Poetry of Cartagena, by Gustavo Benedetti

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Luis Carlos López,  'El Tuerto" (1883-1950)

When talking about poetry from Cartagena de Indias,  I necessarily have to think about Luis Carlos López.  Many years after his death,  his work is still vibrant because his poetry has a universal flavor. López's  poetry is about  daily life in Cartagena, its people and their agonies, the city and its culture.

 

During López's time, Cartagena was a dormant city; Its past was glorious but its present didn't seem to be hopeful. In López's view, the city didn't deserve the kind of leadership that was running City Hall. In  A Mi ciudad Nativa, the poet offers an alternative,  perhaps to quiet his own feeling of abandonment, he opts to be loyal to his town by loving it the way one loves a pair of old shoes.

    

 

 


 

  

 

 

 

A mi ciudad nativa

Noble rincón de mis abuelos:
nada como evocar cruzando callejuelas,
los tiempo de la cruz y de la espada
del ahumado candil y de las pajuelas
pues ya paso, ciudad amurallada, tu edad de folletín
Las carabelas se fueron para siempre de tu rada
¡ya no viene el aceite en botijuelas!
Fuiste heroica en tus años coloniales
cuando tus hijos, águilas caudales,
no eran caterva de vencejos.
Mas hoy, plena de rancio desaliño,
bien pueden inspirar ese cariño
que uno le tiene a sus zapatos viejos.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

Lopez's style of writing poetry never overused the adjectives, nonetheless it is beautiful. This kind of beauty is different from the writing of his contemporaries in the Américas, particularly Ruben Dario,  who had a passion to see American places with a  European attitude, as the center of the universe; on the other hand, Cartagena was Lopez's universe, its reality. The discourse of people from Cartagena gets to the point quickly, and Cartageneros don't like to hide what they have in their mind. "El Tuerto," as Lopez was called,  was, afterward urged to write about the reality of his surrounding, and he had no other choice.

Llovía

Y, a la semiobscuridad
melancólica del día
la ciudad
era un harapo. Llovía
 
con tozuda necedad.
Yo sentía
como sedante humildad
y una honda misantropia
 
viendo a través del encaje
sucio del agua, el paisaje
al crayón
 
mientras debajo el alero
del balcón
titiritaba un pordiosero

 

 
     
López didn't care about the use of imaginary figures of beauty in his poetry. He didn't need to, Cartageneros's  language and behavior were enough for him. Dario himself believed that Lopez was the speaker of a new poetry.

The nikname

Finally, but I don't mean this has been enough to analyze his poetry, since López was cross eyed,  thus acquired the nickname "El Tuerto." Who in Cartagena could escape the art Cartageneros have for giving nicknames to people? Commonly, when someone dies in Cartagena,  you read the  nickname of the diseased person typed on high characters on the mortuary cartels,  and in parenthesis or on a second line his or her name; the nickname is part of Cartageneros' life.

Gustavo Benedetti

LOS QUE LLEGARON DE PARIS

Ceñido flux de pederasta, flor
fragante en el ojal
mostachos agresivos de tenor
y muy agudo el ángulo facial.
 
y la novia, la falda de color
mimoso, azul lilial
cabellos de un rubor
de lacre, una actitud sentimental
 
y ojos de liebre. Gastan el placer
de levantar-unido el canotier
con la chistera en forma de bacín-
 
la polvareda de la exhibición,
requiriéndose con
frases de almibar y de pepermín...
 

   

Daniel Lemaitre Tono (1884-1961)

 

Daniel Lemaitre Tono  represents a rare case of a man who was a very successful industrialist and a talented poet; how could a person so involved in creating business have space to write poetry? In order to understand this dualism, we perhaps need to understand Lemaitre’s time, the way Colombian society used to behave regarding materialism. Benjamín Moreno Torralvo tries to explain this paradoxical theme: “Generations from that time were not rigidly dependent on money; spirituality was more important… merchants used to enjoy the way society appreciated their honest conditions, and nothing else.”

 

 

 

 

Lemaitre was also a prolific writer, an avid painter and a composer; his multiple talents had one purpose, to illustrate his city and his people. As a columnist in the El Porvenir newspaper, he delighted his readers by writing about the city’s everyday events with fine humor. There is reason to believe that he developed his poetry from this kind of writing, with the difference that in a poem the author can express the beauty of his surroundings, the poet has a passport to tell us everything. The music he wrote was very popular and my grandparents and parents danced to. I myself even still dance to his music. I only need to hear it performed by a “papayera” band and sooner than even I expect I will be dancing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

La Viejecita

Hundida en el sillón, cabe la puerta,

la viejecita, así, medio dormida,
cierra como los ojos de la vida,
y abre como los ojos de una muerta.
 
A veces, como un ave huyendo al frío,
del seno descarnado en que reposa
se levanta su mano temblorosa,
y palpa algún recuerdo en el vacío.
 
Bajo un rayo de sol, tibio y dorado,
el algodón de su cabeza brilla;
y en el ambiente puro y sosegado,
 
mientras que fuma lenta la calilla,
! Oh, que hueca, que hueca es su mejilla
y que azul es el humo del pasado!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

E L   A L C A T R A Z

Llega cuando el invierno empaña el día
y, heraldo de la recia tribunada,
bate por la quietud de la ensenada
el remo gris de su melancolía....
 
De pronto corta el vuelo; se diría
que lo ha herido la muerte a la pasada,
y cae, como cosa abandonada
y rompe el vidrio azul de la bahía.
 
Certero, al deglutir, del pico enorme del pico enorme
sale un reflejo de metal pulido:
es el trágico fin de un pez que albea!
 
Después, viejo filósofo conforme,
como si nada hubiera sucedido,
se deja columpiar por la marea

 

 

Jorge Artel (1909-1994)

No discussion of the poetry of Cartagena can neglect mentioning Jorge Artel, a writer of his both Native American and Black races, the sea of his city and the struggle of his people. According to Guillermo Tedio "The themes and feelings of his first blood came to him from his black father and his Native American mother, thus he felt to be a member of the Indio Mestizo. The sea and port side came from Cartagena and his travels. Early from his childhood, he was able to communicate with the sailor's world...And finally,  his political views and his social extraction placed him in the side of popular fights."

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

Añoranza de la tierra nativa  A Juan Roca Lemus

Mi tierra
Es una tierra húmeda de mar
Donde el cielo posee la desnudez del
agua
Limpia y azul
Como una ilusión casta
 
Antes de que amanezca, los marinos
Despetalan la rosa virgínea
De sus cantos
Y se despierta la aurora soñolienta.
(Afirma el pescador de sábalos
Que hacen brotar el sol
De sus bocas curtidas...)
 
Las níveas atarrayas cuelgan
De los cascos
A los barcos ancianos,
Tullidos de viajar
Junto a los arsenales
Más tristes que un adiós
 
Sobre un monstruo de hierro
A la ciudad retornan
Los hombres de los muelles
Manchados de oro negro
 
Arden en la hoguera impúber de la
mañana
Los mástiles
Y las proas cansadas
A donde yacen dormidas las
distancias
 
Las playas --negras hembras
Desnudas, tendidas al sol
Impregnadas de yodos balsámicos
Brindan al aire
Su risa rosada
De caracoles
 
Todos los días se curva
Algún navío
En las rutas lontanas del azul
Y en el puerto hay pañuelos
Como palomas blancas

 

 

Raúl Gómez Jattin (1945-1997)

 

He was born in Cerete, a small town in Northern Colombia and died tragically in Cartagena. He was perhaps the best Colombian poet of the last generations, many generations and we should remember him for his work.  People called him "El .loco," his friends and readers only remember the beauty of his poetry.

Gomez Jattin, I confess, is the author of one of my personal favorite poems: Desencuentros. A tribute to both of his parents who, without suspecting  the future, fed him with classic literature.

 

 

 

 

Desencuentros

Ah desdichados padres

Cuánto desengaño trajo a su noble vejez
el hijo menor
el más inteligente
En vez de abogado respetable
marihuano conocido
En vez del esposo amante
un solterón precavido
En vez de hijos
unos menesterosos poemas
¿Qué pecado tremendo está purgando
ese honrado par de viejos? ¿Innombrable?
Lo cierto es que el padre le habló en su niñez de libertad
De que Honoré de Balzac era un hombre notable
De la Canción de la vida profunda
Sin darse cuenta de lo que estaba cometiendo

 

LA HAMACA NUESTRA

Ven hasta la hamaca donde escribí
el libro dedicado a tu sagrada presencia
Ella me recuerda toda esa soledad
que dormí en ella. Todos esos gestos de mi alma
persiguiéndole el vuelo a las palabras
que grabaran en un tiempo menos frágil
la lluvia de tus lágrimas. El reposo soñado
en tu pecho. La mañana eternamente memorable
de nuestras manos enlazadas en medio del tumulto.

En el vientre de esa hamaca recosté
mi cansancio de la vida. Acuné dolores.
Me defendí de la canícula. Y soñé:
Tú venías en medio de la noche a consolarme
y eso dije. Escribía un poema que preservara
tu memoria y eso hice.
Desatar mis alas tristes y lloré.

Tiéndete que yo te meceré para refrescarte.
Si te es posible duerme. Que yo velaré.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Mayra margarita Mendoza Torres (1955-)

 

She currently resides in Buenos Aires, Argentina.  Mayra's activity as a writer has taken her to many places, among them Oaxaca, México where she was invited in 2002 to the Red de Escritoras Latinoamericanas, RELAT. Very recently this year, Mayra got a especial mention in the Concurso International de Poesía Videncia held in Ciego de Avila, Cuba.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her poetry is densely Caribbean; Mayra seems to know perfectly the environment of the Northern Colombian coast;  its marine ecosystem is a constant in her poetry, as in the sad looking figure of a snail that tell us the anguish of someone that I imagine sleeping.

               

 

 

 

Adormecida en el chinchorro

Padece el dolor que la acompaña

como otra noche oscura,
sedienta en medio
del delirante guarumo.
 
Jadea sudorosa en su catre
con ripios de sábanas de raso
que otra vez la acunaron
como sombra esfumada
en su caracol de congoja
 

 

De los entuertos huye

Le teme al lamento
de su afincada voz en el hollín
del xilófono.
 
Diablillos de coral rondan la noche
con cofias que dispone el altar
asomado a la vida.
 
Totumos alumbran
la estancia acodada en el altillo.
Cuelgan pajaritos negros
de papel crespón.