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2010; University of Oklahoma; Volume: 84; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/wlt.2010.0323

1945-8134

Jorge E. Galán, Elizabeth Gamble Miller,

Latin American Literature Studies

EMERGING AUTHORS Three Poems by Jorge Galan Introduced byClaribelAlegria Despite hisyoung age (barelythirty-six years),Salvadoran poet Jorge Galan alreadypossesses a profoundphiloso phy,one thatis reflected inhispoetry. Death isone ofhis obsessions."Now I understandthat my death is theonly important one, because I am the final moment/ but I am thebeginning,"hewrites inhis poem "The Moment" (includedbelow). Beyond death,Golan ispreoccupied with his country, with thedestructionof theplanet,with theegotismof humanity. His writing is transparent?astonishingimagesconveyhisphilosophyto thereader. I am impressed by thespiritofprophecythatinfuses hiswriting,byhismaturityof thought, by the masteryof words thathe alreadypossesses. ClaribelAlegria Transient Standing on the sidewalk, by thecurb of thisstreet in thenorthern section of thiscity where aman can die and his death have thesame importance as thebreath of a smallwoman who senses awisp ofwhite aroma not the aroma of snow. Death isn'tworth much here, justa bitmore thana tree's collapsing upon itselfdeep in the forest, unnoticed by anyone, but itshould beworth asmuch as a tower's collapsing to thevast sound of a thousand trumpets. Like dark doves, thescreams here drop off theeves or come todie under roofs ofbuildings and houses where rats andmold meet. Wind is theonlywrap here, theonly comforter. Cars pass bymy feetin smallwaves. Behind me transientsand thenight are thesame. Streetlamps have lighted like sudden eyes recovering theirsight. Death is theonly daily abundance. Imove again, Iwalk ina straight line, I turnneither left nor right, theshadow of a boywinds around my feet likeanother day a boy around the legs of amother whose eyesweren't seeing the world but darkness. My walk carries me to a corner. I stop. I thinkabout theseasons, the way they move and thenstop at the fd/for/o/nofe:lnthis first installment ina year long series, we've asked six world-renowned writers to introduce an author whose work they think deserves attention?and will gain prominence?in 2010 and beyond. 121World Literature Today JORGE GAL?N particular place where they're supposed toand nevermistake the location. I'd like tobe the winter stationed on thisdistant corner. Feminine spring or feverishsummer interest me little, autumn isonly of interestto my eyes, and a pair of eyes can't be a soul. If my soulwere a hammer Imyself would be an anvil and the hammer thathits thatanvil. If Iwere an animal I'd be an earthworm crawling over places concealed, caverns of a vastness like before creation. If Iwere a tree Iwouldn't be one treebut a forestof slender bamboo yellow and delicate like fingernailsof a useless invalid. I sitdown, I lean back. I see thenight has come, the stars that I can't read and theblackness I can't explain or possess. People looking atme prefer to see a body lying thereand not an eternity opening in theheavens, like loving arms around another body, and about to close. They prefer to see ingenuousness fillinga faceof inertrubbish, hunger outlining cheeks thatonce were fresh. They prefer toobserve thepallor of insanityand thepride of dementia rather than the map of creation thatrestsupon each one's head in just the way an unending, splendid crownwould siton thehead of a king. I sitdown. I get up. I cross a street. I stop on the sidewalk, on thissidewalk where I could die and no bell would toll announcing my death or any knee bend or any tear fallor any prayer be spoken. The automobiles are Hghrningflashes ina darkness that reaffirms itself. I realize I'm the sediment from thatdarkness and I smile to myself and think I know I've discovered the importance of an existence, theabsolute goal of the same, thepurpose for which man was created. There should be angels embracingmy feet. There should be a dozen beautiful children kissingmy hands. There should be a thousandwomen moistening my hairwith the finest perfume. There should bemusic of tambourines behind and beforeme. This should be a beach dotted with palms and not a dismal street. I ought to say that my breath has sometimes revealed to me the smell of death. And to thinkthatIwas handsome like the white cub of a powerful lion. Afterme thebeings and thenight cannot and should not be different. My discourse is the fog thatdescends fromthe trees. Salvadoran poet, novelist, and children's writer Jorge Galan (b. 1973, San Salvador) isthe...