Without a doubt, it is the worst writing that we have analyzed in the Iberian American and Mexican literature class. It is extremely long and difficult to understand, which makes it an extremely tedious reading. As a student, keep in mind the idea that the poem is cyclic and that Quetzalcoatl is described as a woman.

The length of this piece seems to stretch on endlessly, testing the patience of even the most dedicated readers. The complex language and convoluted structure make it a real challenge to penetrate its meaning. It feels as if the author has deliberately made it difficult to understand, perhaps to show off their literary prowess or to create an air of mystery.

However, despite its many flaws, there are still some interesting aspects to this work. The cyclic nature of the poem gives it a sense of repetition and rhythm, which can be quite hypnotic at times. And the description of Quetzalcoatl as a woman is a unique and thought-provoking concept that adds an extra layer of complexity to the narrative.

The edition (meeting the high standards of Gutenberg) with an excellent cover design, the poetic introduction of the translator, the Spanish original, the selective analysis of Pere Gimferrer, and the chronology of the life and works of Paz helps to highlight and understand a classic poem of the 20th century. And let's not forget the most important thing, the beautiful translation of Koutsourelis (which in many places seems to me to offer better solutions than the older translation of Giorgos Makris).

It is a river poem, 590 unstoppable lines without a full stop in their circular path, which means their unity first with lines that open and close the poem itself (which closes with a double full stop) - a Heraclitean intensity but also a harmony of the opposite pairs (anthropological, chronological, physical, ontological). It expands into the infinity of a space that recalls the grain of sand of Blake and comes and goes in the restless flow, where the moment commemorates eternity.

“In the paths of endless memory” run images that are present and create the poem - which rediscovers time, fusing its planes and historical events and people: Agamemnon, Cassandra, Socrates, Brutus, Lincoln, the Spanish Emilio, Trotsky, and also the archetypal Cain-Abel. People who are named, mythical and real, with their faces being the same at the same time. And an I that addresses one person with many names, the Beloved - as if being the intermediary, between humanity and nature, like a mystical word, earthly and sensual at the same time. Female forms appear, nothing seems stable, Mary, Persephone, and Eloisa… And yet, nothing happens (“nothing runs, the eye of the sun/ only plays, no movement/ or redemption” (489-91), only death forever...

It is an erotic word, hot on the rock of patience but with the diffused sun and the transparency of things (sometimes recalling Elytis), but should we call it an erotic poem? Of course, Cortázar knows something more when he calls it the “most beautiful erotic poem of Latin American literature”. However, this judgment does not mean that it is only that! Perhaps we would classify it restrictively like this - unless we remember the Primeval and Poetic Eros of a First Mover, and the anti-chrystalline zero (eros and death).

It is a stochastic word, it is the naked body and the soul that wander and roam endlessly in space and time, not being satisfied with an aesthetic or sensual life, but should we call it a philosophical poem? Perhaps we would restrict it like this again. The Sunstone does not have the “syllogisms” of the Four Quartets, but it realizes their line “in my end is my beginning”, nor does it have the obvious cosmological symbolism of a Nearer My God to Thee, but again the sun reigns in the body and in death.

In such poems, its reading refers, and this shows me how high a company the Sunstone keeps with Eliot and Valéry, but also with Rilke and the mystics. A supreme example of ontological poetry: because I am who I am only through the others, recognizing myself in them and integrating myself thanks to them - and to them I return, and “the world changes/ the two of them as if they know each other from the eyes” (374-5)!

(For those who prefer to emphasize the eroticism of the poem: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bq5IF...)

Some lines:

A presence like a sudden song,
two eyes that elevate the world
with all its seas and mountains,
a body of light that the jasper filtered...

Dressed in the color of my desires,
I pass through your eyes like through a spring,
in them the tigers drink a dream,
I pass through your gaze like through the moon,
as the cloud from your speculations,
I pass through your body like through a forest,
I walk in your sharp thoughts...

.....

Love is a battle when two love
the world changes, desires take on flesh,
thought takes on flesh and from the slave
the shoulders sprout wings, the world is true
the wine is wine again
and the water is water, bread with taste,
love is a battle, as if you open doors
and stop being just one more shadow,
chained with eternal chains
to an impersonal master.

Love is to take off your name...

.....

Life is never ours, it is
of others, it is of no one, we are all
life --
to be me I must be someone else,
to get out of myself, to seek myself in others,
the others who would not be if I did not exist...

Life is always someone else's, elsewhere, further,
beyond you or me, determining everything,
life that longs for us and divides us,
gives us a face and scratches it,
hunger for being"

....

I fell asleep on the rock of dreams
that does not see dreams, I heard my blood
in the rock the time prisoner to sing
one against one the strong groaned
at the walls all the gates were falling
and the sun raced on my forehead
it forced my closed eyelids
my being was torn from the flower of it
it was snatched from me and dragged
from the barbaric sleep of the rock of ages
and the magic of the image awoke."

PS. The “Kostas”, the poem for the poet’s friend Kostas Papaioannou, who came “from Greece, from the uprising and from prison”, “a cosmopolitan Greek of Paris, with one foot in Bactria and the other in Delphi”, cannot but move those who knew Papaioannou spiritually as a combative anti-totalitarian thinker, first in his pioneering and solitary analysis in the famous Genesis of Totalitarianism.

I search without finding, I write alone.

There is no one here, and as the day falls,

the year too falls, and I fall with the moment.

I descend to the depths, along an invisible path

over mirrors that repeat my shattered image.

I walk through the days, through the trampled moments.

I walk through all the thoughts of my shadow.

I walk through my shadow in search of a moment.

[...]

Does nothing happen as time passes by?

[...]

There is no redemption, time can never

turn back.

[...]

Every minute is eternally nothing.

[...]

— When was life ever truly ours?

When are we ever what we are?

We are ill-reputed, nothing more

than vertigo and emptiness, a frown in the mirror.

[...]

Life is never

truly ours, it always belongs to the others.

Life is no one’s, we all are life—

[...]

Life is other, always there,

further off, beyond you and

beyond me, always on the horizon.

Life which unlives us and makes us strangers,

that invents our face and wears it away.

Hunger for being, oh death, our bread.

[...]

I want to go on, to go further, and cannot.

As each moment was dropping into another

I dreamt the dreams of dreamless stones.

And there at the end of the years like stones

I heard my blood, singing in its prison.

And the sea sang with a murmur of light.

One by one the walls gave way.

All of the doors were broken down.

And the sun came bursting through my forehead.

It tore apart my closed lids.

Cut loose my being from its wrappers.

And pulled me out of myself to wake me

from this animal sleep and its centuries of stone.

And the sun’s magic of mirrors revived

a crystal willow, a poplar of water.

A tall fountain the wind arches over.

A tree deep-rooted yet dancing still.

A course of a river that turns, moves on,

doubles back, and comes full circle,

forever arriving.

The poetry collection of Lager is, of course, extremely magnificent.

It has wonderful visualizations and crazy imaginations, and has been able to connect mythical, fictional, and historical-political themes.

Previously, in the short review of "Dialectics of Solitude", it was also said that the interest and allusions of Octavio Paz to the era of myths and distances and the attempt to connect it with the historical era are also evident here and attracted my great attention; and also the debate between fleeting moments and the stillness of time.

Among the poems, I especially liked "The Stone of the Sun" and "The Wind from All Sides".

I hope I can soon return to this book again, study this collection with a more open mind, and write an extensive review on it, as it deserves.

Finally, the translation by Mir-Ali was very clear, and I learned from it... if only the translator would add some notes about the historical references in the poems (especially the main poem, "The Stone of the Sun") and write more about them.

The book is translated by Mir Ali and is examined in the Isfahan war collection. Of course, it is a bit late because he himself agrees with the view of the collection that the second half of the book has not been translated to the power of the first half of it. However, it is one of the best translations of poetry into Persian.

It is important to note that translations play a crucial role in making literature accessible to a wider audience. In the case of this book, Mir Ali's translation has brought the beauty of the original poetry to Persian speakers.

Despite the criticism about the uneven quality of the translation, it still has its merits. The translator may have faced various challenges in capturing the essence and nuances of the original work.

Overall, the examination of this translation in the Isfahan war collection provides an opportunity to further explore and appreciate the art of translation and the value it adds to the literary landscape.

Love is a powerful force that can transform everything and make it sacred.

Every room becomes the center of the world.

This is the first night when everything will happen, the first day:

When two people in love play a game.

The world is born.

A drop of light from the transparent interiors.

The room opens like a fruit.

And the rules that the mice have dug their holes.

The iron pillars of banks and prisons.

The pillars of official honors, the wire fences.

The invisible walls, the dusty masks.

That separate a person from another person.

And from himself.

All of these are demolished.

Loving is a war. If two bodies embrace each other.

The world changes. Desires become flesh.

Thoughts become flesh.

Wings sprout on the shoulders of prisoners.

The real and palpable world is created.

Wine becomes wine again.

Bread releases its smell again. Water becomes water again.

Loving is a war. It opens all the doors.

Loving is the flow of an individual from all names.

You are no longer a numbered shadow.

That the faceless master binds to the eternal chains.

The world changes.

If two people look at each other with recognition.

The poem begins with the flow of a river and ends in a similar way, drawing a circle, the circle of the very act of poetry. The readers go around this circle again and again, after a week, a month, five years. Jealousy towards the poet, Octavio Paz, for this poem that annuls time.

Envy towards the translator, Kostas Koutsourelis, for the horribly musical rendition of the poem, for the twelve notes at the beginning of the edition related to the translation, for the tearful like a river course of the translated lines.

A note from the translator: "I never fully believed in the trope of identity, of the –ideal– osmosis of form and content. If it were true, translation itself would be impossible. Because translation means precisely that, the shedding of form and its reconstruction with other means, elsewhere; an act of transubstantiation, as they have said. For five hundred years now we have been laboriously translating from the ancient and Latin, yet we cannot even imagine how a poem by Sappho or Catullus sounded in their time. Let the metrists and philologists say. The prosody of Aeschylus is as unknown to us as the music of his choruses. His words reach our ears voiceless."

At the end of the edition, yet another poem by Paz titled "Kostas", written for his beloved friend, the Greek philosopher Kostas Papaioannou. An elegy on spiritual friendship.

I pass through your eyes like I pass through water,

Eyes that bring
Dreams for drinking to its side
And golden birds become dusty in that soil,

I pass through your anticipation
Just like through the disc of the moon,

And through your thoughts just like through the clouds,

And through your bosom just like through a dream,

The sower shakes and reads your field,

A field of crystal and water,

Lips and the tip of the nose and your gaze,

Day and night you carry and with fingers of water
You comb my chest,

You bind my eyes with lips of water
You carry it in my bones,

And a liquid tree gives roots [of water] to the depths of my chest..

This beautiful piece of writing seems to describe a profound and intimate connection. It uses vivid imagery to convey the idea of passing through various aspects of a person, such as their eyes, anticipation, thoughts, and bosom. The mention of the sower and the field adds a sense of fertility and growth. The description of combing the chest with fingers of water and binding the eyes with lips of water creates a sensuous and almost magical atmosphere. Overall, it is a rich and evocative text that invites the reader to explore the depths of this connection.

Like a roadside gutter that meanders among the mountains,

and suddenly comes to an end at the edge,

I am walking along the edge of your thoughts.

This description creates a vivid image of a path that seems to have no clear destination, much like the meandering gutter. The use of the word "suddenly" adds an element of surprise and uncertainty, as if the end of the path is unexpected.

The phrase "walking along the edge of your thoughts" implies a sense of closeness and intimacy, as if the speaker is exploring the inner workings of the other person's mind. It also suggests a certain vulnerability, as the edge of something can be a precarious place to be.

Overall, this passage evokes a sense of mystery, beauty, and perhaps a touch of melancholy. It makes the reader wonder where the path will lead and what lies beyond the edge.

The Stone of the Sun, I got to know it fragmented through the song of Thanasis Papakonstantinou, but here, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

This particular edition also contains the poem 'Salamandra'. It's truly remarkable how these different elements come together to create a unique and captivating experience.

The mention of the Stone of the Sun in the song already piqued my curiosity, and now, seeing it in this context with the addition of the poem, it takes on a whole new dimension.

It makes me wonder about the deeper meanings and connections that might lie within these words and how they interact with each other.

Maybe there are hidden stories or emotions waiting to be discovered, just like the pieces of a puzzle that fit together to reveal a beautiful picture.

This edition seems to offer a rich exploration of these elements, and I can't wait to delve deeper and uncover all that it has to offer.

Sun Stone: Words Capture the Soul

I have read this poem more than ten times and memorized some parts of it, yet I still haven't grasped much from it. With all this, "Sun Stone" with the translation by Nabi Ahmad Mir'ali is one of the most beautiful and influential translated poems I have come across.

In this poem, we get lost and there is no way out.

Our fate drowns us in the abyss of the oceans and in weightless space. Look at a part of it and judge for yourself.

A blaze of light, a hazy coffee color

that the nightingale pursues

a girl who stole my gaze

on a moonlit branch bent by the green rain

countless tear-stained faces

I have forgotten your name, Melusina

Lora, Isabel, Phoebe, Mary

you are all those faces and none of them

you are all those hours and none of them

tree and cloud are the same

you are all those birds and a single star

you are on the edge of a sword

you are that bloody cup that the executioner raises

that little twist that goes forward, embraces the soul

takes root, and separates it from itself.

When the bodies of the current meet,

People flee from time

And become vulnerable.

"Stone of the Sun" is the title of a selection of poems by the famous Mexican poet "Octavio Paz" which has been translated by "Ahmad Mir-Alai". (Or perhaps it was translated. When the poet is dead and the translator is also dead, the verbs don't have the strength to come to the present tense and we have to make a big effort and persuade them with misfortune that the effect of a work of art doesn't end with the death of the artist. So please come and don't be in the past.)

The copy that I read was published in 1973 by Zaman Publications. Besides a short introduction about the poet and the long poem "Stone of the Sun", the book also includes six other poems of his.

Paz also won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1990 in recognition of his almost fifty years of effort for poetry and Mexican literature.

In my opinion, the colorful themes in these poems, especially in "Stone of the Sun" which is the longest and most brilliant of them, are war, humanity, love and time. I especially emphasize on love and time because many of the beautiful images, discoveries and events within the poems are created based on the gap between these two themes. I bring here a few examples that I like:

"Then time firmly grasps its windy moment

And behind its images nothing trembles

The instant struggles within itself and becomes a swimmer"

"Now that moment approaches

Comes gently

Leaves itself in another moment and that moment disappears quietly"

"Loving war is

If two bodies embrace each other,

The world changes, desires take on flesh,

Thoughts take on flesh,

On the shoulders of the captives, wings sprout"

"You are no longer a numbered shadow

That an anonymous master chains to eternal chains

Subjugates"

"This is not us who live

This is time that strikes us"

Paz especially uses myths such as Greek myths and references to external narratives about myths a lot in his poems and in some places, it can be said that the poems take on a story-like and narrative space which is one of their attractions.

The space of the poems transmits emotions such as sadness, joy, pride and bitterness to the reader and especially in some lines, for the Iranian reader familiar with the splendor and interaction of his poems, there are such feelings or at least, I had such a feeling. I don't know if this is a characteristic of discoveries and similar events or it is the translation of Mir-Alai and his effort to bring Paz's poems closer to the more familiar structure of free Persian poetry. But in any case, it is not something annoying and on the contrary, it is also charming.

I recommend reading this small selection and I myself am sorry that except for the scattered poems here and there, I never tried to read a collection of his works.

And I thank the sleepless dawn of Thursday that brought "Stone of the Sun" out of my old files and put it in my way.