This is one of
the things I am not going to forgive my literature teachers: they did not show
us the Saltenian men of letters at school, thus wasting an opportunity to
promote our own culture, our way of speaking, and our people. We have our own characteristics that are
different from Buenos Aires. We live in a different environment and think
differently. Below Juan Carlos Dávalos
reading his own poem…
The
Man
Juan
Carlos Dávalos was born in Salta in 1887. He was a
writer. At 16, together
with David Michel Torino, he started the newspaper "Sancho Panza". Later
he would work as a teacher of literature at Colegio Nacional de Salta, where he
later became vice rector. He was director of the Archivo General de la
Provincia y and of the Biblioteca Provincial "Dr. Victorino de la Plaza".
He died in Salta, in 1959.
In 1921 Dávalos pronounced a memorable speech at
the Jockey Club de Buenos Aires, stimulated, among other people, by doctor
Castellanos, poet and writer, who, at the age of 60, kept his keen interest in
literature.
Since his return
to Salta, the governor and the young Dávalos
started a friendship and an exchange of ideas about common subjects. Castellanos
sent Dávalos a telegram thanking him
for such conference. Although Dávalos was known in Buenos Aires before through
the publishing of some of his books, with this conference he entered in
literature circles at national level.
Dávalos wrote poems, playwrights, essays and short stories. El viento blanco, one of his most
important short stories, is included in many literary books at secondary and
university levels. Together with Jorge Luis Borges, Pablo Neruda and other
figures they make up de golden century of the South American literature.
Dávalos started promoting our own culture, different from the one in Buenos
Aires, which in the first part of the XX century was known as regionalist. His limits
comprehend the Valles Calchaquíes. The characters, living in men, animals and
landscapes, give life to our own way of speaking, deepening in pre-Columbian
roots.
Beber
solo bajo la luna
Al pie del grave sauce
Que en mi jardín medita.
Junto al arroyo claro y entre mantas de flores
Brindo vino a la luna que aguarda ya mi cita.
Y contando mi sombra somos tres bebedores
Más la luna comprendo mi invitación desdeña.
Ni como haré que beba la tonta sombra mía
Ay en buscar amigos mi corazón se empeña.
Hoy que la primavera desborda en mi alegría
Canto
La luna irónica mueve su calavera
Danzo
Mi sombra muda se prolonga en sigilo
Y así bebemos juntos
Hasta que el vino opera
Y cada cual, ya ebrio,
Se va a dormir tranquilo.
Somos un trío eterno
Que un día, en otra esfera,
A danzar volveremos
En impecable estilo.
Artículos
relacionados
La
creciente, cuento de Juan C. Dávalos
Fuentes
Juan Carlos Dávalos,
Wikipedia
JC
Dávalos, web.archive.org
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