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Tuesday, August 5, 2008
"My father, an immigrant"
Status: Normal
Reading: Poem Gerbasi
E l Weather: Sunny with clouds
The Word: Gerbasi
Reading: Poem Gerbasi
E l Weather: Sunny with clouds
The Word: Gerbasi
time ago in school they sent me to make an analysis of the poem "My father, an immigrant" by Vicente Gerbasi, who was a Venezuelan poet with great experience in national literature. The poem is relatively long, has a great significance on immigration. Consists of several stanzas, so I show only the first:
Canto I
We come at night and into the night going.
lies behind the earth in their vapors
home to Almond, the child and the leopard.
Gone are the days, lakes, snow, reindeer, with volcanoes
grim, haunted jungles
where dwell the blue shadows of terror.
Gone are the tombs at the foot of the cypresses,
alone in the sadness of distant stars.
Gone are the glories like torches blasts off
secular.
complaining Gone are the doors in the wind. Back
distress is mirrored sky. Back
time drama remains in man
begetter of life, death begetting.
time raising and wears columns
and murmurs in the ancient waves of the sea.
Back light is bathing the mountains,
parks white children and altars.
But the night with cities suffering,
night daily, which is not night yet, but rest
brief shaking at the fireflies
or passes through the shock of agony souls.
The night falls again into the light, waking
flowers in valleys taciturn,
cooling water in the lap of the mountains, throwing
blue horses into banks, while
eternity between lights of gold,
silent meadows astronomical advances.
We come at night and into the night going.
lies behind the earth in their vapors
home to Almond, the child and the leopard.
Gone are the days, lakes, snow, reindeer, with volcanoes
grim, haunted jungles
where dwell the blue shadows of terror.
Gone are the tombs at the foot of the cypresses,
alone in the sadness of distant stars.
Gone are the glories like torches blasts off
secular.
complaining Gone are the doors in the wind. Back
distress is mirrored sky. Back
time drama remains in man
begetter of life, death begetting.
time raising and wears columns
and murmurs in the ancient waves of the sea.
Back light is bathing the mountains,
parks white children and altars.
But the night with cities suffering,
night daily, which is not night yet, but rest
brief shaking at the fireflies
or passes through the shock of agony souls.
The night falls again into the light, waking
flowers in valleys taciturn,
cooling water in the lap of the mountains, throwing
blue horses into banks, while
eternity between lights of gold,
silent meadows astronomical advances.
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