Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Juan Carlos Dávalos


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
JC Dávalos, web.archive.org




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