Cesar Vallejo: The complete posthumous poetry

by César Vallejo

English, Spanish (translation)

Genres: Poetry, Latin American, Unfinished

339 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1978

Reviews

[Edita · Rating 3 out of 5]

Trilce

There is a spot that I am sure of,
incredibly, in this world,
where we will never arrive.

Where, even if our foot
stepped on it for an instant
it will be, truly, as if we were not there.

It is that place that one sees
at every moment in this life,
while walking, walking in single file.

This side of myself and of
my pair of yolks, I have glimpsed it
always distant from our destinations .

It does not matter if you went on foot
or out of sheer sentiment on horseback,
since not even the stamps could reach it.

The tea color horizon
is dying to colonize it
for its great Any part.

But the spot that I am sure of,
incredibly, in this world,
strives to equal its opposites.

"Close that door which
is ajar in the entrails
of that mirror. " "This one?" "No; its sister. "

It ca n not be closed . One can
never arrive at that place
w here the door-latches act unbound .
Such is the spot that I am sure of.

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Oh human fields!
Solar and nutritious absence of the sea,
and oceanic feeling for everything!
Oh climates found inside gold, ready!
Oh intellectual field of a cordillera,
with religion, with fields, with baby ducks!
Pachyderms in prose while passing
and in poetry while halting!
Rodents which look with judicial feeling all around!
Oh my life's patrionic asses!
Vicuna, national and graceful descendent of my ape!
Oh light which is hardly a mirror away from the shadow,
which is life with a period and, with a line, dust
and that is why I revere it, climbing through the idea to my skeleton!

* * * *

It is hot, I feel cold,
sister Envy!
Lions lick my shadow
and the mouse bites my name,
mother soul mine!

To the pit's edge I go,
brother-in-law Vice!
The caterpillar plays its voice,
and the voice plays its caterpillar,
father body mine!

My love is facing me,
granddaughter Dove!
On its knees, my terror
and on its head, my anguish,
mother soul mine!

Until a day without two,
wife Tomb,
my ultimate iron makes the sound
of a sleeping viper,
father body mine . . . !

* * * *

I want to write but out comes foam,
I want to say so much and I freeze,
there is no spoken cipher which is not a sum,
there is no written pyramid, without a core.

I want to write, but I feel like a puma,
I want to laurel myself, but I stew in onions.
There is no spoken coughv, which doesn't end in mist,
there is no god nor son of god, without unfolding.

Let's go, then, through this, and eat grass,
the flesh of sobbing, the fruit of groaning,
our melancholy soul preserved in jam.

Let's go! Let's go! I'm wounded,
let's go drink that already drunk,
let's go, raven, and fecundate your rook.

* * * *

Let the millionaire go naked, stark naked!
Disgrace for whoever builds his death bed with treasures!
A world for whoever greets;
an armchair for whoever sows in the sky;
tears for whoever finishes what he does, keeping the beginnings,
let the spur-wearer walk;
let the wall crumble on which another wall is not growing;
let the misrable man have all his misery,
bread, for whoever laughs;
let the triumphs lose and the doctors die;
let milk be in our blood;
let a candle be added to the sun,
eight hundred to twenty;
let eternity pass under the bridges!
Scorn for whoever puts on clothes,
let our feet be crowded with hands, be fit in their size;
let my person sit nexrt to me!
To cry have a fit in the womb,
grace for whoever sees air in the air,
many years of nail for the hammer stroke;
let the naked man be stripped naked,
let the cape put on pants,
let the copper gleam at the expence of its plates,
magesty for whoever falls from the the clay to the universe,
let the mouths weep, let the glances groan,
let us stop the steel from enduring,
thread for the portable horizons,
twelve cities for the stone path,
a sphere for whoever plays with his shadow,
a day made of an hour, for married people;
a mother at the plow in praise of soil,
let the liquids be sealed with two seals,
let the mouthfull call the roll,
let the descendents be,
let the quail be,
let the poplar and the tree have their race;
let the sea, contrary to the circle, defeat her son
and the crying, grey hair;
leave the asps alone, gentle sirs,
furrow your flame with the seven logs,
live,
let the height be raised,
let the deepness descend deeper,
let the wave drive its impulse walking,
let the vault's truce be a success!

[Vladimir · Rating 4 out of 5]

I discovered Vallejo quite late but reading a single poem was enough to attract me to his poetry. Pity that I don't speak Spanish, still English translation was really good. The quality of the text vary as in any "complete" collection. Although written nearly 100 years ago, dark and profound, Vallejo's poetry is still fresh and original. Here is an excerpt:

"How long has anesthesia, as man call it, lasted? Science of God, Theodicy! if I am forced to live under such conditions, totally anesthetized, my sensitivity turned outside in! O doctors of the salts, men of the essences, fellowmen of the bases! I beg to be left with my tumor of consciousness, with my sensitive leprosy, no matter what happens, even though I may die! Allow me to feel pain. if you wish but leave me aroused from the sleep, with all universe embedded, even if by force in my dusty fever."

And my favorite poem:

For several days, I have felt an exuberant, political need
to love, to kiss affection on its two cheeks,
and I have felt from afar a demonstrative
desire, another desire to love, willingly or by force,
whoever hates me, whoever rips up his paper, a little boy,
the woman who cries for the man who was crying,
the king of wine, the slave of water,
whoever hid in his wrath,
whoever sweats, whoever passes, whoever shakes his person in my soul.
And I want, therefore, to adjust
the braid of whoever talks to me; the hair of the soldier;
the light of the great one; the greatness of the little one.
I want to iron directly
a handkerchief for whoever is unable to cry
and, when I am sad or happiness hurts me,
to mend the children and the geniuses.
I want to help the good one become a little bit bad
and I badly need to be seated
on the right hand of the left-handed, and to respond to the mute,
trying to be useful to him
as I can, and also I want very much
to wash the lame man’s foot,
and to help the nearby one-eyed man sleep.
Ah love, this one my own, this one the world’s,
interhuman and parochial, maturely aged!
It comes perfectly timed,
from the foundation, from the public groin,
and, coming from afar, makes me wantto kiss
the singer’s muffler,
and whoever suffers to kiss him on his frying pan,
the deaf man on his cranial murmur;
whoever gives me what I forgot in my breast,
on his Dante, on his Chaplin, on his shoulders.
I want, finally,
when I’m at the celebrated edge of violence
or my heart full of chest, I would like
to help whoever smiles laugh,
to put a little bird right on the evil man’s cape,
to take care of the sick, annoying them,
to buy from the vendor
to help the killer kill, a terrible thing
and I would like to be kind to myself
in everything.

[Desca Ang · Rating 4 out of 5]

This review is taken from my IG account @descanto

I have to admit that I am not at my best these days. I am struggling with anxiety without knowing the reasons why. I also experience eating and sleeping disorder. Add the boredom from working from home and the LDR shit with Pak M have turned these days into not-so-great gloomy days. I started to realise why Dickinson keeps saying, "why does it take so long for me to die?" Or why Alda Merini keeps saying, "ho bisogno di silenzio. Ho gia parlato tanto...- I need the silence. I have talked too much, " In their poems. It's just prolly a sign of the right momento to step and retrace back who we are.

The Complete Posthumous Poetry does not only rise Vallejo's critic to the social injustice but also rises the awareness about the war, the new hope, and the values of humanity. Yet the poems do speak differently to me. I can sense the desperation in most of those poems. Yet there is also a glimpse of hope about life that he wants to deliver.

Ah, have you ever gone through poems and you became more and more depressed like when I read Vallejo's?

[Kevin · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm convinced that Vallejo will one day be considered the greatest poet of the 20th century. He is said to have anticipated surrealism. But he infused it with playfulness, muscular lyricism, and unimaginable kindness. I prefer Eshleman's translations, even if they are less accessible than others.

[Elizabeth · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read this book in 1979 or 1980, while taking a class from translator Clayton Eshleman. The poetry is difficult, tortured, haunting. Lines from it still float up in my memory -- tender and agonized.
"The incredible amount of money it takes to be poor."
"The anger of the poor / has one oil against two vinegars."
"And I want, therefore, to adjust the hair of whoever talks to me, the hair of the soldier..."

[Kelli · Rating 5 out of 5]

Vallejo is an intuitive man with heart. He feels, senses, observes, and captures it all in words. His keen eye and articulate soul unite in his poetry. He translates moments and experiences of life into verse, which create pictures in the mind of this reader. Thus, reading this volume, with every turn of the page, was like watching a slideshow or short video. Vallejo's posthumous poetry provided an outstanding read and experience. May his words live on.

[Amanda · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm not crazy about the translation--it's highly rated but I feel it sometimes renders Vallejo more difficult than necessary. I've read other translators of Vallejo's poems that seemed to flow better. Additionally, there are several typos in the text that should have been easily caught. However, Vallejo's poetry still shines through despite the quibbles, so it's definitely worth a read.

[Sylvia · Rating 5 out of 5]

Volver a Vallejo después de 10 años.
Leer a Vallejo con más de treinta años de edad.
Después de otras vidas, otras lecturas, después de ser otra.
Leer a Vallejo y saber que " Ya va a venir el día;/ la mañana, la mar, el meteoro..."

[Blurp · Rating 5 out of 5]

A delight and a bible for how to better understand the limitless capacity of the human spirit. Software engineers and lawyers (the dual two-headed donkeysmen of the apocalypse): don't read, your mother's underpants aren't in there.

[Stosch · Rating 4 out of 5]

pretty good, 1 poem is amazing. looking forward to The Black Heralds. posthumous books usually arent that great. tortured soul poetry. worth a read, its different.

[Tara Daly · Rating 5 out of 5]

Not only an excellent translation into English but a beautifully handsome book to hold. Vallejo is one of the true greats, not only in Peru, but internationally.

[Sarah · Rating 5 out of 5]

Unbelievable poetry from a Peruvian writer. Anguished and enigmatic and yet completely clear.

[Vogisland · Rating 5 out of 5]

Amazing book. After Residencia en la Tierra, I was not looking forward to he Spanish Civil War poems that close this book, but these were much better.

[Amy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Human and Artful - perfectly balanced.