Photo by Rußen [1] and used under a Creative Commons license.
Venezuelans say goodbye to another of their poets in times when they need them the most. On June 6th, enthusiasts of literature and arts in Venezuela received the sad news of the death of one of the most important and influential writers in the last years: Eugenio Montejo [2].
Montejo's poetry is well recognized for its rich texture. He was also published in numerous books in Spanish and participated in numerous editorial works devoted to Venezuelan literature. He won the national prize of literature and the international prize Octavio Paz. He has been seen as the most important poet of the last years. Numerous groups, pages, blogs and even Facebook groups [es] [3] have been dedicated to him and his poetry. The day after his death the discussion board was filled with comments about the importance of his poetry and how he will be eternally remembered.
Bloggers share opinions and feelings while they remember and thank all the beautiful words which so many of them identified themselves with.
Another interesting fact is that through González Iñárritu’s film, 21 Grams [4], Montejo gained more attention when Sean Penn's character quoted a line from one of his poems…
“The earth turned to bring us closer. It turned on itself and in us, until it finally brought us together in this dream.”
Jorge, in his blog Letralia [es] wrote [5]:
Anoche se fue Eugenio Montejo, dejándonos con esto encendido, no sin antes
despedirse de su siglo vertical y lleno de teorías. En 2002 había revelado las bases de su credo: La poesía es la última religión que nos queda. Si hay un juicio final, será ante ella.
Last night, Eugenio Montejo [es] [6] left us, leaving us with all this still on, not without saying goodbye to his vertical theory filled with theories. In 2002 he had revealed the basis of his creed [es] [7]: poetry is the last religion we have. If there is to be a final judgment, it will be before it.
From Peru, Moleskine Literario [es] writes [8]:
Al parecer, los poetas nunca mueren solos. Unas semanas después de la muerte de nuestro Alejandro Romualdo Valle [9], el duelo le toca ahora a Venezuela. A los 70 años murió Eugenio Montejo, considerado el mayor poeta de ese país.
It seems that poets never die alone. A few weeks after the death of our Alejandro Romualdo Valle [9], it is now time for Venezuela to mourn. Eugenio Montejo died at 70. He was considered the greatest poet of that country.
Juliana Boersner of Papel en Blanco [es], says [10]:
¿Cómo escribir desde la tristeza? ¿Cómo teclear a través de las lágrimas de impotencia por ver apagarse tan raudamente una de las mejores voces de la poesía del mundo hispano, aún con tanto por ofrecernos?
How do you describe the sadness? How is it possible to type through tears of helplessness when one of the best voices in Hispanic poetry goes away so suddenly with still so much to offer?
Rostro de Viento's [es] José Urriola says [11]:
Al poeta Eugenio Montejo lo habré visto si acaso tres veces en la vida. La primera fue de niño en los pasillos del Edificio de Estudios Generales de la Universidad Simón Bolívar. En esa oportunidad yo iba de la mano de mi padre que se detuvo a saludar a un hombre de lentes de pasta, mostacho negro y saco beige a cuadros. Papá me dijo: “Hijo, conozca a uno de los grandes poetas de este país, Eugenio Montejo”. A lo que el bigotón respondió con un acento que me pareció andino: “Amigo, no le crea a su padre. Yo no soy poeta, soy bombero”.
Anoche murió Eugenio Montejo. Se murió uno de los nuestros, uno de los grandes, uno de los buenos. Se murió alguien que a ningún venezolano debería serle indiferente.
I saw poet Eugenio Montejo three times in my life or so. First time I was a kid standing at the halls of Simón Bolivar University. In that opportunity I was holding my father’s hand who stopped to greet a man with thick glasses, black mustache and a beige coat with squares. My dad told me “son, meet one of the greatest poets of this country, Eugenio Montejo”. To that, the man with the mustache answered with an accent that sounded from the Andes: “my friend, don’t believe what your father says. I’m not a poet, I’m a fireman”.
Eugenio Montejo died last night. One of our own died, one of the greats, one of the good ones.Someone to whom no Venezuelan should be indifferent has died.
Argonauticas [es] adds [12]:
Eugenio Montejo escribió algunos de los poemas más hermosos que se han escrito en lengua castellana. Después de realizar ese portento, el suceso de su muerte el pasado viernes es, acaso, apenas un episodio en la vastedad del tiempo.
Eugenio Montejo wrote some of the most beautiful poems ever written in the Spanish language. After achieving this, his death last Friday is, if anything, just a brief chapter in the immensity of time.Eugenio Montejo wrote some of the most beautiful poems ever written in the Spanish language.
Argonauticas also gives a very interesting link to The Trees: Selected Poems 1967-2004 [13]