The Ambiguity of the Beloved in
Neruda’s
Veinte
poemas de amor y una canción desesperada
Iana Konstantinova
The
figure of the “amada” in Neruda’s Veinte
poemas de amor y una canción desesperada has recently become the focus of
numerous critical discussions. Although
many critics point out the ambiguity inherent in Neruda’s beloved, few go as
far as to suggest that her ambiguity is self-contained and exists independently
of the figure of the poet. Detwiler,
Perriam, and Ibsen all discuss a duality present in Neruda’s collection, but
all three identify this duality as being present between the woman and the
poet, and not so much within the woman herself, focusing on the
gender-hierarchy created by such a duality (Detwiler 87, Perriam 102, Ibsen
258). Ellis discusses the presence of
antithesis, paradox, and oxymoron in the work, but attributes them to the
representation of the ambiguities of love and not so much of the loved one
(17). Concha sees three distinct
representations of the woman in Neruda’s poetry, “la interior, la amada juvenil o la hembra objeto de goce sexual” (139),
which he notes are united only by “el vínculo concreto
Most critics agree that
the poetic voice of the Veinte poemas
is that of a young poet, reflecting Neruda himself, who is suffering a crisis
that fills him with anguish and despair.
Concha states
that “los Veinte poemas de amor
reflejan la situación social del poeta, su gris y oscura pobreza” (136). Araya describes the Veinte poemas as “el canto de este adolescente que se siente
encerrado y solitario, agredido por el mundo” (150). Carvalho sees the book as “a cyclic poem
with one central message – Neruda’s ultimately unsuccessful attempt to use love
and woman as a barrier against existential anguish” (152). This anguish appears from the very beginning
of the “poemario” as, in poem 1, the poet explains the suffering that engulfs
him: “[f]ui solo
Several critics, in an
effort to better understand the woman figure in the Veinte poemas,
have looked to Neruda’s explanation of the figures that inspired her, namely
“Marisol” and “Marisombra.” Some, like
Ellis, come to the conclusion that it does not matter who inspired the figure
(13). Others, like Angleró and Araya, go
in search of the women behind the clearly symbolic Marisol and Marisombra. Araya, however, decides that although they
are important for purposes of inspiration, the real women do not figure in the
fictional world of the book (172).
Although Sharman does not discuss the women behind the beloved, he does,
quite fittingly, refer to the woman of the Veinte
poemas as the “(ll)amada Maris(ombra)l”
(254). As Sharman’s description reveals,
the “amada” is neither the “sol” nor “sombra,” but rather a combination of the two,
ambiguous and full of contradictions, suffering from an “otherness” quite
similar to that which causes the “angustia” of the poetic voice. The otherness of the beloved becomes apparent
as one examines the contradictory images, both figurative and literal, with
which the poet associates the object of his desire.
Given our discussion of
Marisol and Marisombra, a good place to start the analysis of the woman’s
contradictory characterization would be the place where “sol” and “sombra”
meet, the “crepúsculo.” Loyola correctly identifies the beloved with the
“crepúsculo,” stating that, “[e]lla reina en el crepúsculo. En cierto modo, ella es el crepúsculo
[...]. Ella existe y sostiene los sueños
de Pablo en esa zona de frontera entre el día residual y la noche incipiente”
(170). Loyola, however, does not
go on to explain what this association implies in regards to the figure of the
beloved. By situating her between night
and day, the poet clearly suggests a duality in the beloved’s character, a
character that contains both the positive elements associated with the day and
the negative ones associated with the night.
This juxtaposition of night and day inherent in the “crepúsculo” can be
seen in Poem 2, where the beloved is “[...] así situada / contra las viejas
hélices
Este círculo es el día y la noche que
se siguen eternamente. Es decir, el
orden natural, el ciclo natural. La
mujer está sometida a la ley natural. Lo
general ha sido expresado mediante la imagen del sol que es tragado por la
noche y la noche que es borrada por la claridad del sol. [...]
El símbolo de la mujer naturaleza está presentado en este poema mediante
el sucederse
de las luces y de las sombras durante el día. Sólo se ha tomado un aspecto de la
naturaleza, pero su valor es universal.
Por este camino el poeta ha creado una mujer que es la tierra (la
naturaleza) y una naturaleza (tierra) que es vista como una mujer. En Veinte
poemas ocupa mucho más espacio el desarrollo de la criatura imaginaria
mujer-naturaleza. (181-2)
The association of the
beloved with nature is clearly present in the Veinte poemas, and will be discussed later on, but the “círculo”
that appears in Poem 2 does much more than establish the connection between
woman and nature. It is a circle of
night and day, of the positive and the negative which become one in the
“amada.” The poem itself is structurally
circular as it progresses from “crepúsculo” to night to day and back to
both. A circle implies wholeness, but in
the woman’s case, it is a divided wholeness made up of opposites. The beloved’s inability to be entirely
positive is one of the factors that leads to the breakdown of the relationship
as the poet cannot find in her the escape from anguish that he seeks through
love.
Related to day and night,
the contraposition of light and darkness in the beloved’s eyes also serves to
illustrate her ambiguous nature. By the
end of the relationship, the eyes of the woman have become the main object of
the poet’s love, as he admits in poem 20:
“[c]ómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos”
(10). Traditionally, the eyes of lovers
have been viewed as an outlet of communication between their souls. In this case, such communication is made
impossible as the eyes of the woman appear full of contradictions that reflect
the contradictory nature of her character, the inner otherness that prevents
her from being the positive creature the poet desires as the object of his
affections. In poem 6, the “crepúsculo”
appears once again, this time in the beloved’s eyes, representative of the
complexities in her soul: “en tus ojos
peleaban las llamas del crepúsculo” (3).
The positive side of those eyes, the one the poet desires, is expressed
through the eyes’ relationship to the stars in poem 18, “me miran con tus ojos
las estrellas más grandes” (25). One
cannot forget, however, that the stars only appear at night, and no matter how
positive their light, it cannot be separated from the darkness of the night
that surrounds them. This darkness comes to overshadow the beloved’s
bright eyes in poem 14:
“sin embargo alguna vez corrió una sombra extraña por tus ojos”
(21). The “sombra,” a negative
image suggestive of death, is reinforced in poem 16 where the beloved’s eyes
become “ojos de luto” (16). As the poet
seeks to escape the negative metaphorical darkness of his own soul, he searches
for comfort in the light of the woman’s eyes.
The eyes in which he seeks refuge, however, are eclipsed by an inner
darkness similar to the one that defines the poet. The presence of this metaphorical darkness in
the figure of the beloved is a problematic trait in the relationship from the
start. Since the woman is unable to
provide the poet with the light he needs to illuminate his inner darkness, the
relationship is doomed and eventually ends in separation.
As he seeks to escape the
darkness of his world, the poet initially idealizes the woman, attributing to
her a positive whiteness which is nevertheless later negated. In poem 1, the word “blanco” appears twice in
the first line, drawing the reader’s attention to that specific quality of the
woman: “[c]uerpo de mujer, blancas
colinas, muslos blancos” (1). As
Ibsen points out, “[l]a blancura del cuerpo femenino [...] es una luz que
ilumina al poeta y que le promete la reconciliación” (257). However, as Ibsen goes on to explain, “se
trata de una reconciliación negada; la mujer ya no está con el poeta” (257). The reason for this separation is that the
metaphorical whiteness originally attributed to the woman is not fully
definitive of her being. The negative
aspects of the beloved’s “self” are soon made obvious as the color white,
initially used as an entirely positive attribute, begins to appear in more
negative connotations such as the “pañuelos blancos de adiós” of poem 4
(3). Similarly, in poem 8, the woman is
first represented as an “abeja blanca” (1), whose
breasts are later compared to “caracoles blancos” (12). This positive whiteness is nevertheless
overshadowed, in the penultimate line of the poem: “[h]a venido a dormirse en tu vientre una
mariposa de sombra” (13). The butterfly,
a positive symbol of life, is nevertheless “de sombra” a negative symbol of
death and despair. The woman’s idealized
whiteness is darkened by a shadow, perhaps representative of her own anguish
that renders her incapable of serving as a source of alleviation to the poet’s
despair, expressed in the same poem:
Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos,
el que lo perdió todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.
Última amarra, cruje en ti mi ansiedad última
En mi tierra desierta eres la última
rosa. (3-6)
She cannot be the mooring
rope that holds the poet in place nor the rose in the desert of his soul,
because she too has her own worries and anguishes that overshadow the
perfection attributed to her by the poet.
Furthermore, the
idealized whiteness of the beloved is also soon intermixed with other, less
positive colors. Ibsen describes this intermixing as she states: “[e]l color blanco
que predomina en Veinte poemas está
ahora manchado de negro, rojo, y verde:
los colores de un mundo de sangre y putrefacción” (258). While in poem 1 the poet focuses on the
whiteness of the woman’s body, by poem 19, this focus shifts to the darkness of
her hair: “niña morena y ágil” (1,9), “negra melena” (6), and “mariposa morena”
(15). The darkness, however, is
ambiguous. She is neither fully positive
nor fully negative as the ambiguous “mariposa morena” is immediately followed
by the positive adjectives “dulce y definitiva” (15). Similarly, the traditionally positive sun
undergoes a transformation in this poem as it goes from a life-giving force,
“el sol que hace las frutas, / el que cuaja los trigos” (34) to “un sol negro y
ansioso” (5), upon getting rolled up in the locks of the beloved’s dark
hair. Thus, the positive and negative,
represented predominantly by the light and darkness of the colors white and
black, become an ambiguous mixture in the figure of the beloved, and in poem 6
she is identified as a “boina gris,” in which it becomes impossible to tell the
positive from the negative.
Similarly ambiguous is
the color red, which Ibsen identifies with the negative “sangre” (258). This negative, bloody redness appears in poem
5, but is associated more with the poet’s words than with the beloved. Nevertheless, she is identified as the cause
of this “juego sangriento” in which the poet says his words “van trepando en mi
viejo dolor
Unlike red, the color
green, associated with nature, is not necessarily as negative as Ibsen seems to
suggest. Greenness represents life,
fecundity, newness, growth, and is a positive way of describing the
beloved. This life-force, however, is
soon negated as the beloved goes from being identified with the greenness of
life through her “cuerpo [...] de musgo” in poem 1 (10), to an identification
of her soul with the decaying brownness of falling leaves in poem 6: “hojas
secas de otoño giraban en tu alma” (16).
Although her body does provide the poet with moments of relief, the
woman herself consists of more than the body, and her soul appears quite
negative, much like the poet’s own soul.
Throughout the
collection, winds and storms also appear as representative of the couple’s
relationship. At times, even the beloved
herself is directly associated with such storms. Although these associations are not in direct
contrast with anything, they are, in themselves, ambiguous, ever-changing and
moving like the wind itself. In poem 4,
as previously mentioned, the summer storm appears as a positive force, symbolic
of the passion that sweeps the couple away during moments of love making:
Innumerable corazón del viento
latiendo sobre nuestro silencio enamorado.
Zumbando entre los árboles, orquestal
y divino,
como una lengua llena de guerras y de cantos.
Viento que lleva en rápido robo la
hojarasca
y desvía las flechas latientes de los pájaros.
Viento que la derriba en ola sin
espuma
y sustancia sin peso, y fuegos inclinados.
Se rompe y se sumerge su volumen de
besos
combatido en la puerta del viento del verano. (5-14)
This wind of passion
overwhelms the couple, sweeping away their inner negative anguish, represented
here by the dry, dead leaves of “la hojarasca,” and turning the beloved into a
strong, foamless wave, full of substance but without any negative baggage to
weigh her down. She is further converted
by the wind into an inclined fire, burning with passion during moments of
orgasm. Even her kisses are submerged
into this passion that rocks the lovers with the force of a summer
tempest. This positive wind of passion,
however, is short lived and soon turns into a negative, hurricane-force wind of
destruction. In poem 11, the beloved is
revealed as the cause of such a wind:
“[e]ra la que iba formando el viento con hojas iluminadas” (15). It is a deadly wind, full of negative
connotations, a “viento de sepulcros” (12), a “tempestad” (10) that the poet
tells to “cruza encima de mi corazón sin detenerte” (11). That “tempestad” goes from being caused by
the beloved to being the beloved herself as the poem progresses: “[t]empestad que enterró las campanas, turbio
revuelo de tormentas / para qué tocarla ahora, para qué entristecerla” (20-1). Syntactically, “la” in line 21 refers to
“tempestad,” but it obviously also refers to the beloved, thus creating a
connection between the two. She is the
tempest that has buried the joyful bells of the relationship, and now the touch
that once excited her can only “entristecerla.”
Ultimately, in poem 20, the beloved appears in connection with the wind
one last time as the poet states, “[m]i voz buscaba el viento para tocar su
oído” (24). Only the wind can reach the
beloved’s ear, for she is distant and unreachable to the poet, both unknowable
and unable to hear his sorrow and relieve it.
The woman’s inability to
hear her lover is linked not only to the physical distance between the two, but
also to the spiritual distance represented in the Veinte poemas by the woman’s silence. Throughout the “poemario,” the beloved is
ambiguously defined as present and at the same time absent and distant from the
poet. Already in poem 1 there are signs
of absence in the midst of a physical presence:
“[a]h, los vasos
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás
como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras
muerto.
Una palabra, entonces, una sonrisa
bastan.
Y estoy alegre de que no sea cierto. (17-20).
Paradoxically, the
woman’s painful and deadly silence makes the poet happy because, in the midst
of this silence, a single word or smile suffices for him to know that her death
is not true and that she is, in fact, alive.
If the woman’s presence is, as it appears to be, a source of comfort for
the poet, why is it that he appears to prefer her in a state of absence? Perhaps the cause lies in the couple’s
inability to communicate that Araya points out in his article:
Se trate del yo que se considera
extraño y antagónico a la alegría natural de la amada o se trate de lo duro que
ha sido para ésta acostumbrarse al amado, en ambos casos, el escollo está en lo
sombrío del corazón del yo y lo solitario y lo salvaje de su alma. Este carácter sombrío y solitario del amador
es la causa también de lo difícil que resulta su comunicación con la
amada. De un modo genérico, la
comunicación es de por sí problemática [...].
(165)
Here
one would need to add that it is not only the “yo” whose heart is “sombrío,”
but also the “amada,” who is not always defined by a natural “alegría” as Araya
seems to suggest.
In fact, the beloved’s
emotional state is, much like the poet’s, quite ambiguous and full of
contradictions. Araya would attribute
these contradictions to the difficulties that arise out of her problematic
relationship with the poet, but that is not always the case. Both “tristeza” and “alegría” reside
intrinsically within the beloved, who suffers from her own inner anguish and is
therefore unable to fully comfort the poet’s suffering. In poem 2, she is initially described as
“pálida doliente” (2), an image which is intensified at the poem’s climax: “y
llena es de tristeza” (18). Even when
she is not defined by sadness, the state can come over the beloved suddenly, as
it does in poem 12: “[y] entristeces de
pronto,
As previously mentioned,
the woman’s body is representative of her sexuality, and it is in that
sexuality that the poet seeks relief from the inner anguish that torments him:
Fui solo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros
y en mí la noche entraba su invasión poderosa.
Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un
arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.
(5-8).
Here,
the woman’s body is inversely represented as a penetrating war tool, a piercing
arrow, a stone that fills up the empty hole of the poet’s loneliness and a
weapon with which he combats it. As we have stated, the woman’s body does remain
in a state of positive “alegría” throughout the Veinte poemas, and its association with the positive color white
does not fade with the introduction of the negative colors that represent her
ambiguous character In
fact, as we have seen, moments of pure sexuality are charged with happiness and
joy for the poet. This joy is further
expressed in the symbolic connection between the woman’s body and nature. Nature is a positive, life-giving, fertile
force and the poet uses it to represent the body of the woman. Thus, her body becomes linked to the earth,
becoming an “atlas blanco” (poem 13, 2).
All positive aspects of nature are included in this atlas, and we see
various parts of her body compared to different fruits of nature such as
“musgo” and “rosas” (poem 1, 10,11), “uvas” (poem 5,
27), and “ciruela” (poem 14, 25), among others.
In the end, all that is positive and life-producing becomes associated
with the woman’s body, and to sum it up, the poet states in poem 3: “[c]aracola terrestre, en ti la tierra canta”
(4). Here, the image of an earthly sea
shell introduces a positive ambiguity to the figure of the woman, as she
becomes associated with both earth and water, belonging to two positive yet
distinct worlds that give her the ability to, at least momentarily, be a source
of comfort for the poet: “[e]n ti los
ríos cantan y mi alma en ellos huye” (5).
Such associations of the
woman’s body with nature have been linked by some critics to Neruda’s
“machista” world view. Detwiler, for
example, in her analysis of poem 1, sees a dichotomy between “nature” and
“world” and interprets this dichotomy as a basis through which the poet
establishes an “order for the male-dominated gender hierarchy” (88), claiming
that:
[...]
it is only through the act of delivering herself to him [the poet] that she
[the beloved] seems like the world. In
other words, this line [2] implies that she is not like the world prior to her surrender. Furthermore, because her handing over of
self/body is an act directed towards the poet, we can safely assume that he
includes himself among the members of the Man’s world to which she just might
soon belong. However, the imprecise
message ‘te pareces’ in verse two serves to subtly secure her identity as Other. She only seems
like the world. Indeed, the next
reference in verse four characterizes her as ‘tierra,’ or earth. The earth, belonging to the animal kingdom
with its flora and fauna is not the world, the realm of human beings. (87)
Ibsen, too, focuses on
the male/female division created by the woman’s association with nature,
stating that “[l]a mujer
Given the positive nature
of the woman’s body and the seemingly satisfying sexual relationship between
her and the poet, why is it that the relationship ends
and the poet remains unsatisfied? The
answer is revealed in poem 1, with the introduction of the verb “amar”: “[p]ero cae la hora de la venganza y te amo”
(9). Love here is represented as a revenge on the part of the woman’s body which is the
addressee of the entire poem. The
revenge lies in the fact that, in loving the body, the poet also falls in love
with the entire woman. The beloved’s
ambiguous voice and eyes are as integral a part of her identity as is her
physical body. Thus we have the following
images juxtaposed in binary opposition to each other, following the
introduction of love’s “revenge”: “[a]h
los vasos
In conclusion, the male
voice of the Veinte poemas looks to
love as a way of escape from the depression that engulfs him. The desired object of his love is a woman,
whom he expects to be a fully positive, comforting force. The woman, however, is unable to meet the
poet’s expectations due to the complex nature of her character. Throughout the collection, she is identified
as a highly ambiguous figure both literally and figuratively. We have examined here some of the ways in
which this ambiguity comes out in the text, but it is necessary to point out
that none of the elements discussed in this essay appears separately in the
poems. For purposes of clarity, we have
divided these elements up into groups, but Neruda’s text presents no such
divisions. All of the elements combine
in the text to form a single, complex character that escapes definition, and it
is precisely because of this complexity that the woman is unable to alleviate
the poet’s suffering. Although she is
not given an independent voice in the “poemario,” the woman’s character is made
known to readers through the poetic voice.
It is necessary not to confuse the “machismo” inherent in the poetic
voice with the gender relations represented in the Veinte poemas. If anything,
the woman figure is recognized in the end as an independent entity, whose
complexity makes her unable to be the positive object of comfort that the poet
seeks her to be. Far from establishing
a male-dominated hierarchy, the Veinte
poemas demonstrate the impossibility of such a hierarchy by asserting the
woman’s complexity and independence, without which the relationship would not
have terminated in the abandoned poet’s “Canción desesperada.”
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