pablo writes:
Puse la frente entre las olas profundas,
descendí como gota entre la paz sulfúrica,
y, como un ciego, regresé al jazmín
de la gastada primavera humana.
these lines always remind me of dante at the beginning of Inferno, even though the poets here sound nothing alike. perhaps it is just the sense of searching for elemental sources of meaning in human life that ring similar in my mind. perhaps it is the image of being swept over by waves as one descends. perhaps it is the image of descending as a blind person.
this image of descending as a blind person into the source material for what will be the poetic act appeals to me. similarly, ungaretti mentions that writing is like pulling words out of a void. neruda, i believe, would find such an image appropriate, almost as if there is a danger of losing oneself to the void. being a poet requires that one, like Sor Juana's bird, writes even if the act of writing will extinguish the writer as writer.
these lines always remind me of dante at the beginning of Inferno, even though the poets here sound nothing alike. perhaps it is just the sense of searching for elemental sources of meaning in human life that ring similar in my mind. perhaps it is the image of being swept over by waves as one descends. perhaps it is the image of descending as a blind person.
this image of descending as a blind person into the source material for what will be the poetic act appeals to me. similarly, ungaretti mentions that writing is like pulling words out of a void. neruda, i believe, would find such an image appropriate, almost as if there is a danger of losing oneself to the void. being a poet requires that one, like Sor Juana's bird, writes even if the act of writing will extinguish the writer as writer.
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