On Ruins

I am near the end of a directed reading on 20th century Mexican poetry with my adviser. Each week I read from the works of one or two poets, usually focusing on what one might call their "greatest hits" or their most important books, while also focusing on my chosen dissertation topic, ruins and metaphors of ruins. It is interesting how when one decides to focus on a certain topic, it seems to emerge everywhere. That was my experience in my M.A. program when I focused on ghosts, and it has been my experience thus far as I have figuratively explored the ruins of Mexico as represented in the great poems of its native sons and daughters. 

I use the term ruins loosely. While sometimes it refers to a literal monolith or structure, or the remains of past civilizations, often it is more of a metaphor, or even way of seeing Mexico, or an aspect of its culture (politics, urban life, etc.) as a whole. In the poem "El retorno maléfico," by Ramón López Velarde, the poetic voice describes a provincial town decimated by the violence of the Mexican Revolution, as if it were a ruin. A once vibrant town, full of life, children's voices, and the sounds of animals now consists of a few abandoned houses and buildings whose adobe walls, riddled with shrapnel, are falling. The remains of the town are a material byproduct of the ideological struggle that defined Mexico in the early 20th century and transformed much of López Velarde's beloved provincia into a wasteland. Juan Rulfo's vision of rural Jalisco after the revolución and the Crisitada war is similar, a dustland populated by ghosts, decaying pueblos, and broken families.

In some places the past is more present, in the U.S. we have done a better job of forgetting the past of a place. The task is easier in a country so young. In the U.S., what remnants there are of past cultures or peoples usually exist only as place names. One of the things about Mexico that fascinates me is that there are literal ruins just about everywhere. As my professor jokingly said to his class today, "You only have to stir up the dust in Mexico City and you'll find a piece of Tenochtitlán." For those of you not familiar with Mexico City, I'll explain. Just to the northeast of the main plaza (El Zócalo), there is a huge excavation site where in the late 60's or early 70's, archaeologists began to uncover the ruins of the Templo Mayor, the main religious site of the Aztec capital, Tenochtitlán. Some utility company workers had dug below the streets to put in some new water pipes or phone lines (I don't recall exactly) and they found the foundations of the Templo Mayor. Since then much more has been excavated and it is a fully functioning archaeological cite and museum. Right at the center of a major metropolitan city you can see the remnants of a building where more than 500 years ago mass human sacrifices were made by a culture that now only exists as an echo. Mexico City was literally built on the foundations of Tenochtitlán after the Spanish conquest in 1517, the city is an architectural palimpsest.

Some of the poets I've read (e.g. Octavio Paz) have several poems about literal ruins while others, such as Jaime Sabines write more about the present and every day life. Others still write more metaphysical or religions poems in an esoteric or hermetic style (e.g. Alí Chumacero, José Gorostiza). Yet, despite their specific interests, all of them seem to write about ruins in one way or another. Jaime Sabines, who wrote an incredible poem about the death of his father, implies that, though his father is no longer alive, as long as he, the son, remembers him, el mayor Sabines will continue to live. One could argue that, genetically, our ancestors are alive and present in us. Although their bones have long since turned to dust, their DNA lives on, and their biological memory continues in us. Efraín Huerta is known as a poet of the city. His poems often deal with his love/hate relationship with Mexico City and Mexican politics. For that reason I was somewhat surprised to find a poem by him that is about a literal ruin, El Tajín in Veracruz Mexico. In this post, I've tried to talk about what a ruin is and what a ruin does. I don't think I've done a very good job of explaining what I understand a ruin to be, but this poem by Huerta does. If you don't read Spanish, you can find a translation here. (Remember, it's a three part poem, so if you read it in English, be sure to click the "Next Page" button at the bottom of each section, it's sort of hidden). Also, if you've taken the time to read this much, read the poem and leave a comment. Gracias.

El Tajín

  a David Huerta

a Pepe Gelada

...el nombre de El Tajín le fue dado por

los indígenas totonacas de la región por la

                    frecuencia con que caían rayos sobre la pirámide...

1

Andar así es andar a ciegas,
andar inmóvil en el aire inmóvil,
andar pasos de arena, ardiente césped.
Dar pasos sobre agua, sobre nada
—el agua que no existe, la nada de una astilla—,
dar pasos sobre muertes,
sobre un suelo de cráneos calcinados.

Andar así no es andar sino quedarse
sordo, ser ala fatigada o fruto sin aroma;
porque el andar es lento y apagado,
porque nada está vivo
en esta soledad de tibios ataúdes.
Muertos estamos, muertos
en el instante, en la hora canicular,
cuando el ave es vencida
y una dulce serpiente se desploma.

Ni un aura fugitiva habita este recinto
despiadado. Nadie aquí, nadie en ninguna sombra.
Nada en la seca estela, nada en lo alto.
Todo se ha detenido, ciegamente,
como un fiero puñal de sacrificio.
Parece un mar de sangre
petrificada
a la mitad de su ascensión.
Sangre de mil heridas, sangre turbia,
sangre y cenizas en el aire inmóvil.

2

Todo es andar a ciegas, en la
fatiga del silencio, cuando ya nada nace
y nada vive y ya los muertos
dieron vida a sus muertos
y los vivos sepultura a los vivos.
Entonces cae una espada de este cielo metálico
y el paisaje se dora y endurece
o bien se ablanda como la miel
bajo un espeso sol de mariposas.

No hay origen. Sólo los anchos y labrados ojos
y las columnas rotas y las plumas agónicas.
Todo aquí tiene rumores de aire prisionero,
algo de asesinato en el ámbito de todo silencio.
Todo aquí tiene la piel
de los silencios, la húmeda soledad
del tiempo desecado; todo es dolor.
No hay un imperio, no hay un reino.
Tan sólo el caminar sobre su propia sombra,
sobre el cadáver de uno mismo,
al tiempo que el tiempo se suspende
y una orquesta de fuego y aire herido
irrumpe en esta casa de los muertos
—y un ave solitaria y un puñal resucitan. 

3

Entonces ellos —son mi hijo y mi amigo—

ascienden la colina

como en busca del trueno yel relámpago.

Yo descanso a la orilla del abismo,

al pie de un mar de vértigos, ahogado

en un inmenso río de helechos doloridos.

Puedo cortar el pensamiento con una espiga

la voz con un sollozo, o una lágrima,

dormir un infinito dolor, pensar

un amor infinito, una tristeza divina;

mientras ellos, en la suave colina,

sólo encuentran

la dormida raíz de una columna rota

y el eco de un relámpago.

Oh Tajín, oh naufragio,

tormenta demolida,

piedra bajo la piedra;

cuando nadie sea nada y todo quede

mutilado, cuando ya nada sea

y sólo quedes tú, impuro templo desolado,

cuando el país-serpiente sea la ruina y el polvo,

la pequeña pirámide podrá cerrar los ojos

para siempre, asfixiada,

muerta en todas las muertes,

ciega en todas las vidas,

bajo todo el silencio universal

y en todos los abismos.

Tajín, el trueno, el mito, el sacrificio.

Y después, nada.

Junio de 1963

Poesía Completa. México: FCE, 1988. 241-43