Lima: Peisa. 2023. 141 pages.
The reading of Estremecido verbo, the poetic anthology by Elvira Ordoñez, selected and introduced by Marco Martos, reveals the existence of a highly skilled poet whose verses fearlessly express the dilemmas of human experience with a genuine and unique voice. I read the poems from La palabra y su fuego (1960), for example, as if I were traversing an unknown, hidden, and solitary land. From this landscape emerges a poetic “I” that recognizes itself without fear, stripped of excessive verbal ornamentation, to express its desire of being, its hunger for life, as well as its desire for autonomy and infinity. In the opening poem, the presence of the poetic “I” intensifies as in the following verses: “si no atemorizo al frío con mi desnudez / y no me acerco al sol como si fuésemos iguales: / estoy perdida” [if naked I do not frighten cold / and do not approach the sun as equals: I am lost]. This possibility of getting lost and the symbol indicating her femininity inevitably reminds us of the historical quest for the human subject, especially for the female subject; in other words, the search for truth, for a symbol that marks the dignity of her existence. This desire is linked to a shadow—a recurring image in Ordónez’s poetry—to the dark side of human existence. Sometimes this shadow shows itself like an impulse towards violence and destruction, as in poem XIII: “Necesito asolar para alcanzar la plenitud humana, / no puede vivir mi tacto solo de ternuras. / La otra mitad del día está en la noche / La otra mitad del tiempo no transcurre” [I need to ravage to attain human fullness, / my touch cannot live solely on tenderness. / The other half of day is night, / the other half of time does not elapse].
Like in landscapes of chromatic words that reveal nuances and shadows, these poems express a constant reflection on the deepest human contradictions, a questioning of one’s own actions and desires. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the woman who speaks in this book creates herself in a multiple and contradictory manner. In other words, inside her, all forms and meanings come to life, like when she writes: “Pulpa de rosas soy / sólido mar y roca deshojada / soy multitud de vides donde se embriaga / el trueno / huerto de los volcanes de frutal llamarada” [Rose pulp am I / solid sea and shed rock / a multitude of vines where thunder gets drunk / garden of volcano fruit blaze]. Such representation, which enables the convergence of two entirely disparate elements that might even counteract each other, also articulates a new world that speaks genuinely of that human desire to be one’s own god, with all its implications. In reading this wonderful book, I find Vallejo’s legacy in the perplexing antitheses, the imprint of freedom, and the conciseness of a certain avant-garde attitude; that is, of rebellion, tender at times, in the face of an era in which men and women were shedding the tyranny of an alienating rationality. In Oración blasfema (1963), I find a theme that Ordóñez had addressed before: imprecations against man and violence. Her harsh and pessimistic tone does not prevent us from observing faith in a higher Other, a divine being which, paradoxically, is also called into question. For instance, “Poem IV” says: “Aún el hombre / es una bestia ardiendo sobre la estepa oscura / cuajada de dientes y de puños. Aún el hombre / es un aborto que el destino cobija / es que tal vez la Tierra no es la Tierra / sino un hosco desierto” [Even man / is a beast burning on the dark steppe / bristling with teeth and fists. Even man / is an abortion that destiny shelters / because perhaps the Earth is not the Earth / but a bleak desert]. Poem XI, in turn, transforms violence into a desire to unmask what is given as “good” or “right,” the “angelic” falls with blasphemous words: “Si tuviera un fuete flagelaría a los ángeles / me atragantaría su sangre y reiría hasta ganar mis rejas” [If I had a whip, I would flog the angels / I would choke on their blood and laugh until I win my cage]. After these poems, the theme of love becomes recurrent, the language changes and becomes clearer. In any journey, voyage, or river, there is a calm pool, and so this stage of Ordóñez’s poetry is characterized by tranquility, but it still points out what is unsettling. In the poems from Vivo en ti (1971) and Sea mi vida un rayo de tu amor (1974), affection towards the loved one and towards a God is addressed. Nevertheless, the poetic “I” continues to engage in contemplation regarding emotions such as solitude, orphanhood, and the abyss enveloping the individual who writes, lives, and loves. This is illustrated in “Como una noche” from Vivo en ti: “¿pero qué herida me vierte hacia el vacío? (…) Quiere asomar una oración / pero deshabitado el amplio cielo / me devuelve a mi abismo. / No es que quiera morir / ni es grave sentirnos muertos / es una de las tantas maneras de vivir” [But what wound pours me into the void? (…) A prayer seems to emerge / but the vast sky, uninhabited, / takes me back to my abyss. / It’s not that I want to die / nor is it grave to feel dead / it’s one of the many ways to live].
Her poems invite us to a fall, but also allow us to open our eyes to the mystery of human experience with astonishment and a veiled delight.
It’s difficult to explain the dazzlement and the experience of falling that Ordóñez’s poetry elicits in the reader. Of those lights that flash and scrape knees, as in Síntesis dinámica (1977), I will only say that anyone who reads the poems from this superb book will notice the deep love and necessary irreverence that the author holds for the Spanish language. Short but melodious, some verses are lullabies, games, landscapes of novelty and music.
I close mentioning two poems. One belongs to the book Abracanto (1982), and the other to Sinfonía de amor y contrapunto (1999). The first poem is titled “Tu fondo mi alma.” Any reader of this text will note the reference to a common human experience: childbirth. Men and women experience it differently, but Ordóñez manages to convey the experience of bringing someone into the world with the pain and emptiness it entails. It is possible to recognize ourselves in this poem, both in its beauty and its harshness. It is undoubtedly another type of love and pain that the poetic “I” decides to show us, much like lifting a veil denied for a long time. Magda Portal did something similar, and with words and styles very different from Ordóñez’s, so did the Peruvian poets of the 1980s. Lastly, in Sinfonía de amor y contrapunto, through the collective voice of a unified “us,” the poet conjures themes of love and solitude. An alternate reality forged through years molding language. The second part of the poem “Qué densidad” shows that the poetry of life, with all its lights and shadows, maintains an anchor in mystery. In affection lies its clearest shore, and in the verses compiled over time, there is a vast sea that she shares in this book with all of us. In the poem “Qué densidad” we read: “Íbamos y veníamos como fantasmas / contrastando identidades / a pesar de nuestros cuerpos / y nadie imaginaba / la ausencia que tenía adelante (…) hacia un espacio poblado de enigmas / para tal vez ubicarnos por breves instantes / porque en perpetua fuga / descorríamos velos / y asaltábamos nuevas esencias / ansiando el equilibrio / para no ser devorados / por nuestra azul vorágine”. [We came and went like ghosts / contrasting identities / despite our bodies / and no one could imagine / the absence that lay ahead (…) toward a space filled with enigmas / perhaps to find ourselves for fleeting moments / because in perpetual flight / we lifted veils / and seized new essences / yearning for balance / so as not to be devoured / by our blue maelstorm].
Reading Elvira Ordóñez’s poetry is a discovery to cherish. Her poems invite us to a fall, but also allow us to open our eyes to the mystery of human experience with astonishment and a veiled delight.
Translated by Amy Olen
University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee
