Bruce Dean Willis

is Professor of Spanish and Comparative Literature at The University of Tulsa. His research and publications focus on diverse aspects of poetry and performance, and expressions of Indigenous and African cultures, in Latin American literature, particularly Brazil, Chile, and Mexico.

TIME FOR CHOCOLATE is available for purchase through One Act Play Depot! A brief description:

An intoxicating evening of music, poetry, and chocolate... in pre-conquest Mexico!
Based on a fifteenth-century dialogue among nobles schooled in rhetoric and philosophy, the play pits father against son in a war of words over the power and beauty of artistic expression.
Showing posts with label sonnets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sonnets. Show all posts

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Americatlas

Nevados paisajes septentrionales:
longitudes descienden ríos helados,
lagos por canoas atravesados,
pueblos con bienes, redes transversales. 

Cordilleras que acaban tropicales:
cabos, islas, volcanes emplumados,
terrenos por manos pardas sembrados,
abundantes lluvias ecuatoriales. 

El águila y el cóndor, por los vientos,
espían picos blancos, playas mansas,
selvas talladas pero renacidas. 

Sobrevuelan el cono estrecho cientos 
de aves que ejecutan aéreas danzas.
Hasta el finisterra son detenidas. 

Monday, May 14, 2012

El cofre de tesoro

Hallarás este cofre de tesoro
en alguna antología ocultada,
y una vez la gran tapa levantada,
verás puras frases labradas de oro.

Voces, palabras, y signos de un foro,
las letras en multitud combinada,
formarán la escena cristalizada:
mímicas del habla, como de un loro.

No podrás vencer la amarga sorpresa.
No hay cálice, corona ni amuleto,
ni rastros de piratería ilesa.

Mas descubrirás el magno secreto:
el cofre es la poética belleza,
y el único botín, este soneto.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

María Lionza

Monumento María Lionza, Caracas


Cabalga, de ancas anchas, en la danta.
Caza el chigüire y rastrea el jaguar.
Danza, ágil, ataviada con cocar,
y así al amante lo atrapa, y lo encanta.

Madre será, de una abundancia tanta
que esparce hijas por la selva a poblar,
las cascadas y plantas a animar.
De mama amplia, a la Amazonia amamanta.

Sus aguas inundan como su pelo.
Nadan en ellas las yaras hermanas,
más la anaconda, rayo, falo de aros.

María de la Onza no ostenta velo:
la milagrosa labra, sin sotanas
y en pieles planetarias, votos raros.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

En el Cerro Santa Lucía

Espejos hechos caudales, lluvias transparentes
nos iluminan en el Cerro Santa Lucía:
por el cielo harto, cristalino, de mediodía
vibran ondas intensas, andinas, relucientes.

Subimos y bajamos, en curvas cual serpientes,
entre estatuas, arcos, fuentes, untada alegría.
Con prisa o con pereza llega la epifanía
de vernos y conocernos entre tantas gentes.

Y en el silencio de la cima, el gran panorama:
la ciudad tendida, la cordillera pintada;
la brisa que nos abraza, a veces aun a besos,

y nos susurra, con cosquillas, el común drama
de la jornada del sol por la noche tapada
y la sangre fugaz que surge de nuestros huesos.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Lost Legends Triptych: Sonnet III

A beira do amplo rio inacabável,
deliravam soldados acabados:
numa beligerância formidável,
caiam os companheiros flechados.

Mas a força guerreira inexorável,
eram mulheres de seios cortados?
De cabelo longo e rosto implacável,
as Amazonas de arcos alongados?

Viram o que viram, ou o que quiseram?
Desvairaram, inventaram, fizeram?
Todos levamos, como com cadeia,

o que não podemos deixar de ver,
o que não devemos deixar de crer:
o Colombo atônito ante a sereia.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Lost Legends Triptych: Sonnet II

Escondida está la ciudad dorada,
sus tesoros envueltos en maraña.
Los fieles locales guardan con saña
su secreto, cual súplica sagrada.

Quien encuentre la entrada deseada
tendrá que dominar fuerza con maña:
el cacique, que en su lago se baña,
a sus guerreros manda a la emboscada.

Y El Dorado zambulle entre destellos
de su antiguo museo sumergido.
Sus riquezas son los reflejos bellos

de lo que los iberos no han intuido:
que en vez de espadas clavar en poblados,
hubieran aprendido a echar clavados.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Lost Legends Triptych: Sonnet I

Of youth the fountain Spaniards sought in vain,
its spurting plumes imagined, jets of froth,
crystalline showers of nourishing broth,
miraculous relief from age and pain.

Perhaps the font, difficult to obtain,
surged hidden from a swamp or barren swath.
Would it be wont to bathe bereft of cloth,
or only drops upon the tongue to rain?

The puzzle ground down into sterile loam.
The searchers were not used to giving up.
Had they but thought to make by hand the foam,

upon its form to ponder and to sup,
then youth had sprung from joyful font of bone,
its essence to imbibe from rustic cup.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Echoes of Nezahualcoyotl

A Brief Commentary on “Tezcotzinco” by Alan Seeger

Though thou art now a ruin bare and cold,
Thou wert sometime the garden of a king.
The birds have sought a lovelier place to sing.
The flowers are few. It was not so of old.

It was not thus when hand in hand there strolled
Through arbors perfumed with undying Spring
Bare bodies beautiful, brown, glistening,
Decked with green plumes and rings of yellow gold.

Do you suppose the herdsman sometimes hears
Vague echoes borne beneath the moon’s pale ray
From those old, old, far-off, forgotten years?

Who knows? Here where his ancient kings held sway
He stands. Their names are strangers to his ears.
Even their memory has passed away.

Alan Seeger (1888, United States-1916, France), a poet and soldier who died in battle in WWI, is perhaps best known for his poem “I Have a Rendezvous with Death.” Seeger spent part of his youth in Mexico and decided to write about Tezcotzinco, the park and spa designed by 15th-century tlatoani Nezahualcoyotl for his own use, not far from his palace in Texcoco (present-day Mexico state). Maybe Seeger felt an affinity with Nezahualcoyotl, a fellow poet. Chapultepec Park in Mexico City, also originally designed by Nezahualcoyotl, is infinitely more utilized as an actual park, but I have a feeling that the Tezcotzinco park area is not as abandoned or forgotten today as Seeger’s poetic voice suggests. Nonetheless, the sonnet is a finely wrought treatment of the ubi sunt theme in a Mesoamerican setting.

The first quatrain, in spite of the elevated register, and in spite of referring to the garden that the ruin once was, consists of short phrases that describe the ruin’s absence of life and movement. In contrast, the second quatrain, evoking the garden of old, is one long, lush phrase. It is linked to the end of the previous quatrain through the anaphora “It was not,” but it is much more extensive, and suggestive of a Garden of Eden. Colors abound (brown, green, and the pleonasm “yellow gold”), with ornamentation, perfume, and movement (the “bare bodies” stroll and glisten). For extra measure, Seeger bestows on “Spring” the modifier “undying,” an ironic choice given the poem’s theme and conclusion.

True to form, the tercets restate the theme, in this case through a question and a two-part answer: (1) the quick rhetorical question “Who knows?” and (2) the rest of the final verses, characterized by a return to short, sparse statements like those in the opening quatrain. The poetic voice contrasts the second quatrain’s communality of “bodies,” “arbors,” “plumes” and “rings” with the tercet’s solitary figure of the herdsman. The herdsman’s lonely occupation echoes the first quatrain’s ambiance of loneliness, even though the hypothetical “echoes” in the question refer to the glory years of activity in the garden. The correspondence is highlighted by alliteration: the “h”s and “b”s of “herdsman sometimes hears / Vague echoes borne beneath” effectively echo the “h”s and “b”s of “hand in hand” and “Bare bodies, beautiful, brown” in the second quatrain. Another solitary figure in the tercet is the moon, whose “pale” (and singular) "ray" contrasts with the rich colors of the second quatrain.

And in the final verses, the herdsman “stands,” fixed like a column among the ruins, in opposition to the movement of the strolling bodies earlier. The verb “stands” also plays off the word “sway” at the end of the previous verse; the kings “held sway” or controlled motion, but the herdsman merely stands. The questioned echoes from the first tercet dissipate here into unrecognizable “names” and then “Even their memory has passed away,” an allusion to an ultimate death as the unremembered and unknown. This reinforces the “old, old, far-off, forgotten years” at the end of the first tercet, and also recalls a trope frequently employed in this kind of sonnet: nouns of diminishing substance that, together with the short phrases and the loss of words’ substance (visual as well as aural) at the end of the poem, conjure the death itself.

A gem of a sonnet, but fortunately the ubi sunt theme is overstated here. Seeger composed the poem before the victors of the Mexican Revolution began an official revindication of indigenous cultures as part of a renewed national identity, supporting Vasconcelos’s La raza cósmica; the murals of Rivera, Orozco, and Siqueiros; the color and symbolism of Kahlo and Tamayo; and many other manifestations, culminating perhaps in the monolithic construction of the Museo Nacional de Antropología. Here are some terrific photos, by the highly creative visual artist Bernard Perroud on his outstanding blog, of the park at Tezcotzinco and of the structure known as Nezahualcoyotl’s bath. Long live the memory of Tezcotzinco!

Friday, August 14, 2009

Mi corazón deshecho

This is an illustration, that I have my students help me draw on the board in class, for interpreting Sor Juana's alchemical masterpiece sonnet, "Esta tarde mi bien, cuando te hablaba." Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, a 17th-century nun who lived in New Spain, is usually agreed to be the most important writer of her time in the Spanish-speaking Americas. The sonnet reads:

Esta tarde, mi bien, cuando te hablaba,
como en tu rostro y tus acciones vía
que con palabras no te persuadía,
que el corazón me vieses deseaba;

y Amor, que mis intentos ayudaba,
venció lo que imposible parecía:
pues entre el llanto, que el dolor vertía,
el corazón deshecho destilaba.

Baste ya de rigores, mi bien, baste;
no te atormenten más celos tiranos,
ni el vil recelo te quietud contraste

con sombras necias, con indicios vanos,
pues ya en líqudo humor viste y tocaste
mi corazón deshecho entre tus manos.