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Absolute Solitude: Selected Poems
In the first comprehensive selection and translation of Dulce María Loynaz's poetry, James O'Connor invites us to hear the haunting voice of Cuba's celebrated poet, whom the Nobel Laureate Juan Ramón Jiménez terms in his Foreword, "archaic and new...tender, weightless, rich in abandon." Widely published in Spain during the 1950s, Loynaz's poetry was almost forgotten in Cuba after the Revolution. International recognition came to her at the age of ninety she was living in seclusion in Havana when the Royal Spanish Academy awarded her the 1992 Cervantes Prize, the highest literary accolade in the Spanish language. The first English publication of her work, Absolute Solitude contains a selection of poems from each of Loynaz's books, including the acclaimed prose poems from Poems with No Names , a selection of posthumously published work.
266 pages, Paperback
First published September 8, 2015
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About the author
Dulce María Loynaz
48 books50 followersDulce María Loynaz (December 10, 1902 - April 27, 1997) Born in Cuba. Daughter of the famous General Enrique Loynaz del Castillo, a hero of the Cuban Liberation Army and author of Cuban National Anthem lyrics; and sister of poet Enrique Loynaz Muñoz. Dulce María was born in Havana City, on December 10, 1902, in a family of great sensibility towards artistic and cultural manifestations and deep patriotic feelings, home schooled, she grew up in a familiar environment highly propitious for poetry.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 58 reviews
July 6, 2022
4,5*
Acariciarei o ar e sorrirei à sombra para o caso de na sombra me olhares e no ar me beijares.
Gosto de tudo nesta edição da Flâneur: da capa tão alusiva ao chiaroscuro da poesia, do formato quase quadrado do livro e da tradução suave.
Há algo de muito subtil e de muito fundo em olhar atrás o caminho andado... O caminho onde, sem deixar pegadas, se deixou a vida inteira.
A poesia de Dulce María Loynaz é um acto de pura entrega ao ser amado e de anulação de si mesma.
Hei-de adaptar-me a ti como o rio ao seu leito, como o mar à sua praia, como a espada à sua bainha.
Hei-de correr em ti, hei-de cantar em ti, hei-de guardar-me em ti agora e para sempre.
Fora de há-de sobrar-me o mundo, como sobra ao rio o ar, ao mar a terra, à espada a mesa de banquete.
Dentro de ti não há-de faltar-me lama branda para a minha corrente, perfil de vento para as minhas ondas, conta e repouso para o meu aço.
Dentro de ti está tudo; fora de ti não há nada.
Tudo quanto és está no lugar a que pertence; tudo quanto não sejas tu me há-de ser vão.
Em ti caibo, sou feita à tua medida; mas se algo em mim houver em falta, tratarei de crescer...Se algo em mim a mais houver, tratarei de o amputar.
Diz Manuel Alberto Vieira no prefácio que esta obra “será objecto estranho a quem não aceder a transpor a barreira que domesticou para amortecer o choque” e é verdade que de início me deixaram estupefacta e quase incomodada os arroubos de paixão, a exuberância do sofrimento e a renúncia ao amor-próprio, num abandono e desespero que não via desde Florbela Espanca.
Com colares de lágrimas adornaste o meu peito.
Com pétalas de sangue ataviaste o meu vestido.
E porque sou mais bela em veste de sofrimento, ou julgar-me-ás mais tua quando móis a minha carne e a minha alma nos teus moinhos que não param nunca?
Tão enterrada tenho a doçura que necessitas de me sarjar para a encontrares?
E porque queres tu a minha doçura, se todos os favos se te abrem e todo o mel é teu antes que a abelha o extraia da sua flor!
Estranho amante, tu, que entre as cordilheiras estreladas ainda reclama o amor da leprosa, ainda teima alimentar-se da mesma lama triste que em tempos lhe escapou por entre os dedos.
Até na tendência de ambas as poetisas para a morbidez encontro pontos de contacto.
Como na terra se revolvem e confundem os ossos de todos, assim o bom e o mau vão rolando misturados no fundo da minha vida.
~~~~~~~~
Para que não vejas as rosas que fazes crescer, cubro o meu corpo de cinzas... De cinzas pareço toda, hirta e parda ao longe; mas, ainda assim, quando passares perto, tremo receosa de que me denuncie o jardim, a sufocada fragrância.
Em “Jardim de Outono” abundam os lírios, as estrelas, os etéreos seres alados, mas também, por contraste, a lama, os seixos e o peso da solidão.
Muitas coisas me deram no mundo: é só minha a pura solidão.
Acariciarei o ar e sorrirei à sombra para o caso de na sombra me olhares e no ar me beijares.
Gosto de tudo nesta edição da Flâneur: da capa tão alusiva ao chiaroscuro da poesia, do formato quase quadrado do livro e da tradução suave.
Há algo de muito subtil e de muito fundo em olhar atrás o caminho andado... O caminho onde, sem deixar pegadas, se deixou a vida inteira.
A poesia de Dulce María Loynaz é um acto de pura entrega ao ser amado e de anulação de si mesma.
Hei-de adaptar-me a ti como o rio ao seu leito, como o mar à sua praia, como a espada à sua bainha.
Hei-de correr em ti, hei-de cantar em ti, hei-de guardar-me em ti agora e para sempre.
Fora de há-de sobrar-me o mundo, como sobra ao rio o ar, ao mar a terra, à espada a mesa de banquete.
Dentro de ti não há-de faltar-me lama branda para a minha corrente, perfil de vento para as minhas ondas, conta e repouso para o meu aço.
Dentro de ti está tudo; fora de ti não há nada.
Tudo quanto és está no lugar a que pertence; tudo quanto não sejas tu me há-de ser vão.
Em ti caibo, sou feita à tua medida; mas se algo em mim houver em falta, tratarei de crescer...Se algo em mim a mais houver, tratarei de o amputar.
Diz Manuel Alberto Vieira no prefácio que esta obra “será objecto estranho a quem não aceder a transpor a barreira que domesticou para amortecer o choque” e é verdade que de início me deixaram estupefacta e quase incomodada os arroubos de paixão, a exuberância do sofrimento e a renúncia ao amor-próprio, num abandono e desespero que não via desde Florbela Espanca.
Com colares de lágrimas adornaste o meu peito.
Com pétalas de sangue ataviaste o meu vestido.
E porque sou mais bela em veste de sofrimento, ou julgar-me-ás mais tua quando móis a minha carne e a minha alma nos teus moinhos que não param nunca?
Tão enterrada tenho a doçura que necessitas de me sarjar para a encontrares?
E porque queres tu a minha doçura, se todos os favos se te abrem e todo o mel é teu antes que a abelha o extraia da sua flor!
Estranho amante, tu, que entre as cordilheiras estreladas ainda reclama o amor da leprosa, ainda teima alimentar-se da mesma lama triste que em tempos lhe escapou por entre os dedos.
Até na tendência de ambas as poetisas para a morbidez encontro pontos de contacto.
Como na terra se revolvem e confundem os ossos de todos, assim o bom e o mau vão rolando misturados no fundo da minha vida.
~~~~~~~~
Para que não vejas as rosas que fazes crescer, cubro o meu corpo de cinzas... De cinzas pareço toda, hirta e parda ao longe; mas, ainda assim, quando passares perto, tremo receosa de que me denuncie o jardim, a sufocada fragrância.
Em “Jardim de Outono” abundam os lírios, as estrelas, os etéreos seres alados, mas também, por contraste, a lama, os seixos e o peso da solidão.
Muitas coisas me deram no mundo: é só minha a pura solidão.
October 2, 2024
A poesia outonal da cubana Dulce María Loynaz arrebatou-me.
February 9, 2017
This is a beautiful book of poetry published by Archipelago Press. One section of the collection ("Poems without Names") was originally published (in Spanish) in 1953, while "Autumn Melancholy" was published posthumously in 1997. This is the first translated publication of her work. Reading this volume, we experience the poet in bilingual prose poems (they are printed with Spanish on the left and English on the right, which I enjoyed since I speak marginal Spanish.)
A few excerpts from "Poems without Names," the central collection.
"The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude." (VII)
"Muchas cosas me dieron en el mundo: sólo es mía la pura soledad."
"The moon through the disheveled banana trees has an infinite sadness tonight.
It's as if the word adios, which nobody said, were written in the air, as if a child yet to be born had died.
We could walk until morning and never get anywhere or we could stay right here and tomorrow would never come.
But nobody goes and nobody remains. Only the banana trees are alive tonight, which might be the ghost of a night that died centuries ago.
I alone have felt the chill of the moon in my breasts. I alone have felt the rustle of fallen leaves in my eyes." (CIV)
Overall, I was feeling a little sad for feminism when I read these poems. There is a theme of longing, a willingness to form herself into any shape, or to be as silent or small as possible, if only he will return, if only he will love her, if only he will allow her in his life.
"The great sea moves in endless desperation. The high tide's dissolving foam barely reaches the line I have drawn in the sand. I have my own bitterness, my own sea, and it flows soundlessly in a painful turbulence through which it barely manages to look at life as two or three tears trail down my cheek." (CXIII)
There are some beautiful descriptions about nature, which helps to remind us that the poet did remain in Cuba during the revolution, but without attention or publication from the 1950s to the 1990s.
"Poetry and love ask for patience. Love is waiting and then cutting yourself open. Poetry is cutting yourself open and then waiting. The two together form a painful vigil over a few drops of resin.
That precious, pungent resin that drips so slowly while higher up the sun and the snow devour the tips of the pines." (CXVII)
A few excerpts from "Poems without Names," the central collection.
"The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude." (VII)
"Muchas cosas me dieron en el mundo: sólo es mía la pura soledad."
"The moon through the disheveled banana trees has an infinite sadness tonight.
It's as if the word adios, which nobody said, were written in the air, as if a child yet to be born had died.
We could walk until morning and never get anywhere or we could stay right here and tomorrow would never come.
But nobody goes and nobody remains. Only the banana trees are alive tonight, which might be the ghost of a night that died centuries ago.
I alone have felt the chill of the moon in my breasts. I alone have felt the rustle of fallen leaves in my eyes." (CIV)
Overall, I was feeling a little sad for feminism when I read these poems. There is a theme of longing, a willingness to form herself into any shape, or to be as silent or small as possible, if only he will return, if only he will love her, if only he will allow her in his life.
"The great sea moves in endless desperation. The high tide's dissolving foam barely reaches the line I have drawn in the sand. I have my own bitterness, my own sea, and it flows soundlessly in a painful turbulence through which it barely manages to look at life as two or three tears trail down my cheek." (CXIII)
There are some beautiful descriptions about nature, which helps to remind us that the poet did remain in Cuba during the revolution, but without attention or publication from the 1950s to the 1990s.
"Poetry and love ask for patience. Love is waiting and then cutting yourself open. Poetry is cutting yourself open and then waiting. The two together form a painful vigil over a few drops of resin.
That precious, pungent resin that drips so slowly while higher up the sun and the snow devour the tips of the pines." (CXVII)
December 12, 2019
Daquela poesia que fica a arranhar a crosta da existência.
June 8, 2022
ABSOLUTE SOLITUDE: Selected Poems by Dulce María Loynaz, translated from the Spanish by James O'Connor, 2015 by @archipelagobooks
#ReadCaribbean
#ReadtheWorld21 📍 Cuba
147 prose poems, mantras, ponderings, meditations on love, solitude, and letting go.
It's a melancholic collection, one that mirrors a life largely spent in solitude.
In her younger years, Loynaz was acquaintances with the Spanish language literary elite: Federico Garcia Lorca, Gabriela Mistral, Alejo Carpentier, and her early poems were published widely in Spanish.
After the 1959's Cuban Revolution, she remained in solitary exile in her Havana home. After 30+ years, her work was "rediscovered" in the 1990s, when she herself was in her 90s. In 1992, she was awarded the most prestigious Spanish language literary prize, the Cervantes Prize.
Her poetry and single novel were again published and translated, and she passed away a few years later in 1997.
She spent much of her life alone, so it is fitting that so many of her poems center this state of solitude.
LXX
These are my joys. I have counted them and I believe they are all there. Take them. Sing to them in your nights, toss them in your dead, let them die on your lips.
These are my sorrows. I haven't been able to count them, but I know they follow me faithfully. Take them. Let them fertilize your earth, let them leaven your bread, let them blaze in your fire.
This is who I am. I am one with my darkness. I am complete. And since I weigh so little, lay me on your heart, for I have no other pillow, and no other dream.
#ReadCaribbean
#ReadtheWorld21 📍 Cuba
147 prose poems, mantras, ponderings, meditations on love, solitude, and letting go.
It's a melancholic collection, one that mirrors a life largely spent in solitude.
In her younger years, Loynaz was acquaintances with the Spanish language literary elite: Federico Garcia Lorca, Gabriela Mistral, Alejo Carpentier, and her early poems were published widely in Spanish.
After the 1959's Cuban Revolution, she remained in solitary exile in her Havana home. After 30+ years, her work was "rediscovered" in the 1990s, when she herself was in her 90s. In 1992, she was awarded the most prestigious Spanish language literary prize, the Cervantes Prize.
Her poetry and single novel were again published and translated, and she passed away a few years later in 1997.
She spent much of her life alone, so it is fitting that so many of her poems center this state of solitude.
LXX
These are my joys. I have counted them and I believe they are all there. Take them. Sing to them in your nights, toss them in your dead, let them die on your lips.
These are my sorrows. I haven't been able to count them, but I know they follow me faithfully. Take them. Let them fertilize your earth, let them leaven your bread, let them blaze in your fire.
This is who I am. I am one with my darkness. I am complete. And since I weigh so little, lay me on your heart, for I have no other pillow, and no other dream.
January 6, 2018
Within you there is the weariness of a wing that has
been stretched a long time.
*
[…] only love reveals, in a rapid flash of light, the beauty of a soul.
*
I took in landscapes, never
knowing if they entered through my eyes or if I already carried
them within me long before they appeared on the horizon. I
nourished stars, dreams, and souls, never noticing that my own
veins were being emptied of their generous blood.
Now I ask myself what star will come to drip itself into my
exhausted heart, and to what fountain will I be led, where I can
drink like a weary animal.
*
It could be the fog wasn’t so thick, or it could be the road wasn’t so long.
It could be the hand didn’t reach out due to some inner exhaustion, or maybe out of lucidity or pride one wanted to avoid the impression of begging, or maybe it was simply because extending one’s hand required too much effort even though there was still time to save everything that was slipping away.
It could be life was too sordid to even attempt to understand it; it could be the knot might have been untied with a little more patience; it could be there was no mercy, not even for oneself.
It could be there was a lack of good will in the world and the heart took shelter behind a parapet of silence; it could be the happiness given up for lost was not yet lost.
Yes, it could be all of that, but I’ve already turned off the light.
*
I never call your name, but you are in me like the song in the nightingale’s throat even when it’s not singing.
*
[…] a memory not yet erased of a springtime air.
been stretched a long time.
*
[…] only love reveals, in a rapid flash of light, the beauty of a soul.
*
I took in landscapes, never
knowing if they entered through my eyes or if I already carried
them within me long before they appeared on the horizon. I
nourished stars, dreams, and souls, never noticing that my own
veins were being emptied of their generous blood.
Now I ask myself what star will come to drip itself into my
exhausted heart, and to what fountain will I be led, where I can
drink like a weary animal.
*
It could be the fog wasn’t so thick, or it could be the road wasn’t so long.
It could be the hand didn’t reach out due to some inner exhaustion, or maybe out of lucidity or pride one wanted to avoid the impression of begging, or maybe it was simply because extending one’s hand required too much effort even though there was still time to save everything that was slipping away.
It could be life was too sordid to even attempt to understand it; it could be the knot might have been untied with a little more patience; it could be there was no mercy, not even for oneself.
It could be there was a lack of good will in the world and the heart took shelter behind a parapet of silence; it could be the happiness given up for lost was not yet lost.
Yes, it could be all of that, but I’ve already turned off the light.
*
I never call your name, but you are in me like the song in the nightingale’s throat even when it’s not singing.
*
[…] a memory not yet erased of a springtime air.
August 1, 2020
ABSOLUTE SOLITUDE is a selection of prose poems written by Dulce María Loynaz, a Cuban poet. Some of them were first published in Spain in 1953, as part of a collection named POEMS WITHOUT NAMES. This beautiful bilingual edition published by Archipelago also includes a selection of prose poems from AUTUMN MELANCHOLY, published posthumously in 1997.
Loynaz lived a sheltered life during her childhood. Her father was a hero of the war of liberation from Spain at the turn of the 20th century. Her mother came from one of the most prominent and wealthy families of 19th century Cuba. She traveled widely, she studied Law (though she rarely practiced) and her family’s social position brought her into personal contact with some of the major Spanish-language authors of the century.
Written before the Cuban Revolution of 1959, her work deals with a world which has absolutely vanished on the island. Very early on, the new Cuban regime had made it clear that intellectuals from the former bourgeoisie would not be tolerated. Loynaz could have chosen exile, as other Cuban writers did. She could have lived in Madrid as a highly esteemed poet and journalist, surrounded by friends and intellectuals who admired her. Although her social world had completely disappeared, Loynaz chose to stay in Cuba and the silence that came with it. "In effect, she chose to be forgotten", James O'Connor, her translator points out.
The new regime disliked artistic expressions which could be described as "feminine " and "homosexual". Only "revolutionary art" was acceptable for the revolutionary bearded machos in power. No wonder she chose silence. Her silence satisfied the Government so there was no need to persecute her. She lived in seclusion in her Havana home, unpublished and forgotten.
Loynaz was 90 years old when the Royal Spanish Academy awarded her the 1992 Premio Miguel de Cervantes, the highest literary accolade in the Spanish language. After the prize, Cuba finally published her work. She died five years later.
Her poetry is intimate, sensual, feminine and, sometimes, playful. The poems in this selection deal about love, loss, the future and, of course, the most crushing, absolute solitude.
Loynaz lived a sheltered life during her childhood. Her father was a hero of the war of liberation from Spain at the turn of the 20th century. Her mother came from one of the most prominent and wealthy families of 19th century Cuba. She traveled widely, she studied Law (though she rarely practiced) and her family’s social position brought her into personal contact with some of the major Spanish-language authors of the century.
Written before the Cuban Revolution of 1959, her work deals with a world which has absolutely vanished on the island. Very early on, the new Cuban regime had made it clear that intellectuals from the former bourgeoisie would not be tolerated. Loynaz could have chosen exile, as other Cuban writers did. She could have lived in Madrid as a highly esteemed poet and journalist, surrounded by friends and intellectuals who admired her. Although her social world had completely disappeared, Loynaz chose to stay in Cuba and the silence that came with it. "In effect, she chose to be forgotten", James O'Connor, her translator points out.
The new regime disliked artistic expressions which could be described as "feminine " and "homosexual". Only "revolutionary art" was acceptable for the revolutionary bearded machos in power. No wonder she chose silence. Her silence satisfied the Government so there was no need to persecute her. She lived in seclusion in her Havana home, unpublished and forgotten.
Loynaz was 90 years old when the Royal Spanish Academy awarded her the 1992 Premio Miguel de Cervantes, the highest literary accolade in the Spanish language. After the prize, Cuba finally published her work. She died five years later.
Her poetry is intimate, sensual, feminine and, sometimes, playful. The poems in this selection deal about love, loss, the future and, of course, the most crushing, absolute solitude.
July 16, 2025
I loved these poems! A few felt a bit cheesy, but that might be from the translation choices.
"The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude."
"... Does my sweetness lie so deep within me you need to cut me to find it? ..."
"My dreams are beginning to look like caged birds.
If I let them go, they come back. Or they die. The sky is something you have to earn. So is a single grain of sand. But the grain of sand is too small and the sky is too vast. And wings, like feet, soon grow weary."
"Poetry and love ask for patience. Love is waiting and then cutting yourself open. Poetry is cutting yourself open and then waiting. ..."
"In the end the only thing that might excuse me for the failure that is my life is the vague, absentminded way in which I go walking down every road on earth."
"The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude."
"... Does my sweetness lie so deep within me you need to cut me to find it? ..."
"My dreams are beginning to look like caged birds.
If I let them go, they come back. Or they die. The sky is something you have to earn. So is a single grain of sand. But the grain of sand is too small and the sky is too vast. And wings, like feet, soon grow weary."
"Poetry and love ask for patience. Love is waiting and then cutting yourself open. Poetry is cutting yourself open and then waiting. ..."
"In the end the only thing that might excuse me for the failure that is my life is the vague, absentminded way in which I go walking down every road on earth."
September 22, 2022
5 stars for Loynaz's work, 3 stars for the translation.
It is a brave move for a publishing company to put out side by side language editions. Brave, and also maybe not so brave. In this case, it was a necessary move to offer the raw brilliance of Loynaz's language beside O'Connor's incredibly concise work bringing her poems to English. Of course, translating poetry is such a difficult undertaking, not unsimilar to interpreting jokes, but here I gotta say, there were times when the straight to the point English style really missed out on the rhythm in baffling ways. Take this instance:
CI
La criatura de isla pareceme, no se por que, una criatura distinta. Mas leve, mas sutil, mas sensitiva.
Translation:
The island creature seems to me, I don't know why, a different kind of creature. Lighter, subtler, more sensitive.
As you can see, this is not a bad translation at all. It gets the job done and it does contain an accuracy of meaning. I'm using this example, however, to bring up a pattern throughout the book. O'Connor often edits out word repetition and straightens out word order. It is my assertion that in doing so he saps too much feeling from the work, which, let's be honest, if Loynaz had anything to offer it was feeling. Why not write it closer to the original? "...a distinct creature. Lighter, more subtle, more sensitive." Sure, that isn't very concise, but it shadows way more of the rhythms that make Loynaz pop off the page as her work so often does.
I'm sure I'm completely offending all my translator friends on here, several of whose excellent Spanish translations I have read. I'll admit, me poking at O'Connor's work is a consequence of the side by side publication and I am very much an armchair translator (if that epithet even applies here -- look at me, I can't even write in English. How dare I critique a translation!).
I still think this is worth pursuing. Especially if you haven't been exposed to Loynaz's work, which is so moving.
CIII
Like this river that keeps running although it will never arrive anywhere, I chose life, my love, running toward you.
Running toward you along a path that was always longer than my water, even though my water never ended and it was my heart pushing it along.
I have lived my death and I have died my life in your direction, feeling my way through darkness, confusing faces.
Like this river. Yes, like this slow, blind river that can't stop or turn back or break away from the rock from which it was born.
The distance of a river has been our distance, the river that never ends, even if I walk, day and night, my entire life.
This one is my favorite translation in the book. I wouldn't be able to choose from the originals, however.
It is a brave move for a publishing company to put out side by side language editions. Brave, and also maybe not so brave. In this case, it was a necessary move to offer the raw brilliance of Loynaz's language beside O'Connor's incredibly concise work bringing her poems to English. Of course, translating poetry is such a difficult undertaking, not unsimilar to interpreting jokes, but here I gotta say, there were times when the straight to the point English style really missed out on the rhythm in baffling ways. Take this instance:
CI
La criatura de isla pareceme, no se por que, una criatura distinta. Mas leve, mas sutil, mas sensitiva.
Translation:
The island creature seems to me, I don't know why, a different kind of creature. Lighter, subtler, more sensitive.
As you can see, this is not a bad translation at all. It gets the job done and it does contain an accuracy of meaning. I'm using this example, however, to bring up a pattern throughout the book. O'Connor often edits out word repetition and straightens out word order. It is my assertion that in doing so he saps too much feeling from the work, which, let's be honest, if Loynaz had anything to offer it was feeling. Why not write it closer to the original? "...a distinct creature. Lighter, more subtle, more sensitive." Sure, that isn't very concise, but it shadows way more of the rhythms that make Loynaz pop off the page as her work so often does.
I'm sure I'm completely offending all my translator friends on here, several of whose excellent Spanish translations I have read. I'll admit, me poking at O'Connor's work is a consequence of the side by side publication and I am very much an armchair translator (if that epithet even applies here -- look at me, I can't even write in English. How dare I critique a translation!).
I still think this is worth pursuing. Especially if you haven't been exposed to Loynaz's work, which is so moving.
CIII
Like this river that keeps running although it will never arrive anywhere, I chose life, my love, running toward you.
Running toward you along a path that was always longer than my water, even though my water never ended and it was my heart pushing it along.
I have lived my death and I have died my life in your direction, feeling my way through darkness, confusing faces.
Like this river. Yes, like this slow, blind river that can't stop or turn back or break away from the rock from which it was born.
The distance of a river has been our distance, the river that never ends, even if I walk, day and night, my entire life.
This one is my favorite translation in the book. I wouldn't be able to choose from the originals, however.
June 1, 2020
"The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude."
Now, isn't that the truth.
Now, isn't that the truth.
March 27, 2020
Inhaled this. So good.
March 11, 2022
"Há em ti a fadiga de uma asa muito tempo tensa."
January 1, 2020
This book ASTOUNDED me. So many bits of wisdom and loveliness.
Like this: I wouldn't trade my solitude for a little love. A lot of love, yes.
But a lot of love is itself a kind of solitude.
Just ask the olive trees of Gethsemane!
And this: You took the lamp with you, but the light stayed with me.
Or something more subtle and tenuous, like the light’s shadow.
And this: within you there is the weariness of a wing that has been stretched a long time.
(swoon)
Like this: I wouldn't trade my solitude for a little love. A lot of love, yes.
But a lot of love is itself a kind of solitude.
Just ask the olive trees of Gethsemane!
And this: You took the lamp with you, but the light stayed with me.
Or something more subtle and tenuous, like the light’s shadow.
And this: within you there is the weariness of a wing that has been stretched a long time.
(swoon)
June 8, 2020
It is remarkable to think of the journey Dulce María Loynaz's words had to go through before this small-but-mighty volume found its way into my hands. For most of her life, her work was banned, along with the work of all writers suspected to be opposed to the Castro regime in Cuba. Loynaz lived in obscurity, never publishing another book, and was regularly harassed by the Cuban government under suspicion of being a traitor. Then in 1992 at 90 years old, her work was rediscovered in Spain, and she was awarded the Cervantes Prize for literature. Loynaz received more recognition in the last four years of her life than in the thirty before that.
If I hadn't come across Archipelago Press online one day, I never would have found this volume of her poetry, the first ever to be translated into English. For all the highly publicized English-language authors on my to-read list, it was this unassuming little book that knocked my socks off.
Loynaz's poetry is a pure distillation of emotion. She writes of love, of nature, of womanhood, and of course of solitude. Some of her poems are merely one line, representing a stray but enlightening thought, while others are vignettes of humans and nature. They are intensely personal. She infuses them with imagery which evoke the Earth, particularly blood and wings. Prose poetry is a perfect style for Loynaz--it lacks the line breaks that can make poetry feel artificial, making these poems feel wholly organic.
It's clear Loynaz throughout her life experienced alienation and solitude, but she also found solace in love, in dreams, and in the natural world. These themes are human and timeless. Her language is beautiful. There are many "quotable" lines. I had some questions about why James O'Connor translated things the way he did (my Spanish is admittedly rusty, but I still recognized when his translations deviated from their source), but otherwise, these are beautiful even in translation. If they are this amazing in English, they must be even better if you are a native Spanish speaker. I read each poem two or three times before moving onto the next one.
If I hadn't come across Archipelago Press online one day, I never would have found this volume of her poetry, the first ever to be translated into English. For all the highly publicized English-language authors on my to-read list, it was this unassuming little book that knocked my socks off.
Loynaz's poetry is a pure distillation of emotion. She writes of love, of nature, of womanhood, and of course of solitude. Some of her poems are merely one line, representing a stray but enlightening thought, while others are vignettes of humans and nature. They are intensely personal. She infuses them with imagery which evoke the Earth, particularly blood and wings. Prose poetry is a perfect style for Loynaz--it lacks the line breaks that can make poetry feel artificial, making these poems feel wholly organic.
It's clear Loynaz throughout her life experienced alienation and solitude, but she also found solace in love, in dreams, and in the natural world. These themes are human and timeless. Her language is beautiful. There are many "quotable" lines. I had some questions about why James O'Connor translated things the way he did (my Spanish is admittedly rusty, but I still recognized when his translations deviated from their source), but otherwise, these are beautiful even in translation. If they are this amazing in English, they must be even better if you are a native Spanish speaker. I read each poem two or three times before moving onto the next one.
Every day at nightfall she goes out with her lantern to light a road in the middle of nowhere.
It is a road nobody ever crosses, lost in the darkness of night, and lost, too, in the light of day. It is a road that comes from nowhere and goes nowhere.
The neighboring forest gnaws at the margins of the road, the trees grip it from below with their roots, and weeds grow in between the cracks in the rock.
But every night she comes out with the first star and hangs a lantern above this solitary road.
Nobody will ever come this way. It is a difficult journey and there is no reason to come. Some roads have shade and other roads cover longer distances in half the time. And there are still other roads that make a straight line through an endless maze of streets. There are many other roads in this world and people will travel them all. But there is not one person who will set foot on hers.
Why then does she light the road for a wayfarer who doesn’t exist? And why this constant show of obstinacy every single night?
And why on earth does she smile when she lights the lantern?
January 18, 2021
Jardim de Outono, um livro repleto de poemas. Li cada poema em voz alta e apaixonei-me por muitos. Há poemas mais breves e outros mais longos, os mais breves tornam-se imensos dentro da sua complexa brevidade, e os mais longos, esses, pedem tempo e paciência para serem lidos e entendidos.
Não conhecia a obra de Dulce María Loynaz, continuo ainda a conhecer muito pouco, mas admito que foi uma feliz descoberta.
Entre muitos poemas que me apaixonei, deixo um:
‘As tuas mãos têm claridades estranhas: Andaste com estrelas, ou ergueste-as rumo à aurora entre névoas azuis e cristalinas? Não tens medo de ter mãos luminosas?’ (p. 221)
Não conhecia a obra de Dulce María Loynaz, continuo ainda a conhecer muito pouco, mas admito que foi uma feliz descoberta.
Entre muitos poemas que me apaixonei, deixo um:
‘As tuas mãos têm claridades estranhas: Andaste com estrelas, ou ergueste-as rumo à aurora entre névoas azuis e cristalinas? Não tens medo de ter mãos luminosas?’ (p. 221)
June 23, 2021
"Tanto tempo tive de alimentar a solidão com o meu sangue, que tenho agora medo de me achar sem sangue entre os teus braços... Ou de neles te encontrar menos do que te encontrava na minha feroz e ardente solidão.
De tal modo te fundi nela e eu contigo, de tal modo lhe fui rendendo anseios, sonhos, gestos e sinais, que talvez o nosso encontro seja só o de duas nuvens no céu ou de dois desconhecidos na terra."
De tal modo te fundi nela e eu contigo, de tal modo lhe fui rendendo anseios, sonhos, gestos e sinais, que talvez o nosso encontro seja só o de duas nuvens no céu ou de dois desconhecidos na terra."
December 4, 2018
I loved this book a lot. It felt important to me.
October 24, 2020
At times very profound and at others cheesy.
October 21, 2022
Absolutely Lovely <3
March 28, 2021
gorgeous
February 7, 2016
Absolute Solitude: Selected Poems is a beautiful introduction to the poetry of Cuban Dulce Maria Loynaz. The Royal Spanish Academy awarded her the 1992 Cervantes Prize, the highest literary accolade in the Spanish language. Selected and translated by James O'Connor, the collection provides a view of many of Loynaz’s themes – from sadness, and difficulty of living, to love: the failure of love, loving too little, loving too much – to the joys of solitude, and finally, to death: “Every morning a rose rots in somebody’s coffin.”
Other quotes from the poems:
“You have wings and I don’t. You flit through the air like a butterfly, while I go off to learn, from every last road on earth, what it means to be sad.”
“And I said to the pebbles, I know you are fallen stars. Hearing this they lit up, and for a moment they shone – they were able to shine – like stars.”
“But only love reveals, in a rapid flash of light, the beauty of a soul.”
“Like a river has no need of air, nor the sea of land, nor the sword of banquets, I have no need of the world if you are not in it.
“Within you, my river will never long for mud, my waves will never yearn for wind, my steel blade will never go without its sheath.
“Within you, there is everything. Without you, there is nothing.”
“I have dissolved you into my solitude, and myself into you, in such a way that I have given my solitude my desires and my dreams, my gestures and my traits, and now I wonder if our meeting has been anything more than two clouds passing in the sky, or two strangers passing on earth.”
“I won’t say the name, but it is in every star that opens and every rose that dies.”
“The word is an old cracked vessel where I must gather up the burning wine of my dreams.”
“My bones ache. The very blouse on my back aches. And my solitude aches, too, ever since you let me press my mouth to it and blow it into flames.”
“I wouldn’t trade my solitude for a little love. For a lot of love, yes. But a lot of love is itself a kind of solitude.”
“Only the banana trees are alive tonight, which might be the ghost of a night that died centuries ago.”
“Your dreams have no wings but they still want to fly. That’s because they know they have wings even before they grow them. They know that life is made for the heights, that life becomes a sin, a piece of rot, if you don’t face your destiny at once.”
“The dream spoke and said, I am beyond death because I have yet to be born, and although I remain unborn, I am already stronger than death.”
Other quotes from the poems:
“You have wings and I don’t. You flit through the air like a butterfly, while I go off to learn, from every last road on earth, what it means to be sad.”
“And I said to the pebbles, I know you are fallen stars. Hearing this they lit up, and for a moment they shone – they were able to shine – like stars.”
“But only love reveals, in a rapid flash of light, the beauty of a soul.”
“Like a river has no need of air, nor the sea of land, nor the sword of banquets, I have no need of the world if you are not in it.
“Within you, my river will never long for mud, my waves will never yearn for wind, my steel blade will never go without its sheath.
“Within you, there is everything. Without you, there is nothing.”
“I have dissolved you into my solitude, and myself into you, in such a way that I have given my solitude my desires and my dreams, my gestures and my traits, and now I wonder if our meeting has been anything more than two clouds passing in the sky, or two strangers passing on earth.”
“I won’t say the name, but it is in every star that opens and every rose that dies.”
“The word is an old cracked vessel where I must gather up the burning wine of my dreams.”
“My bones ache. The very blouse on my back aches. And my solitude aches, too, ever since you let me press my mouth to it and blow it into flames.”
“I wouldn’t trade my solitude for a little love. For a lot of love, yes. But a lot of love is itself a kind of solitude.”
“Only the banana trees are alive tonight, which might be the ghost of a night that died centuries ago.”
“Your dreams have no wings but they still want to fly. That’s because they know they have wings even before they grow them. They know that life is made for the heights, that life becomes a sin, a piece of rot, if you don’t face your destiny at once.”
“The dream spoke and said, I am beyond death because I have yet to be born, and although I remain unborn, I am already stronger than death.”
August 5, 2021
Only by devoting oneself to darkness, absorbing its deep waters drop by drop, can one give rise to a noble, lasting work of art.
*
Con mi cuerpo y con mi alma he podido hacer siempre lo que quise.
*
The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude.
*
Happy are you if your love fits in a single name, if you can describe the color of their eyes, and span the width of their brow, and sleep at their feet like a faithful hound.
*
Tú tienes alas y yo no: con tus alas de mariposa juegas en el aire, mientras yo aprendo la tristeza de todos los caminos de la tierra.
*
Hay en ti la fatiga de un ala mucho tiempo tensa.
*
Poco o mucho, no dejes que la muerte ocupe el puesto de la vida
*
You know a man by his love.
*
There are men who do not love, but nobody knows anything about them. They have nothing to say to the anguish of the world.
Love is man’s reward. It is his birthmark. Like a red-hot iron, it brands him. It makes it possible to pick him out of a crowd, to recognize him, to know him.
*
But only love reveals, in a rapid flash of light, the beauty of a soul.
*
Con mi cuerpo y con mi alma he podido hacer siempre lo que quise.
*
The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude.
*
Happy are you if your love fits in a single name, if you can describe the color of their eyes, and span the width of their brow, and sleep at their feet like a faithful hound.
*
Tú tienes alas y yo no: con tus alas de mariposa juegas en el aire, mientras yo aprendo la tristeza de todos los caminos de la tierra.
*
Hay en ti la fatiga de un ala mucho tiempo tensa.
*
Poco o mucho, no dejes que la muerte ocupe el puesto de la vida
*
You know a man by his love.
*
There are men who do not love, but nobody knows anything about them. They have nothing to say to the anguish of the world.
Love is man’s reward. It is his birthmark. Like a red-hot iron, it brands him. It makes it possible to pick him out of a crowd, to recognize him, to know him.
*
But only love reveals, in a rapid flash of light, the beauty of a soul.
July 17, 2018
Dulce Maria Loynaz wrote as if awakening from dreams and immediately trying to capture them on paper. Reading the poems is like falling off the page into the dreams.
October 8, 2020
The world gave me many things, but the only thing I kept was absolute solitude.
VII
Absolute Solitude: Selected Poems by Dulce María Loynaz is the first comprehensive English translation of Loynaz poetry. Loynaz, a Cuban, wrote most of her poetry before the revolution and her work was, for the most part, forgotten. At the age of ninety Royal Spanish Academy awarded her the 1992 Cervantes Prize, the highest literary accolade in the Spanish language. The translation is done by James O'Connor, and although I do not read Spanish, the English version of her work captures the power and beauty of the original.
The unnamed poems that make up this book are simply numbered to differentiate between them. Some poems are a single line making a title a little difficult. Each line, however, carries an exponential amount of information. If a picture is worth a thousand words a line from Loynaz is worth many times more:
XXV
And I said to the pebbles, I know you are fallen stars.
Hearing this they lit up, and for a moment they shone -- they were
able to shine -- like stars.
CX
I neither destroy nor create. I do not interrupt Destiny.
Loynaz mentions pebbles a few times in the above poem and in another comparing pebbles to stars. Stars shine with beauty, but pebbles one can hold in their hand and move or possess, unlike a star. She writes of love, faith, death, and solitude. Our solitude is the one thing, perhaps the only thing we can control. On death, she writes of the seeds of a now dead rose bush trying to grow at the base of the dead bush. They are choked out by the roots dead plant. She warns the reader to never allow death to choke out life, not even a little.
Absolute Solitude is a lost treasure recovered too late to be built upon. Loynaz’s writing is near perfection and it makes one wonder how much more could have created if she had not quit writing, or if her work received more notice before her ninetieth year. It was three decades after she stopped writing before her work was noticed by the Royal Spanish Academy. This is truly a remarkable collection.
VII
Absolute Solitude: Selected Poems by Dulce María Loynaz is the first comprehensive English translation of Loynaz poetry. Loynaz, a Cuban, wrote most of her poetry before the revolution and her work was, for the most part, forgotten. At the age of ninety Royal Spanish Academy awarded her the 1992 Cervantes Prize, the highest literary accolade in the Spanish language. The translation is done by James O'Connor, and although I do not read Spanish, the English version of her work captures the power and beauty of the original.
The unnamed poems that make up this book are simply numbered to differentiate between them. Some poems are a single line making a title a little difficult. Each line, however, carries an exponential amount of information. If a picture is worth a thousand words a line from Loynaz is worth many times more:
XXV
And I said to the pebbles, I know you are fallen stars.
Hearing this they lit up, and for a moment they shone -- they were
able to shine -- like stars.
CX
I neither destroy nor create. I do not interrupt Destiny.
Loynaz mentions pebbles a few times in the above poem and in another comparing pebbles to stars. Stars shine with beauty, but pebbles one can hold in their hand and move or possess, unlike a star. She writes of love, faith, death, and solitude. Our solitude is the one thing, perhaps the only thing we can control. On death, she writes of the seeds of a now dead rose bush trying to grow at the base of the dead bush. They are choked out by the roots dead plant. She warns the reader to never allow death to choke out life, not even a little.
Absolute Solitude is a lost treasure recovered too late to be built upon. Loynaz’s writing is near perfection and it makes one wonder how much more could have created if she had not quit writing, or if her work received more notice before her ninetieth year. It was three decades after she stopped writing before her work was noticed by the Royal Spanish Academy. This is truly a remarkable collection.
April 5, 2022
3.5
Some really lovely passages in this one.
The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude.
VII
Within you there is the weariness of a wing that has been stretched a long time.
XV
The eyes gaze on the blue stars, but the feet, humbly grounded, hold up the pedestal for the eyes gazing on the blue stars.
XXIII
In every grain of sand there is a landslide.
XXIX
God I do not need Ash Wednesday. Not one day of the week do I forget that I was once clay in your hands.
If I need anything, I need You to remember that as well as I do.
LXXXIX
I wouldn't trade my solitude for a little love. For a lot of love, yes
But a lot of love itself is a kind of solitude.
Just ask the olive trees of Gethsemane.
XCVI
Like this river that keeps running although it will never arrive anywhere, I choose life, my love, running towards you.
Running towards you along a path that was always longer than my water, even though my water never ended and it was my heart pushing it along.
I have lived my death and I have died my life in your direction, feeling my way through darkness, confusing faces.
Like this river. Yes, like this slow, blind river that can't stop or turn back or break away from the rock from which it was born.
The distance of a river has been our distance, the river that never ends, even if I walk, day and night, my entire life.
CIII
Some really lovely passages in this one.
The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude.
VII
Within you there is the weariness of a wing that has been stretched a long time.
XV
The eyes gaze on the blue stars, but the feet, humbly grounded, hold up the pedestal for the eyes gazing on the blue stars.
XXIII
In every grain of sand there is a landslide.
XXIX
God I do not need Ash Wednesday. Not one day of the week do I forget that I was once clay in your hands.
If I need anything, I need You to remember that as well as I do.
LXXXIX
I wouldn't trade my solitude for a little love. For a lot of love, yes
But a lot of love itself is a kind of solitude.
Just ask the olive trees of Gethsemane.
XCVI
Like this river that keeps running although it will never arrive anywhere, I choose life, my love, running towards you.
Running towards you along a path that was always longer than my water, even though my water never ended and it was my heart pushing it along.
I have lived my death and I have died my life in your direction, feeling my way through darkness, confusing faces.
Like this river. Yes, like this slow, blind river that can't stop or turn back or break away from the rock from which it was born.
The distance of a river has been our distance, the river that never ends, even if I walk, day and night, my entire life.
CIII
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February 29, 2020#AlisaReadstheWorld: Cuba
This type of poetry isn't my favorite. Do you have that friend that never comes out and says exactly why they are moping and instead want you to guess as a kind of test to show that you care? That's how these poems felt. Lots of moping about being alone, men who left her, bad relationships. Save it for your diary, honey. I did like the poems that touched on religious themes—interesting, a bit sacrilegious.
My other complaint is that the translation is so bad. Like, so so so bad. The edition I read was bilingual, so I could compare the Spanish and the English, and I'm glad that I was able to at least see that the author was emotive and expressive. The translation is rendered quite stiff and formal, awkward, like the translator is an academic who isn't comfortable with...words.
Ah well, I like the surprises that come with my project of reading a book by a woman from every country in the world.
This type of poetry isn't my favorite. Do you have that friend that never comes out and says exactly why they are moping and instead want you to guess as a kind of test to show that you care? That's how these poems felt. Lots of moping about being alone, men who left her, bad relationships. Save it for your diary, honey. I did like the poems that touched on religious themes—interesting, a bit sacrilegious.
My other complaint is that the translation is so bad. Like, so so so bad. The edition I read was bilingual, so I could compare the Spanish and the English, and I'm glad that I was able to at least see that the author was emotive and expressive. The translation is rendered quite stiff and formal, awkward, like the translator is an academic who isn't comfortable with...words.
Ah well, I like the surprises that come with my project of reading a book by a woman from every country in the world.
July 7, 2021
“Preciso que me ajudes a adormecer o coração efermo, a alma que não te soube encontrar, a carne ferida que ainda te procura.
Preciso que me serenes — tu e só tu, pois mais ninguém o pode fazer.
Preciso que corras como água sobre mim, que me apagues, e me inundes, e me deixes quieta — por uma vez quieta neste mundo.
Tenho um grande desejo de dormir, mesmo que seja na terra, desde que a terra não se pareça com o que sobre ela amei em vão, desde que na terra não encontre o rasto da minha vida ofegante.
Nada me atemoriza mais do que continuar a ser eu mesma; do que continuar a conhecer-me sem te ter conhecido.
E quão cansada estou; parece que lutei com o mar... Parece que o mar me golpeou o corpo e me empurrou de encontro às rochas e que eu, enfurecida, apresei o mar e o dobrei nos meus braços.
Doem-me os ossos; dói-me até a roupa que trago vestida. E dói-me também a solidão desde que me deixaste ateá-la com a minha boca encostada a ela.”
Preciso que me serenes — tu e só tu, pois mais ninguém o pode fazer.
Preciso que corras como água sobre mim, que me apagues, e me inundes, e me deixes quieta — por uma vez quieta neste mundo.
Tenho um grande desejo de dormir, mesmo que seja na terra, desde que a terra não se pareça com o que sobre ela amei em vão, desde que na terra não encontre o rasto da minha vida ofegante.
Nada me atemoriza mais do que continuar a ser eu mesma; do que continuar a conhecer-me sem te ter conhecido.
E quão cansada estou; parece que lutei com o mar... Parece que o mar me golpeou o corpo e me empurrou de encontro às rochas e que eu, enfurecida, apresei o mar e o dobrei nos meus braços.
Doem-me os ossos; dói-me até a roupa que trago vestida. E dói-me também a solidão desde que me deixaste ateá-la com a minha boca encostada a ela.”
May 22, 2022
VII
The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude.
XIX
The dry leaves…Do they fly or fall? Or does every flight contain the waiting earth? And does every fall contain the quiver of a wing?
XXVI
…The noble word is certainly prophetic. And a useful work gives us hope. But only love reveals, in a rapid flash of light, the beauty of a soul.
XLI
…Even now, if you tell me the sky is clear, I will smile at the sun, even though the night has impaled itself on my soul.
CI
…She is all air, all gentle waters. A memory of salt, of lost horizons, and the soaking of every wave. The foam left by a shipwreck clings to her waist and the tips of wings send a shiver up her spine…
The world gave me many things, but the only thing I ever kept was absolute solitude.
XIX
The dry leaves…Do they fly or fall? Or does every flight contain the waiting earth? And does every fall contain the quiver of a wing?
XXVI
…The noble word is certainly prophetic. And a useful work gives us hope. But only love reveals, in a rapid flash of light, the beauty of a soul.
XLI
…Even now, if you tell me the sky is clear, I will smile at the sun, even though the night has impaled itself on my soul.
CI
…She is all air, all gentle waters. A memory of salt, of lost horizons, and the soaking of every wave. The foam left by a shipwreck clings to her waist and the tips of wings send a shiver up her spine…
December 4, 2016
Translated poems... well, you know about translated poems. But there is some quality to this book that makes it even more interesting just because the poems are translated to English.
"Nothing I have taken from you
has given me peace
or justification for everything
I took away from myself.
I have kept nothing from you
that has not weighted on my days
like a leaden sky."
"Nothing I have taken from you
has given me peace
or justification for everything
I took away from myself.
I have kept nothing from you
that has not weighted on my days
like a leaden sky."
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