A Draft of Shadows

by Octavio Paz

A selection of recent poems by one of Mexico's leading writers is presented both in Spanish and in English translation

Genres: Poetry

Paperback

First published December 1, 1979

About the author

Octavio Paz Lozano was a Mexican writer, poet, and diplomat, and the winner of the 1982 Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the 1990 Nobel Prize for Literature ("for impassioned writing with wide horizons, characterized by sensuous intelligence and humanistic integrity.")

Reviews

[Jon Nakapalau · Rating 5 out of 5]

Sharp and cool - liberating, yet tinged with the transitory nature of forms; the trap of illusion is removed to see the wound that the soul wants healed. One of my favorite poems: one of the people I wish I could have asked 'what does it all really mean' - sure his answer would have been a piece of the puzzle I can't seem to find.

[Edita · Rating 3 out of 5]

The woman who is my woman
and I
Ask you for nothing, nothing
That comes from the other world:
Only
The light on the sea,
The barefoot light on the sleeping land and sea.
*
Time
stretched to dry on the rooftops
[...]

I am walking back
back to what I left
or to what left me
Memory
[...]

I have gone back to where I began
Did I win or lose?

[...]

if all is lost
I walk toward myself

[...]
*
I walk without moving foward
We never arrive
Never reach where we are
Not the past
the present is untouchable


I am not at the crossroads:
to choose
is to go wrong.
I am
in the middle of this phrase.
Where will it take me?

[R.L.S.D · Rating 4 out of 5]

Poeta de un modernismo unicamente Mexicano - psicológico e indivíduo y desgraciadamente cosmopolitano en la manera de la nobleza Latina. Entroniza una metafísica de duda, pero a la vez celebra la preeminencia la palabra. Es con una cierta nostalgia - ¿o dulce o amarga? no se - que escucho el ritmo de Paz. Reconozco su ritmo, porque es el ritmo del Español mas bello, creado por y creando a la cultura de mi niñez.

No sé si vale la pena leerlo en Inglés - frases como "where language recants" no se acercan a "donde el lenguaje se desdice." Lo bello de su poecía no tiene que ver con el sentido, sino con Palabra - en la traducción se pierdan esas palabras y se cambian por otras. En distintos idiomas, sus poemas también son seres distintos.

[Robert Beveridge · Rating 5 out of 5]

Octavio Paz, A Draft of Shadows (New Directions, 1979)

I am kicking myself for having had this book in my collection for long enough that I don't remember buying it and not getting around to it until now. Paz is the most exciting poet I've run across since discovering the work of Ira Sadoff five years ago. His work, more than capably translated here by Eliot Weinberger (with a few translations from others thrown in for good measure), is a perfect blend of the art and craft of poetry. It is also the finest overtly political work I have read since Aime Cesaire last put pen to paper. Paz understands that if the poetry is good enough, the message of the poetry will come out on its own, something nine hundred ninety-nine out of every thousand political poets never grasp. Those who would dispute it need only read the title poem here and hold it up against the best works by inferior political poets. The difference is stunning, and obvious.

When Paz won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1990, the committee stated that his writing was characterized by "sensuous intelligence and humanistic integrity." Indeed. This is poetry the way it's meant to be. **** 1/2

[Kerri Anne · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ending the year with poetry is one of my favorite ways to end the year. That this collection is filled with so many lines centered on reflection, movement, moons, truth, and water made it (a nice literary connection to the past year for me, yes! and) an apt pairing for reflections ahead of starting a new year and a new decade. I take no credit for choosing it; it chose me today. (Poetry magic strikes again!)

The sound of some of these poems! Such tangible music and memorable rhythm.

[Five stars for being exactly what I needed to read this New Year's Eve.]

[Joe · Rating 5 out of 5]

Brilliant. The title poem of this volume just blew me away. Everything else wasn't too shabby either. I'll describe his style as exquisitely sparse, almost simple. He mixes themes of politics, love, nostalgia, regret, science, philosophy - into a zen view of his world that is both breathtaking and profound. Each line touches the soul. Highly, highly recommended. Now, onto Neruda!

[Eli · Rating 4 out of 5]

My most intense reading of Paz was done at the same time as that of Garcia Lorca. They aren´t the same at all, but something in the lines of their poems creates similarities that link them together in my mind. Beautiful lines, full of interpretation and various shades. One of my favorites.

[Michael · Rating 5 out of 5]

poetry. that is a rare thing.

[Russ · Rating 4 out of 5]

When a poet takes form and makes it stand up and sparkle you pay attention. Never mentioned as a great poet, his surreal nature is astounding

[Kim · Rating 5 out of 5]

Contains my favorite poem of all time, "Con los Ojos Cerradaos." Probably that which influences my song writing the most: What would Octavio Paz do?

[Scott Stambler · Rating 5 out of 5]

what can you say? one of the best writers, poets, thinkers of all time.

[Mills College Library]

861 P3483d 1979

[James · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am still alive.
The room is covered with moon.
Woman:
fountain in the night.
I am bound to her quiet flowing.

[Greg · Rating 4 out of 5]

This bilingual translation of Nobel Prize winner Octavio Paz is a wonderful read. As typical of Paz, the imagery is difficult. Paz is enraptured by the mythic and magical. Drawing from a variety of cultural traditions, his poems are not quickly or easily read. They are spare in their words, at times profound, and heavily symbolic, magical, and real. I know of no poet like him. A great example comes from the poem, San Ildefonso nocturne”

In my window night
invents another night,
another space:
carnival convulsed
in a square yard of blackness.
Momentary
confederations of fire,
nomadic geometries,
errant numbers.
From yellow to green to red,
the spiral unwinds.
Window:
magnetic plate of calls and answers,
high-voltage calligraphy,
false heaven/hell of industry
on the changing skin of the moment.

Deciphering the meaning behind such an introduction to a poem takes time and reflection. The title poem contains similar, brilliant imagery:

desire turns us into ghosts.
We are vines of air on trees of wind,
a cape of flames
invented and devoured by flame.
The crack in the tree trunk:
sex, seal, serpentine passage
closed to the sun and to my eyes,
open to the ants.

That crack was the portico
of the furthest reaches of the seen and thought:
—there, inside, tides are green,
blood is green, fire green,
green stars burn in the black grass:
the green music of elytra
in the fig tree's pristine night;
—there, inside, fingertips are eyes,
to touch is to see, glances touch,
eyes hear smells;
—there, inside is outside,
it is everywhere and nowhere,
things are themselves and others,
imprisoned in an icosahedron
there is a music weaver beetle
and another insect unweaving
the syllogisms the spider weaves,
hanging from the threads of the moon;
—there, inside, space
is an open hand, a mind
that thinks shapes, not ideas,
shapes that breathe, walk, speak, transform
and silently evaporate;
—there, inside, land of woven echoes,
a slow cascade of light drops
between the lips of the crannies:
light is water; water, diaphanous time
where eyes wash their images;
—there, inside, cables of desire

I may be in the minority, but I actually prefer Paz when he is at his most direct. My favorite lines in the entire volume are the following.

“Writing”

I draw these letters
As the day draws its images
And blows over them
And does not return

“Light is time reflecting on time.” – from “Sight, touch”

From “Preparatory exercise”

Reality
is always at the edge of the abyss,
hung from the thread of a thought.
I think I am not thinking.
I muddle
with the air that walks through the corridor.
The air without face, without name.

This is a wonderful volume of poetry. I wish I was able to read Paz in his original Spanish.

See my other reviews here!

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mirror of words: where was I?
My words watch me from the puddle
of my memory. Syllables of water
shine in a grove of reflections,
stranded clouds, bubbles above a bottom
that changes from gold to rust.
Rippling shadows, flashes, echoes,
the writing not of signs, but of murmurs.
My eyes are thirsty. The puddle is Stoic:
the water is for reading, not drinking.
In the sun of the high plains the puddles evaporate.
Only some faithless dust remains,
and a few intestate relics.
Where was I?

[Scott Weyandt · Rating 5 out of 5]

“the poem
is air that sculpts itself and dissolves,
a fleeting allegory of true names.
At times the page breathes:
the swarm of signs, the errant
Republics of sounds and senses”

“A third state:
being without being, empty plenitude”

[Arun Singh · Rating 5 out of 5]

Octavio Paz is 'hung from the cage of time' and that is the most amazing thing. His poems are like a 'pause' which stops you and asks some very inherent questions.

[Steph · Rating 2 out of 5]

Let me preface this by saying I’m not the biggest fan of poetry, so I’m aware that my rating is not credible. I’ll probably reread this in the future