Bamm Bamm Cartoon Part 1

All Maruja Vieira lives. By Ivan Beltran Castillo. Con-romancing No. 122 and 123.

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derivative and complementary to the TERTULIA WHITE

and those of Robert Blake White , John Henry White , his great-grandfather,

that of Enrique Uribe White to that of Rafael Uribe Uribe

of and BERNARDO GONZALEZ WHITE.

lick on each underlined title to go there
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All Maruja Vieira lives

By Ivan Beltran Castillo
Con-romancing No. 122 http://con-fabulacion.blogspot.com/2007/08 / all-the-lives-of-housewife-vieira.html

Maruja Vieira is, along with Dora Castellanos, Meira sea and Matilde Espinosa, one of the female voices essential in modern Colombian poetry and not have to force the language to put the label of classic. Born in Manila in 1922, teacher, journalist, traveler, author of copious prefaces and cultural manager, has remained true to his creative work, attested by titles like rain bell, January Poems, Names of absence, time to live, My own words or Shadow of love, all that has earned him awards and accolades, the most notable of all their income to the Colombian Academy of Language.
In the following interview, the interviewer and the person seeking to go beyond the literature review, sometimes as fossilized, make a pact, establishing a link, and partially traced through the world of this unique woman. Tribute. Still
the Jacobin dream of Bogota. It seems strange, but this creature, the Los Laches area or San Victorino, his features and the picture, the ominous glow of the peat seeking freedom French invented the guillotine, the frenzied acolytes of Robespierre and Marat. She was standing in front of the store Glottman Jack in the very center of the city, whose gaunt face crosses a border or have had countless vigils, one hand clenched and the other wielding a fiery stick, uttering inflammatory statements, perhaps drunk or simply inhabited by the glare Gaitan. It was the infamous mythical April 9, 1948, and a crowd that seemed the synthesis of human despair, indulged in a kind of carnival funeral may searching, candid and brutal, the eyes of the leader lost re-opened. You were very young and witnessed the first metamorphosis of a city stabbing intended both as a perpetual winter eternal drought, both peace silly as endless war, and in which all ended up feeling orphaned. You worked with but never Glottman and comforted the methods and practice style that almost all employers, you had a great appreciation for this merchant. So, once turned on the mob after the assassination of Gaitán, made to put on the Colombian flag in the window ostentatious. Then, when the crowd arrived, hungry flames abrasive, noting the gesture of brotherhood, stood as reading a message that the confused, was silent for a moment and withdrew without triggering your anger. You watch all this with the heart stopping, but even to the most imperceptible of images disturbed the senses, that you stayed forever was the Jacobin Bogota, installed there in front of the store Glottman as if it were against the Bastille.
Since then dream about it. It's a bunch more of the splendid living your nights, walks through scenarios leakage of your nocturnal walks through the cities you wish and infested stands gloriously dreamlike visions. But many returning or simply born with the night and their mounts, loves, relatives, accomplices, undaunted heroes of the cities where to stay, bystanders watched a few times, your mother at the end of a ladder, insignificant beings with marketable than just one or two sentences, enigmatic strangers who feel intimate, an ancestor named White that sailed in the upper Cauca, a dog lover whose end was no less impressive than the final of the men, poets and painters, "sailors wandering lost sea ", rebels, adventurers, Gypsies and Flamenco seen in Europe, coffee pickers, utopians, academics, anarchists and blessed, and iconoclastic conservative, some truncated early and others not yet acquired the prestige and rutilancia death.
-Dreaming is not very different from writing poems, you tell me, there are two jobs that need each other, fed each other and are, to the dismay of the very real finesse exercises selflessly cusps contemplation, vigorous redefinition of the meeting. So, you practice one of these two disciplines delicious, you think you perilously close to the elusive truth, you become more human, and most mysterious woman. Delight you and thanks you enjoy these adventures, not to be anything other than to say it with the formidable blind, a lengthy guided dream.
When I ask how you started to fall in love with writing, as you enter the great rite of the poem, at what point you decided to grab a pencil and write down the first sentences, to set encapsulate memories and dreams, you say you do not know accurately, and perhaps most difficult has been the original home of the deep steppe childhood spent in the city of Manizales. In this family, tell me, poetry was in his own chair, was a tangible entity, and we all visited as a redeeming kinsman. Readings from major authors, night talk shows and discussion of sensitivities, how to look alert pupil neatness of nature, and the fact of having a good library where lost and ecstasy, founded your identity, gave birth to "the voice ".
not you feel embarrassed to say that poetry is closer to religion than any other body, that its light passes inviolable and shapes consciousness in the way of the gods all-embracing, benevolent or terrible. Only be understood in this way, I am assured, can be explained why when you suffer the invasion and no way back, and you have to endure in the maintenance of his elusive substance.
WORDS AND TIME
"My life has been a long journey," he says with an air-navigation peripatetic until this moment, met the 87, seems to stand a little. When he was just ten years, my father, Joaquin Vieira, one of the men who shaped the image of Manizales and the department of Caldas, and who never stopped working with an almost disturbing discipline, he moved to Bogota. It was the encounter with which we seem so formidable a city full of news and where life was still stained with atrocious grimace wild modernity. Just beginning to roll the thirties. It was here that we find our way, I that our search for the answer to our thirst. In this city I became a poet, writer, worker, official, and Gilberto, my brother, my unforgettable accomplice and who argued the roughest and warm conversations, it became a Marxist and Bolshevik faith, belief that it would faithful to the end of his days.
remember the hard times ever visited your family, when poverty, whose influence began to grow tragically lethal everywhere, slipped through windows and doors of the house temporarily, was installed in the rooms and halls and turned cupboard in a desert. It was an atonement that you showed the tiger's claw of reality the voracious appetite of the most successful and legitimate arguments of the excluded, and perhaps why, despite not fully communicate with their dogma, including the stubborn fight your brother Gilberto in favor of the dispossessed. You know since then that poverty is an economic state but a state of soul, and it resembles a talanquera destined not let us sail the horizon, a closely related uncertainty injustice, insularity and death. These extreme and unforgettable days-little bread shortages, few vegetables, modest dresses, little coin-clinking teach you much about the human condition, and that is why the grateful nonetheless. Had it not been for them might Your words, your poems, your clairvoyance, would not be touched in such a soft and melancholy music.
"The women of those days-accounts to enlighten me about your youth Bogota, appeared exclusively for the role of mothers, obedient wives hidden vassal, submissive bishops of a world built by the sensitivity, not infrequently lewd and crude, the conventional men, most distant find your evaded sensitivity, prisoners in jail for a impostada hardness.
But you were not going to easily accept such meager, insubstantial destination, so you left early on the twisting streets for what seemed an obscure decree. Then you made all sorts of studies of trade ("were not academic and therefore were good," said ironically) and then, under the menace of inquisitorial eyes, commands the platoon of the first women who came to work in factories, offices, trade. Worked in various places, including in real-Dutch airline KLM, the store Glottman and National Service-Learning-Seine, where he remained for about sixteen years, but at the same time, as the footprint of an interiority that refused to surrender to the onslaught of everyday prose, start your creative work, something like counting and the sensitive memory of your life, and whose first fruit was the bell of rain poems appeared in 1947 under the imprint of Iqueima, Clement angry.
He has not spent a single day, "Rodriguez says that has not been enshrined in the glow of poetry, expressed not only in the writing of poetry but, more importantly, as an attitude and an ethic, a form of embrace the universe, to understand as much as possible our inscrutable lives. Poetry is a kind of sentinel of the human condition, and who exercise it acquires an immediate commitment to others and, more seriously, to himself.
That way, your figure-tall, imposing, dragging a sort of cryptic-imposed fine in the salons, cafes, theaters, universities, and in all places where culture is revered as the only way that men have to face the abyss. With Cecilia Umaña Fonseca and Emilia Pardo you were the first women who entered the thick smoke Automatic Coffee, scene of the great intellectual comedy for decades, and there you went to be a sort of muse, a small chosen, which provided coffee Cerrera therefore had not yet become fashionable women writers drunk. Thanks to that
Rose up with an impressive fraternity of friends, and absorbed almost all of eternity, but lingers in your memories and dances in your words: Jaime Ibáñez, Aurelio Arturo, Cecilia Porras, Fernando Charry Lara, Jorge Gaitán Durán, Leon de Greiff, Eduardo Carranza, Carlos Martin and Dora Castellanos and, above all, your great teacher, the giant Bible León Felipe, who learned the craft of the poets has the dignity and decorum of the farmers.
now says that, though independent to the burning at the forefront in the deepest sense of the word is worn out, wandering with a sensitivity that should be difficult to understand for many men, you had your appointment on time with the love and enjoy their fate beautiful. His name was José María Vivas Balcazar, and was also a poet. If modernity tolerate the expression could say that was the man in your life. All steps of the ideal romance in that relationship were present unforgettable sunset passion that challenges the routine, the complicity that softens the world aggression, eroticism and sadly fleeting imitation of all, imagination twin festivals, literature - the fellowship of hope and then - abruptly presenting the intervention of the greedy death. The cherished companion, you married one day, would sculpt from his own myth, and leaving you a trail of memories: the collapse of the reality was carbon and nutrients in your work. "I live
always face the need to oblivion, tell me now, and I notice that your words are vital, they jump like fish, which are not contaminated by despair. In me a legion of dead, missing those who intend to stop.
recall, thanks to your last sentence, that sentence of Lawrence Durrell by which all are buried very deep sighs, and long for someone to rejoin the world of the living and, therefore, all have a lineage of sighs death.
"My life has been a long journey," he repeated again, as a leitmotiv, "was just that sometimes real and other imagery. Actual routes also occupied my days. I traveled a lot but I never degraded to the status of tourist. Remember those delightful oddities that I made especially Galicia. It was like deja vu, because there on the Camino de Santiago, I was sure that I came from there. Of course I can not forget the English Channel, the lovely city of Popayan ("to exist there must be a relative of a statue"), the febrile Santiago de Cali ("I lived in it a few years fever") and the impetuous Caracas : are different routes and different points of arrival to serve a single destination
THE DIVINE TRAGEDY fifty
-Wear war years seeing across my door, "says then occupying this space," small wars, like the other, one more absurd than the other, and all of infinite cruelty, violence of all colors, all sides, of all factions, have passed to darken our days. Few people here have no dates, anecdotes that would be worthy of hell. Every morning for the past fifty years, the nation out of sleep, I have hope that the tragedy, pain and crime have died in the evening.
"But wait until the end of the tragedy is like waiting for death to death," continued, "you last for eternity waiting. Little or nothing is known except that everywhere beat the symbols of the carnage.
"are wrong-pointing of enviable conviction-those who believe that the solution to our hard this can be found in the political sphere. Although I admired some of their makers, starting with Luis Carlos Galan, I think she is shallow, hollow and uncertain. I, unlike my brother Gilberto, I attempted to live away from their misleading influence. Only poetry can give us some answers.
"I had to get close to the tragedy when it caught my loved ones, when he violated his gardens and brought down its doors. To illustrate suffice to remember me for my dear friend Maria Mercedes Carranza dead in self-defense from an overdose of reality.
But I smile again, to the memory of poetry and poets. As a teacher, and sworn eternal prologue, a figure that most young people seek to "tune the sacred instrument" you know that while there is hope there will be creative imagination (and all medals and decorations together are equivalent to the light and hope in the eyes of a young poet "), and to prove it I talk with words exalted some small demiurges: Estada Lucia, Andrea Cote, Federico Díaz-Granados and of course your daughter Ana Mercedes Vivas, inherited the passion for the word and who is neither more nor less than the offering festive won you love ... They all work, assures me, to go against the mess and fatality.
Yes, come back to me again, my life has been a long journey, which until this moment, met the 87, seems to stand a little.
You know I have lived many lives, not one woman has been undisturbed, but they've moved faces as the actors move from Japanese theater masks, and then assure me understand poetry because otherwise the time , their whims, their metamorphosis, their stunts, and that mediation has allowed you to quell the fierce volley from the cold.
And I imagine in high uncertainty a year ago, rotting in the universal graveyard of memory or is it just a dream of future germ line, straight on your papers, setting storms and sunsets, and forgotten love, hugs and absences
... Your right hand across the paper from one side to another, like the ghost through a wall .... ++++++++

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Date: Thu, 11 Feb 2010 12:13:18 -0500 Subject
: Con-romancing No. 123, Uribe knocked to the Court
From: confabulacion22@gmail.com
Maruja Vieira
Unpublished The interview with the great poet Maruja Vieira Caldas aroused great anxiety among our readers, many of which, thanks to the disdain of poetry publishers, have not read his works. Well, later presented an unpublished text, where you can appreciate her painstaking lyrical wisdom, his commitment to the accuracy of the word and its constant invocation of the deepest reality.

FRIDA hundred years old

In the Blue House in Coyoacan
are huge shoes
of Diego Rivera;
there are lots of skirts,
necklaces, belts,
the terrible metal braces. Fridas
and many Fridas,
not need to dance
feet in the air.


no party tonight at the Blue House.

In another house a nearby street, a shadow
thin
looks out the window.


is someone that when he was alive
moved mountains. His name was Leon Trotsky

and say he loved her ...

Frida, happy birthday!

(July 6, 2007)

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updated: NTC ... / degrees. February 11, 2010, 3:13 a.m.