The parish church in the background and the bandstand both appear in his novela El Coronelito, In addition to his medical studies, he was able to immerse himself in the literary environment of Mexico City. Nevertheless, through careful discretion, he managed to establish and maintain a successful medical career in Mexico City following the completion of his studies at UNAM in Nandino thus began a long and successful career as physician and poet.
Throughout his life, Nandino was well aware that medicine and poetry have a symbiotic relationship because both deal with the mental and physical aspects of being human: Nandino maintained that this helped Villaurrutia become more human, more sympathetic to human suffering Aguilar Triangulo de silencios , Triangle of Silences , confronts issues of religious doubt. Courtesy Casa de la 3-line haiku and 5-line tanka. In response, medical practice in Mexico City. In addition to his work as physician and poet, Nandino is also remembered for his work with young poets.
In addition to these major themes, Nandino frequently addresses issues of solitude, eroticism, and love. This should come as no surprise from a poet-physician who treated patients during the day and spent the evenings writing poetry in response to those experiences. The autobiography ning before birth, accompanying was published posthumously in Baptized and raised Catholic, Nandino struggled with issues of faith, doubt, religion, and sin throughout his career.
His understanding of God, however, was not the Catholic god of his childhood. Rather, he found god within a pantheistic view of the universe Dauster I believe in you, my God in you who are the poetry I imagine. God is eternity and his presence reaches from the sky to my conscience, and He is Everything and I part of his life.
In his later years, the clergy of his hometown publicly denounced Nandino from the pulpit C. It was not because of his poems about faith and doubt or because of his pantheistic view of god. The church in town is an ant hill but no one wants to say so. The ants arrive, the ants enter and give up every peso. January to December December to January, like insects drawn to honey, the poor ants, the devoted ants, come give up all their money.
The theme of love is often addressed in contrasting pairs of presence and absence. Perhaps what earlier critics had labeled narcissism might now suggest a desire on the part of the poet to see someone like himself, another man, in the mirror. Despite his excellent technique with these forms, Nandino is perhaps best recognized for his use of the nocturne. A Symbiotic Relationship Among U. Indeed, it served as inspiration for much of his work. Working with inmates, whom many would consider the dregs of society, Nandino learned that everyone is capable of both good and evil.
Practicing medicine, Nandino maintained, produced in him a greater sensitivity to literature. Until the very end of his own life, he continued to explore the options of death as pleasure or pain Aguilar I stretch out and also limit myself to the defenseless contour that delivers me to the island of oblivion where one forgets. And so I feel myself divided and at the same time imprisoned by a mold.
The second circle was made of up Salvador Novo and Xavier Villaurrutia. Finally, Jorge Cuesta and Gilberto Owen formed the third subgroup. In addition to this core of eight poets, Forster has labeled four poets as fringe members: Carlos Pellicer, Octavio G. Clearly, the very inner circle of members had been friends since high school and then introduced other friends to the group.
In his autobiography, Nandino describes his deep friendship with Xavier Villaurrutia, and many other members of the group. Writer such as Borges and Neruda, who were just beginning their literary careers at that time, were also published. Of particular note in the journal were translations of French and English writers. Perhaps the greatest similarity is that of themes — life, death, love — however no single generation has a monopoly on these. Because of his longevity and his continuous literary output up until the very end of his life, he lived to see himself rediscovered.
Many of his early works were long out of print, but were released in new editions during the early and mid s. Estaciones and the literary workshops In addition to his work as poet, Nandino is also recognized for his work as editor and publisher. The journal attracted critical attention in the U. These reviews also noted the importance of the journal to young writers. His attitude toward young people was very radical; he gave them the books and journals that they would need.
Here he continued his work with young writers including Jorge Esquinca. These workshops continued, with some interruption, until when he settled permanently in his home town of Cocula and established similar workshops there. Because of his continued dedication to helping establish young writers, the National Prize for Young Poets was named in his honor. One day my conscience was gnawing at me so — out of desperation, I stood in front of the mirror and argued I left forgiven and both of us ended up crying However, beginning with Eternidad de polvo Eternity of Dust, continuing with Cerca de lo lejos Close to Faraway, and culminating in Erotismo al rojo blanco White Heat Eroticism, , Nandino began to write his way out of the literary closet as well.
There is a high price on maintaining erotic dissidence; with the hostility and taunts, one needs to adopt a language that is seemingly neutral, one that continuously describes the most personal life experiences and offers them as an intense abstraction. The earlier language of the physician is still obvious, but the veiled, coded language has given way to simple, direct expression. That way we enjoy everything the clean and the dirty the impure and the holy which, in the end, is how we are: His work is generally described as accessible and unadorned.
His long life allowed him to explore these themes throughout his writing career. It does not matter to me how my life is judged. Cerca de lo lejos, , showed a radical change in style for Nandino. The long, formal nocturnes had been replaced with short, free-verse poems. Nearly deaf and blind, he lived alone, in a private world. He rose at 9: He ignored phone calls from Mexico City and declined all invitations to attend literary events Hernandez. He did, in fact, live his life exactly as he wanted, writing his poems until the very end.
Ediciones de Andrea, Cocula, Jalisco, Mexico, July 8, Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, Cerca de lo lejos. Erotismo al rojo blanco. Ayuntamiento de Guadalajara, Por ella fui lascivo y no he dejado puro ni un poro de mi cuerpo.
Sonata de otoño; Sonata de invierno: memorias del Marqués de Bradomín
In my lust for life not a single pore of my body remains pure. In the absence of hands, a new touch will spring forth to graze the intangible presence of our bodies. An oblivion of words will form a precise language to understand the glances of our closed eyes. Sleeping here in bed, our bodies will be like children huddled together as fear approaches Keep sleeping without seeing me, awake here beside you. Y en el azul que esconde la evidencia yo descubro tu faz inolvidada, y sufro la presencia de tu ausencia.
And in the blue that hides the proof I discover your unforgettable face, and suffer the presence of your absence. You are in me, a fervent pulse of my trembling nervous system, in my veins of stormy instinct, in the oceans of insomnia in my head.
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You are outside of me, like the slope of vague voices, of sobs, of edges of dark secrets, and the touch of absent caresses. You cover and uncover me, leaving no space without your presence, no atom without trace of your breath. Further than the names and touches, than the gray spider of the pubis, than the red mollusks of tongues. Further than voice and vice, than strong chains of heredity, than the clock of age, of innocence.
Further than the terror of shadows, than the luminous pulse of stars, than the subterranean scream of blood. Further than the torture of torsos, than the sea waters of kisses, than the blue waves of remembering. Further than the prison of embraces, than the eternal clamor of hope, than the smell of earth and branches. Further than frankness and cynicism, than the corporal tree surrounding around us, than the unquenchable thirst that defeats us.
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Tan lejos me distancio de mi mismo cuando estoy a la orilla de tus ojos que en la carera de mis pensamiento lo olvido todo Tan lejos es el mundo que me inspiras, que tengo miedo de seguir volando por sendas de dolor y de misterio y quedarme solo Es mejor que te quiera y no te piense, cuerpo a cuerpo vencidos por la llama del amor que encadena nuestras vidas. Es mejor que me quede emparedado en tu abrazo carnal que me destroza, en tu instinto animal que me consume.
Further than the network of senses, than the exciting poison of hysteria, than the sweet bitterness we feel. Further than where my thoughts roam when I forget the presence of your form and I shape you in the air of my dreams. Almost at the cosmic border of beginning, in the mind of God, in the disturbing unease of light and silence. I travel so far from myself when I am on the shore of your eyes, that my racing mind forgets everything I no longer want to escape my body, or turn you into my dreams.
Si arrastro lo que soy y lo llevo por el fuerte declive del silencio sin poder descansar con mis palabras. Si me pesa la vida y ya no puedo la piedra de mi historia acumulada. If I drag myself down the steep slope of silence without resting with my words. If life weighs me down and I can no longer carry the stone of my long history. I have no hands, I am incapable of caresses and touching, I am thaw of forgotten snows, I am man without name They can destroy your sweet-smelling vessel and turn your blood into bitter water like my blood Look for the peak on the blue wings of your dreams, and reach for the highest branch to pick the sweetest of fruit.
You are with me — maddening hell — trembling beside this charred body that does not feel the light of your look or your sharp, burning touch. Indifference — the death I feared — separates me from the your sobbing passions begging for my caress. Prisoners in this knot of agony, we are the echo of a distant love and we both cry together. You and I are no longer what we were together. We are someone else on this hidden cross — trembling, lifeless, weeping. Indifference erased what we dreamed of and the knot of our souls has become an anguish that buries us both. Me das la brisa que en tu boca anida y no puedo embriagar mi desconsuelo porque tu llama incita mi deshielo y me quema la hoguera de tu vida.
You give me a breeze from deep inside. The essence of your dream is not mine. Soy demonio que crece en tu sonrisa, el cielo asesinado en tus pupilas; la tragedia que amarga tu saliva con el raro sabor de mis instintos. I am the senile nest where your form is shaken — fuel of my fever — igniting the obsession of my desire and my envy of April in your cheeks.
I climb the summit of your restlessness to lower your modesties, naked, and wrap them with a skillful, ardent touch until they return with the hunger that hounds me. And you are, you must be, I feel it: Quiero ser el cadalso de tu fuerza; tu sombra, tu tristeza, tu fantasma; el gustano que muerde tu memoria y siempre te pronuncie mis palabras. IV Soy joven en tu cuerpo, soy tu muerte: Pero Santo o Demonio, soy tu centro; el amor con el odio de beberte; el viento que desata la marea en el desnudo mar de tu pureza.
Y tengo que vivir de tus anhelos, sangrar tu boca, y contagiar mi sombra en la luz infantil de lo que esperas y en la cruda verdad de lo que gozas. III I want to be the poison inside you; the good, the tremendous, the impossible, the angel and devil in one embrace; serpent and dove in your green branch. I want to be the scaffold of your strength; your shadow, your sadness, your specter; the worm that eats your memory and then speaks you as my words.
IV I am young in your body, I am your death: But, Saint or Demon, I am your center; the love-hate of drinking you; the wind that frees the tide in the naked sea of your purity. And I must live in your longings, bloody your mouth, and infect my shadow in the childlike view of your hopes, the raw truth of your desires. I want to climb the clouds of your dreams, take root in the light of your brain and enslave you with my thoughts. Dos vidas estoy viviendo en cada instante que pasa: I am living two lives in each instant that passes: From one life I create another and the two form my being.
A ciegas voy caminando por la orilla silenciosa de tu ausencia misteriosa donde te estoy escuchando. I walk blindly along the silent shore of your mysterious absence where I am listening to you. I know that searching accelerates my fall because my stubbornness to see you, to make your life reappear, hastens my own death.
Tu palabra desnuda y palpitante era sonido y eco, como si ya volviera fatigado de un lejano viaje. Todo en ti fue la vida de tu muerte, presentido y sentido un coloquio de sangre y de misterio habitando tu frente. You knew the expected delight of dying each day and had the power to look at death with your eyes closed. Your plain, vibrating word was sound and echo as if already returning tired from a faraway journey. The life of your death was everything anticipated and experienced a conversation of blood and mystery living within you. Your poetry cut like the edge of a thin metal blade not injuring the skin but within on its cold contact.
I hear your hidden voice; exposed, it scatters — more alive when unspoken, closer when hidden deeper. Y nadie, cuando duerme, acaso piense que yace en los dominios de la muerte: We do not miss our body, we do not suffer the absence of the skin which covers us; we are as we were before birth: On waking, none of us thinks that we were lying in the domain of death: How can I paint the hope born in my blood, the voice that circulates, my faraway stare, if the words are instances of agony transformed into echoes that die unexpectedly? I would rather force myself to feel what I feel than suffer in silence and appear to be calm.
A poet without words. What a terrible torment! My unexpressed voice has to kill me. If it was you, truthfully, the single cloud that paused its voyage beneath my eyelids and entered my blood, molding itself to my recent pain lightly, like a breeze, fragrant, almost the sound of angelic contact If it was you who, parting the dark quiet, appeared as if you were a spiritual image anxious to convince me that you go on, formless, living another life.
If it was you Los muertos, si es que vuelven, tal vez ya no conserven los peculiares rasgos que nos pudieran dar la inmensa dicha de reconocerlos. If they do return, perhaps the dead no longer have their unique features which would give us the good fortune of recognizing them. Who else could have come to visit me? I remember that I used to talk only with you about the loving siege that death wages against our life, and the two of us would talk, guessing, making conjectures composing questions, inventing answers, only to end up completely defeated, dying in life from thinking about death.
Now you already know how to unravel the mystery because you are in its lap, but I Tripping in the dark, we found that invisible space darkness forms with its wall of siege, and we found naked solitude all alone exhaling its empty beatings in silence. Nothing exists now and the two walkers, by different but painfully similar roads, frantically look for the luminous life of the fragile star they both put out.
One day, we will each tire of walking alone, lonely, through this eternal night and surround ourselves with our own lonely deaths; but then our deaths, with a new life, will save the star we lost from the shadows, and in its light we will already be invisible love. Las cuento, muchas veces, muchas veces Y si gozo al contar, es porque siento que busco a Dios, contando sus estrellas. I have counted them many, many times I stretch out and also limit myself to the defenseless contour that delivers me to the island of oblivion where I forget.
Beside him, sideways and rooted, I touch him, examine him from within: If I am his owner, why do I feel estranged from him disconnected from myself— shade of a tree — suffocating bark of my anguish, bandage that blindfolds me, fragile scaffold, magnet keeping me together and pulling me apart, matter that I drag and that drags me? This union of elements, this nest of physical battles, of incessant reactions, is my only support, the tragic origin of the force that sustains me even speaking all alone.
Todo vive latente en el silencio como en la sombra habita la luz muerta. Por eso, algunas veces, en la noche, cuando nada ni nada se denuncia porque tierra, horizonte, luto y nubes son una sola densidad sin labios: Everything lives latent in silence like the light of death inhabiting the shadow.
Sometimes at night then, when nothing is spoken earth, horizon, mourning and clouds form a single voiceless unity: Inaudible latir de excavaciones son las palabras idas que siguen existiendo, sin semblante, en el libre escondite del espacio. They are souls in grief imploring the instant that articulates the sonorous vertigo of their verb, or the ardent look of some eyes reading them in their grave of letters, exhuming their experience only to sink again to the renewed dawn of the image. You were born in me, entwined in a growing root, a cosmic knot; deep within me, the rambunctious colt longs for freedom, in love.
In Flames I Before I was born, when the galaxies were scarcely a shiver or a thirst in rotation through emptiness, or blood without the prison of veins; before being an anguished shadow pulsing in a tunic of sand, long, long before this body of mine knew hope and sorrow: I looked for your name, your likeness, the stray beating of your experience, your glance in the scattered clouds; because, before the delirious appearance of my blind instincts, longingly I already sensed your existence. II Who can I turn to in my torture? What divinity, which bright star can I ask to give this bitter sweetness to someone else?
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Who should I call in this dark, burning blood where I am dying? Who can I beg for a bit of tenderness in this pain of despair? Enabled Amazon Best Sellers Rank: Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. Showing of 2 reviews. Top Reviews Most recent Top Reviews. There was a problem filtering reviews right now.
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Elias Nandino: Selected Poems, in Spanish and English (Spanish Edition)
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