"Of course, if you do not feel the poetry of things, we can not discern in a verbal reflection of it captured by a poet, but I am a real poet to feel that poetry, and Good critics are not critical if we ignore this circumstance. "This is George Santayana said, or what is the same, Jorge Ruiz de Santayana, that" mystical Castilian, "as he called Antonio Marichalar in Revista de Occidente ( 1924), born in 1863 in Madrid. I said in the written pages of his mind Apologia pro sua (1940), in response to criticism of his poems by Rice faculty and Hogwate.
The philosopher Santayana
admitted that he had left, then, poetry: "Why I left? I would say I had the impression, as have many other recent poets, "that what I had to say, could be said better without the traditional poetic form, that is, in prose, because I did not think the invencón typographical resources to turn prose into poetry."
The traditional verse was revealed as inadequate or inappropriate manner where focus its intuitions, their ideas. As well says Santayana, the treatment of prose and poetry or the blurring of its precise limits, was something that fecuentaron poets: "In fact, except when the meter is still an instinctive thing as good manners, a new graphic phrase, an original metaphor deep slide in a more easy and free liqud prose that through the mesh of the verse. "Prose liquid , beautiful image that clearly expresses the gender of some of its pages.
But despite what is said in the letter of 1940, Santayana did not fail to return to the poems, as evidenced by the unpublished poems collected in William G. Holzberg edition of The Complete Poems of George Santayana (1979) . Poetry, not just poetic imagination or intuition , what we might call "poetic", we see appear in his writings, in his essays, was a constant in his life. Indeed his first book was Sonnets and Other Verses (1894), which would other issues as well as new books and anthologies, to his last book, and published posthumously, The Poet's Testament: Poems and Two Plays (1953).
Sonnet III of his first poetry book was the first poem he wrote, with eighteen years, and, as said in an interview in Rome, before dying, was made from a passage from Euripides' The Bacchae . He says his first trio:
"Our expertise is a steaming tea
pine that lights the way only a step
through a void of mystery and horror"
This translation is the performed by the teacher at the University of Valladolid, Estébanez Cayetano, in his edition of an anthology of poems by Santayana, who edited the Museu Valencià Il · lustració i la Modernity (MUVIM), in the tribute that the institution, with Roman Street in charge of it, he was taxed with an International Congress in late 2009.
Until now we had the translation of seventeen poems by Ceferino Santos, published in the journal Humanities (1964), and the largest of José María Alonso Gamo, A English in the world. Santayana, poetry and poetic (1964). These two, therefore we conclude that now provides us with an anthology of Estébanez Cayetano, George Santayana. Materials for a utopia. Poeas anthology of poetry and two texts (2009).
Select two poems that I think a good example of his poetic task:
CAPE COD
The low and sandy beach, scrub and pine,
long bay and skyline -
Oh, I am far from home!
salt, the smell of salt sea air thick, and round stones
wearing tides -
When will the good ship?
Outrageous stumps, burned and blackened,
and turn soft rut of a wagon, -
Why is the world so old?
The sound of the waves and sky, broad and Gray,
where crows fly and slow seagull -
Where are the countless dead?
Bent willows beside the marsh, the large hull
stranded and floating log
began life with the pain!
and between dark pines and the flat edge -
Oh, the wind and the wind, forever!
What is man?
THE WILL OF THE POET
I return to the earth what the earth gave me,
all goes to the furrow, nothing to the grave.
has been consumed and the candle wick spirit
sight can not go where it was the vision.
I just let the sound of many words after hearing random
mocking echoes. I sang
to heaven. The exile made me free,
taking me from world to world, from all worlds. Librado
by the Furies and the kind fates, the firm stepped
cloisters of the mind.
Every time, my present, all space, my place,
neither fear nor hope, nor envy saw my face.
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