FERNANDO
RODRÍGUEZ: THE POET, THE PHENOMENON.
It is with
great pleasure that I recommend the writings of Chilean-born
Fernando Rodríguez.
Mr. Rodríguez is a well-kept secret within the inner circles of
modern-day writers of poetry and prose. His work can be likened
to the favorite boutique or club that the true “in-crowd” (e.g.
those that really know and understand today’s literature)
quietly keep for themselves, out of fear that if the cat is let
out of the bag EVERYONE will be sporting (or spouting) his
style, words and thoughts .. and thus, the magic will soon be
lost. Not to worry. Fernando Rodríguez is always two steps ahead
of that which is in “vogue”, and is at the same time forever
reminding us of the true essence and drive of good writing: a
solid understanding of the rudiments of classic modern
literature and the ever-haunting function and history of the
human dilemma .. and always seasoned (or often quite peppered)
with the psychological glimpses of reality bordering tightly
against the surreal. There is no escape from reality in the
poetry and prose of this Señor Rodríguez; and there is no peace
for the meek or the lame either. His unlikely images are so
distinctive; so visually hard-hitting; so matter-of-fact that
they must be accepted as the norm. One cannot read through his
works mechanically without personal consequence. When one looks
into his mirror, one sees not oneself looking into a mirror ..
but experiences the mirror as a part of oneself.
His anti-flamboyant style is at once disarming. Is it affected,
or is it pure genius? One almost gets the impression that he
couldn’t give a “damn” if you believe him or not .. and yet, he
manages to convince us so strongly, and so immediately with his
“of course, that is how it is imagery” that we almost
robotically accept his presentation of assumed reality as our
own – without question.
And just when we think we understand his style he challenges us
further by taking it down to a whole new level -- he quite
cleverly exploits the psychological aspects of assuming that one
understands, and leaves the reader holding the bag and
wondering: am I reading the author .. or myself? Without
warning, Mr. Rodríguez commands us to succumb to the very
questions we thought we were so clever in disguising and
avoiding. Not merely who are you .. and who am I in relation to
you; but when do you start/stop being/becoming me -- and I you
.. and my perception of our surroundings?
How does he do it? He is apathetic towards “big words” or
“cleverly-put-together” strings of words. He does not
overembellish his adjectives, and he resists restricting himself
(or us) with classic meter and rhythm. Like Jackson Pollack, he
finds his own rhythm in the colorful images which seem almost
randomly splattered over the page. But this randomness is but an
illusion. No word, no image .. no sentence ... and no rhythm is
randomly random in his poetry. Everything is meticulously
measured to create an author out of the reader. You do not
“read” his poetry or prose; you become it .. and in becoming it,
you realize that you have always been it ............ and
(perhaps) always will be it. Mr. Rodríguez’ writing is so
powerful that I sometimes get the feeling that it could possibly
– if permitted to soar out-of-control – one day overpower even
the author himself .. much like the portrait of Dorian Gray.
A few examples follow:
Partenogenesis de las manzanas.
Escribe
un par de
líneas al día
hasta que las palabras caigan de la rama
por su propio peso
y recobren su sentido
existencial, Pascal.
Si el acto de escribir
no fuera más que un juego de ecuaciones
simple sería el acto de morir
por el mero hecho de no haber sido capaz
de poner la resta y suma en palabras
del tiempo ya vivido
y del tiempo por vivir.
Qué operación más triste y dolorosa
Qué comercio más magnífico
con el aire que respiras y
los objetos que tu cuerpo toca.
Qué alcurnia más insolente la de morir
sólo por no haber sido capaz de escribir
un par de líneas al día.
O es que vamos o venimos yo no sé.
La falacia del ser por el estar.
La suma del tiempo restado
y del tiempo por morir.
Un día quizá
cuando los manzanos
estén todos patas arriba y
con desesperación
nos bebamos las aguas del mar
la ecuación maldita estará resuelta y
las palabras se harán agua en la boca
de los locos
que locos se agitan imaginándose peces
en su danza de goce y vuelo
hasta hacerlas perder el sentido original
y exhaustos las dejen caer al líquido vacío
convertidas en microscópicas manzanas.
And
Prioridad de los ángeles.
No habrá compasión
en la mirada de los ángeles
ni temblor en las manos
que sostienen la espada
que implacable ciñe
sobre nuestras testas
la corona insostenible
de la duda.
As well as:
Tamayo pintor de lunas.
Bocas lunas que son sandías
El sol devorado por la luna.
Lunas bocas o cachos de toro
Y todo el sol en la sangre
Devorado por la luna.
Bocas que sonríen imitando la luna
Y el fuego de las vírgenes
Cuyos ombligos aún cerrados
Iluminan la mesa de antiguos dioses
Eclipsados por la luna.
Fernando Rodríguez’ writing is fascination itself. It is
dangerous ... to you .. to me .. to our perceptions of who we
are, and to “what is”. Fernando Rodríguez is certainly not
merely a poet or a writer of prose. He is verily the art itself
... living, gasping, haunting .. and he will not disappear –
even when we put/throw his book away.
There is one drawback – perhaps a major drawback – to Fernando
Rodríguez’ poetry: he writes almost exclusively in Spanish. If
you do not understand Spanish, then learn it – if only to
experience YOURSELF .. through the mirrors of reality and
illusion presented by the masterful Fernando Rodríguez.
- Literary criticism by Adam Donaldson Powell (based upon Del
Azar y la Memoria, Pentagrama, 2000, Chile, ISBN 956-8009-07-8).
See also Fernando's website: www.geocities.com/fernandorodriguezpoeta/
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