The Passing of Octavio Paz (1914-1998)
by Adolfo Castanon
Mosaic Press, 2000
Reviewed by T. Anders Carson
There was something different about this collection
when I picked it up. The feeling was as if I had been invited to a very
exclusive eulogy reading for a departed hero. The writing is extremely
fluid. I had to keep reading. Each word is placed in the emotional line
in which it was received.
The tongue went into mourning,
other languages
followed
but no one knew how to inform
the poems that the Poet had died.
I feel a chill go through me when I hit those high plateaus in a
poem. I feel privileged to glimpse but for an instant the sights those
peaks see each tumultuous day. The raging storms and crisp air filling
the sky with hope and strings of jubilation. Mr.
Castanon has a reverence for Mr. Paz's work that goes beyond mere mortal
realms. He even forgives him the one Mexican lust for bull-fighting.
No, he did not like bullfights,
yet was a good matador,
Head held high before the beast
avoiding it through scornful dodging,
sinking the sword to his wrists
- elegant threat
merciful twist -
as if knowing what the bull knows.
Respect is the jagged word that sings in the poem. It is a
vibrancy that shakes the foundations of even geological measurements. He
refers to the Richter scale and the modest height of 3.5 it registered
when Octavio Paz died.
Young people read his books on the road,
in bus stations shaken
by clamor, by playful shouting
- birds, children - din of voices climbing the air like ivy.
The heat beats down on glass windows
the fly's rattle buzzes emphatically
young people read his poetry books as if they were studying maps.
They spell out a few lines: it's enough for them to find their way.
The translation by Beatriz
Zeller is fantastic. She has set it up for you to continue down the last
translucent steps of Mr. Paz's life. She isn't afraid to show you the
way. This collection has been symbiotically made with authority and
resilience. There isn't any fear in the unknown present. The only sliver
of fear is that
No one knows how to inform the poems. The poet is dead.
T.
Anders Carson has published poetry in The
Danforth Review. |
