What container can hold all the tears? For the porteños of Buenos Aires, Malaga, Cádiz, Pireo, Tampico … the sea is a close friend, the lace of its foam dissolves the bad mood, the hair rocks its freedom with the wind and the sound of its song, it is saved to always in a snail.
Fortunately, because of its closeness, we live Sunday pictures: the laughter of a child who does not want to get out of the water, a mother teaches her son to fly a kite, the sand caresses and burns like a kiss, you sink your feet to feel, enjoy its softness.
Looking at the blue immensity, I think of Ramón López Velarde, on the occasion of the centenary of his death. Apparently, he was not fortunate enough to know the sea. The geography that he saw the most was arid, of valleys, mountains, dust.
His short life was scripturally prolific. He had an impossible, deep love for Fuensanta, Josefa de los Ríos, symbol of an ideal, of conscience, of chastity. In his book “The Devout Blood” in its second edition, her name already appears, leaving a clue for her biographers. The poet in his prologue wishes that his verses could defend themselves from the dust layer of time. Has your prophecy been fulfilled?
In 1908 his father died, the nostalgia for the irremediable, the lack of his voice, the absence led him to the pen, to the sheet that was going to wipe away his sadness. Thus, the poem “Sister make me cry” is like a plea, a lament, she needs to empty her pain.
And where does that anguish fit? He asks anaphorically, all the tears of the sea. Water on water.
Fuensanta: / do you know the sea? / They say it is less great and less deep / than regret. / I don’t even know why I want to cry: / it will be perhaps because of the sorrow that I hide, / perhaps because of my infinite thirst for love. / Sister: / give me all the tears of the sea.
With his verses he retains an instant, neither definitive nor categorical, oscillates like a pendulum between his unfulfilled wishes. Lopez Velarde’s work is literary roots, in its mirror is the everyday, the intimate, personal. With her, says Octavio Paz, Mexican poetry begins. Enjoy your Sunday and, if you go to the beach, remember the poets. Carpe Diem. _