase, de cada imagem, de cada estrofe, mas frases, imagens, estrofes que destroem a face do poema e de cujo total o leitor extrairá um conhecimento do caos..." Não consegui aceder...talvez um dia volte a tentar...
Perdi-me com Trilce,mas gostei muito dos poemas do livro Os Arautos Negros, especialmente deste:

"Há pancadas tão fortes na vida... Eu sei lá!
Pancadas como do ódio de Deus; como se sob elas
a ressaca de todo o sofrimento
estagnasse na alma... Eu sei lá!

Poucas; mas acontecem... Abrem leivas escuras
no rosto mais duro e no dorso mais forte.
Serão talvez os potros de átilas selvagens;
ou os arautos negros que nos envia a Morte.

São as profundas quedas dos Cristos da nossa alma,
de uma fé adorável que o Destino blasfema.
Tais pancadas sangrentas são as crepitações
de um pão que na porta do forno se nos queima.

E o homem... Pobre... Pobre! Volta os olhos, como
quando sobre o seu ombro uma palmada o vem chamar;
volta seus olhos loucos, e todo o já vivido
como um charco de culpa estagna em seu olhar.

Há pancadas na vida tão fortes... Eu sei lá!"

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Last night the April grain surrendered
Before the weaponless Mays of my youth;
The hysterical marbles of her kiss found me
Dead; and in a breath of love I caged them.

Strange, docile wheat. Her eyes besieged me
On an afternoon of amaranth which recited a song
To her songs; and last night amid the toasting
The two tongues of her parched breasts spoke to me.

Poor wheatfield, poor in weapons, its poor creamcolored
Sails run up the mast in the salty
Foam of a dead sea. Conqueror and Conquered.

She grew thoughtful, garnet and heavy-eyed.
I left at dawn. And from that combat
By night two enslaved serpents entered my life.

[Cata Joseph · Rating 5 out of 5]

¡Qué exquisito es releer a Vallejo!

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

From The Black Messengers

In life there are blows so heavy. "I don't know."
Blows like God's hatred; as if before them
The undertow of all that is suffered
Should be dammed up in the soul. "I don't know."

There are few; but they exist. Dark chasms
Open in the boldest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps they shall be the steeds of barbaric Attilas
Or the black messengers that death sense us.

They are the profound backslidings of Christs of the soul
From an adorable faith, blasphemed by destiny.
These bloody blows are the cracklings
Of some bread that we have burned in the door of the oven.

And man. Wretch! Wretch! He turns his eyes,
As if behind our backs a clap of hands summons us;
He turns mad eyes and all that has been lived
Is dammed up like a puddle of blame in his look.

In life there are blows so heavy. "I don't know."

- The Black Messengers, pg. 11

* * *

Last night the April grain surrendered
Before the weaponless Mays of my youth;
The hysterical marbles of her kiss found me
Dead; and in a breath of love I caged them.

Strange, docile wheat. Her eyes besieged me
On an afternoon of amaranth which recited a song
To her songs; and last night amid the toasting
The two tongues of her parches breasts spoke to me.

Poor wheatfield, poor in weapons, its poor creamcoloured
Sails run up the mast in the salty
Foam of a dead sea. Conqueror and conquered.

She grew thoughtful, garnet and heavy-eyed.
I left at dawn. And from that combat
By night two enslaved serpents entered my life.

- Capitulation, pg. 23

From Trilce...

This torrent frighten me,
Pleasant memory, strong sir, implacable
Cruel sweetness. It frightens me.
This house makes me feel fine, fine
Place for this not knowing where you are.

Let's not go in. I am afraid of this opportunity
To whirl for minutes on flying bridges,
I come no further, sweet sir,
Valiant memory, sad
Singing skeleton.

What's this inside! He of this enchanted house
Provides me with deaths of quicksilver and seals
My pipes to dry reality
With lead.

This torrent which doesn't know where we're going
Frightens me, terrifies me.
Valiant memory, I come not further.
Whistle, sad blond skeleton, whistle.

- XXVII, pg. 43

* * *

I unfetter myself from the sea.
When the waters come to me.

Let us always go out. Let us taste
The stupendous song, the song already sung
With the lower lips of desire.
Oh prodigious maidenhood.
A breeze without salt goes by.

In the distance I smell the odour of marrow
Hearing the profound groping, the chase
Of the keys of surf.

And if we should dip our noses this way
In the absurd
We shall cover ourselves with the gold of having nothing,
And we would pollinate
The unborn wing of the night, sister
Of that orphan wing of day
Which trying to be a wing still isn't.

- XLV, pg. 53

From Human Poems...

Speaking of firewood, the fire silent?
Sweeping the ground, the fossil forgotten?
Reasoning,
My braid, my crown of flesh?
(Answer, beloved Hermenegildo, the brusque;
Ask, Luis the slow!)

On top, below with the size height -
Wood, behind the kingdom of fibers!
Isabel with a horizon entrance!
Far to the side, astute Atanacios!

The whole, the part!
Blindly I anoint my socks with light,
Risking the great peace of this danger
And my comets in thinking honey,
My body, in weeping honey.

Luis ask, Hermenegildo answer!
Below, above, beside, far off!
Isabel, fire, diplomas of the dead!
Horizon, Atanacios, the part, the whole!
Honey of honey, weeping in front!
Kingdom of wood,
Oblique cut on the line of the camel,
Fiber of my crown of flesh!

- Earthquake, pg. 65

* * *

I'll die in Paris in a shower of rain,
On a day I already remember.
I shall die in Paris - and I am not in a hurry -
Perhaps on a Thursday like today, in autumn.

It will be Thursday because today, Thursday, on which I prose
These verses, my arms begin to hurt me
And never like today do I turn,
With all my road, to see myself alone.

César Vallejo is dead, everybody beat him
Without his ever having done anything to them;
They beat him hard with a cudgel and hard

Likewise with a piece of rope; the witnesses
Are Thursdays and the bones of his arms,
Solitude, rain, the roads . . .

- Black Stone Upon a White Stone, pg. 83

From Spain, Take from Me This Cup...

A book lay beside his dead belt,
A book was sprouting from his dead body.
They raised the hero
And, corporeal and sad, his mouth entered our breath.
We were all sweating, dog tired,
As we travelled the moons were following us;
And the dead man, too, was sweating with sadness.

And a book, in the battle of Toledo,
A book, a book behind, a book above, was sprouting from the corpse.

Poetry of the purple cheek, between reciting it
And keeping it silent,
Poetry in the moral letter that accompanied
His heart.
The book remained and nothing more, since there are
No insects in the tomb,
And the air under the edge of his sleeve continued to grow moist
And to become gaseous, infinite.

We were all sweating, dog tired,
And the dead man, too, was sweating with sadness.
And a book, I saw it, feeling it,
A book behind, a book above,
Sprouting from the violent corpse

- Little Responsory for a Republican Hero, pg. 113

* * *

At the end of the battle,
When the fighter was dead, a man came toward him
And said to him "Do not die, I love you do!"
But the corpse, alas, went on dying!

Then two approached him and repeated it,
"Do not leave us! Courage! Come back to life!"
But the corpse, alas, went on dying.

Then twenty came, a hundred, a thousand, five hundred thousand,
Clamouring, "So much love and nothing can be done about death!"
But the corpse, alas, went on dying.

Millions of individuals surrounded him,
With a common entreaty, "Stay with us, brother!"
But the corpse, alas, went on dying.

Then all the men of the earth
Surrounded him; the corpse looked at them sadly, full of emotion;
Sat up slowly,
Embraced the first man; and began to walk . . .

- Masses, pg. 117

[Rizbo · Rating 2 out of 5]

horrible translation

[Natasha Castillo · Rating 4 out of 5]

Quedé encantada con muchos versos, entre metáforas, política, filosofía y mucha reflexión.

[Stephen · Rating 4 out of 5]

Great poems, some clumsy translation choices

[Santiago Montoya D. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sí, creo que hay mejores formas de adentrarse a la poesía y literatura. Llevo mucho tiempo teniéndole cierto miedo a los libros, pues ya de por sí suelo sentir que se me escapan las cosas y no comprendo exactamente la pintura completa. Leer poesía es ésto multiplicado por 235, sobre todo con este simbolismo, que no busca esa apelación estética que tanto valoro.
A la hora de escuchar a literatos e intelectuales, es como si siempre se estuvieran haciendo trizas entre ellos y tuvieran una guerra con todo lo demás. Algunos de estos autores tan reconocidos son patéticos a la vista de cierto grupo, que a la vez otro grupo mira desde arriba. No existe una verdad, ¿o sí? Con lo poco que entiendo de política toda esta situación de España, su guerra civil, que sí el fascismo y el marxismo, que si España, la madre de Hispanoamérica, se cruzan muchas cosas, ¡Y hay más temáticas dentro del libro!

Esto es un recopilatorio y es lo primero que realmente leo de poesía y lo primero que leo de Vallejo y me atrae, siento su impacto e importancia, por eso calificarlo es complicado. ¿Quién carajo soy yo para hablar de Vallejo? Si, por lo que comprendo, entender lo que quiere decir es absolutamente transparente para algunos, y yo que no capto una. A nivel estético y de lo que siento que logré percibir lo he disfrutado, como alternativa a lo que tengo acostumbrado; he hecho una lista de poemas a lo que deseo regresar y revisar. Personalmente me ha inspirado bastante a nivel de lírica y ya me veo referenciando al autor en temas de mi banda.

Obviamente hubieron tramos que se me hicieron pesados, con la religión y los términos con los que tengo aproximadamente cero familiaridad. Esta densidad es demasiado para mí en este punto en el que estoy, necesito cavar por otras zonas, donde la tierra esté más húmeda, pues soy un aficionado en esto del albañilaje.

Vallejo jugaba a ser Dios, en cierto modo, creando palabras y términos. Vi por ahí que “Trilce” viene de lo triste y lo dulce, la melancolía en otras palabras. Se me hace brillante y me enorgullece, por algún motivo.

[Mike · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5 stars. Poems infused with melancholy and heartache over the suffering of life. The early ones are grounded in concrete images – spiders, bread, the moon – even as they pursue complex meanings. The poems in the middle section veer more into abstraction in both image and theme, which is where Vallejo begins to lose me. The later selections from Spain, Take This Cup From Me, which I had already read in its entirety, are the strongest. Vallejo is able to focus his empathetic vision outward. Whereas the early poems in this collection were about the poet’s individual and personal suffering, these later poems portray the struggle of an entire people; yet Vallejo still retains a sense of the personal and the individual, but as seen through the eyes of the Spanish peasants. I enjoyed seeing these poems with fresh eyes as extensions – and the apex – of his evolution as a poet. Even better, these translations by H. R. Hays had a clarity that was slightly lacking in the collection of Vallejo’s poetry I read translated by Clayton Eshleman and José Rubia Barcia.

[Pablo Gradine · Rating 3 out of 5]

Esta antología recoge parte de Los heraldos negros, su primer libro, en donde el espíritu general es romántico o emula a poetas como Verlaine y sus sensaciones del "spleen" o la melancolía simbolista. También, se recogen poemas de Trilce, donde hay una mayor experimentación con el lenguaje y, por último, Poemas póstumos y humanos, donde se hallan la mayoría de sus composiciones cumbre, que sí alcanzan momentos de verdadera poesía.
También se recogen algunas composiciones de España, aparta de mí ese caliz. Poemas sobre la guerra, que continúan con el tono triste y donde también se pueden leer algunos buenos poemas.
En general, sus poemas me parecen irregulares y teñidos casi siempre por un sentimiento fatalista, lo cual no es obstáculo para que haya verdaderos momentos de poesía y algunas ideas muy originales, de mirada nueva.

[Mia M.P. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Me encanta la poesía de Vallejo porque es personal, íntima y honesta. Es un poeta lleno de imaginación para crear sus propios neologismos y adaptar nuevos conceptos a sentimientos tan antiguos como el dolor, la angustia y la desesperación humana. Sus poemas son intensos, uno puede sentir como Vallejo desnuda su alma en cada línea. En un mundo lleno de ilusionismo, la poesía de Vallejo es una bocanada de aire puro para los que buscan un encuentro real con las emociones.

[Gareth Reeves · Rating 2 out of 5]

This translation, by H. R. Hays, hasn't aged well; it often feels too much like a translation (unnatural) and, in some places, sounds like a (reasonably gifted) sixth-former trying his hand at poetry for the first time.

[Lucho Villegas · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dolor dolor dolor

[Kelly D. · Rating 2 out of 5]

Some interesting lines

[Richard Lopez Salgado · Rating 5 out of 5]

The greatest South American Poet that ever lived. I have read all of his work.

[Israel Aguirre · Rating 5 out of 5]

Gran poeta. Una forma tan extraordinaria de narrar poemas. Sus poesías parecen ser narradas por el mismos cada que los lees. Cesar Vallejo el gran poeta.

[Adriana · Rating 4 out of 5]

yo nací un día que Dios estuvo enfermo

[Leticia Supple · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a small, yet challenging, work of Vallejo's poetry. Which is why it took me 8 days to read.

I came to this volume by way of a mention about César Vallejo being one of the most important poets of the 20th century, in Alberto Manguel's A Reading Diary.

Challenging is a light word when it comes to Vallejo's more abstract works. I started to question my own ability to read poetry, in fact. I wondered if I was past being able to accept the works as legitimate, whether it was all fanciful bullshit, whether in fact Vallejo was having a lend.

Other poems were dirges of the most intense suffering, hard to read, depressive, anxious, hopeless.

Others were patriotic, familial, Catholic, Marxist.

Others simply commentary on the suffering of human life in age when money and machines is more highly prized than human life.

It's true that Vallejo's works are important. It's true that his work is art of the highest order, it's true that it will maybe cause you to hate every notion of poetry you've ever encountered when you see it here. Yet this is perhaps why his work is necessary.

And as for the accessible works here? They will make you weep, smile, and celebrate the power of a kindred humanity.

As with any good poetry, one reading is not enough. This volume has been a great entry to Vallejo's scope. If you choose to read it, make sure you leave all the explanatory notes until after you read the work. Otherwise it may colour your own personal interpretations of the works. Instead, I encourage you to do what I did and struggle on to your own understanding, and follow that with the readings and interpretations. Afterwards, your experience will be richer.

[Juan Nikolas · Rating 4 out of 5]

Versos cargados de simbolismo y melancolía que refleja la situación que se vivía a principios del siglo XX en Latinoamérica, que sirve de testimonio artístico por parte del autor.

[Chanti · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5/5