Presentation of the Book Rezongos de Adán

Good evening.

The poet has allowed me to address you today, which I consider a privilege, to present the book Rezongos de Adán (Adam’s Grumblings). This is the seventh collection of verse, in a little over half a century, by Don Álvaro Menéndez Franco, who revealed himself as a poet at nineteen with the work Portal (1951).

The title of the collection poses two unavoidable questions. Who is Adam? And why does he grumble? We find the answer in personal acquaintance with the author himself and in the analysis of the seven poems, which we present below.

The first two pieces form a pair that praises the gallant use of language in two noble functions: as a means of protest against oppression and as a lyrical offering to the beloved woman. Exaltación de la palabra (Exaltation of the Word), the first poem, begins precisely by denouncing the twisting of words, the intentionally deceptive rhetoric that the powerful use to pacify the masses and keep them under control on the way to the slaughterhouse. In the first six lines, it is made clear that the “word” to be exalted is not that bought speech which, in the mouths of those who seek power and profit, shields the abuses against the humble (past, present and future) and against nature itself. It is another “word” that is exalted, one superior in rectitude and justice.

The poem denounces the misuse of the sacred scriptures to justify the rampant exploitation of mineral resources, in a clear criticism of the West’s policy toward the Middle East, a theme that will recur in the work we are discussing. Saying that:

…the text suggests that the anesthetic effect of statistics hides the cruelty of everyday crimes. The poem closes the circle of its message, showing itself aware of the power of the word to refuse to be the silk glove the exploiter wears to strangle the innocent; the word is exalted when it becomes—breathed out by the brave breast—a weapon of protest, an instrument of change, a living banner of justice.

The second poem, Rendición de la palabra (Surrender of the Word), opens by laying language like a bouquet of flowers at the feet of woman, a sensual and heroic being in the poet’s life. Next, it warns of the difficult task that awaits the companion in the future:

The poet’s own sacrifice, as he immolates himself in fulfilling his destiny, implies the companion’s condemnation to a life of spiritual exile where there is no peace, only a barren search for the mutilated fragments of her lover in the six limits of the existential sphere: the sky, the sea, the ground, time, the soul and dreams. Thus it repeats:

Alongside the announcement of the punishment comes the advice to surrender to the search as the only path to salvation, even though its goal is impossible. The search will be, in itself, the fulfillment of her own destiny.

The poem Compartida pasión (Shared Passion) is a song to the Holy Ghost orchid, “patriotic flower, white morning star.” In it the orchid is anointed as a symbol of all flora and fauna, which suffer the onslaughts of the human race’s unsustainable progress, and its passion is compared with that of Christ, whose calm gesture in the face of pain was imprinted on the Shroud of Turin. Among the poem’s apocalyptic admonitions, a hope can be glimpsed:

The image of Jesus as a symbol of the innocent victims of man’s age-old abuse recurs on many pages, directly or indirectly, as a protest against the abuses and betrayals inflicted on the planet, on the dispossessed, on the martyrs.

The poem Merced de Mercedes (Mercy of Mercies) is a tribute to Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, full of heartfelt reverence and learned allusions, with elements of the Respuesta a sor Filotea de la Cruz (Reply to Sor Filotea de la Cruz, 1691). At several points it reaches expressions of perfect lyricism:

This poem shows the author’s knowledge of the life and work of the “tenth muse,” and extols her work as a defender of women and a pioneer of Latin American poetry. It ends, in an aside, with a double paraphrase of the famous Madrigal by Gutierre de Cetina, which Menéndez Franco recoins to denounce the oppression that woman, the victim of macho selfishness, still suffers today, centuries after the poet’s death.

The poem Vademécum de Simón Bolívar (Simón Bolívar’s Vade Mecum) is undoubtedly the chief jewel of this crown and serves as the climax of the collection. Through its heartfelt tone, it connects with the reader on a personal level, assailing the mind, the heart and the gut all at once. The result is miraculous:

Not a few parallels appear here between the betrayal of Bolívar and the betrayal of the Nazarene, reinforcing a theme common to the book. However, the brutality of war—frequent in Bolívar’s story—is presented head-on to the reader, without beating about the bush or ornament. The author complains of the unruliness of his pen, which refuses to find the exact formula to express itself:

And he ends by disowning the significance of his own poem, saying:

Its specific weight would have allowed this poem to be, in itself, an entire book had the author so wished: it would have been an epic song in the mold of Martín Fierro. But Menéndez Franco, with the experience that years bring, preferred a more portable approach (vade mecum), one that would not dilute the impact of the message across needlessly numerous pages. In my opinion, this poem will deserve an important place in the history of Panamanian poetry.

The poem Requiem, a hymn that preserves the memory of an anonymous martyr fallen in some struggle for national vindication, brings with it echoes of La Contienda del Tiempo (The Contest of Time, 2003), the author’s penultimate work in verse. In this case, the poem could refer to Ascanio Arosemena, the epitome of Panamanian patriotism, killed by occupation forces in the events of 1964 while helping wounded companions. Its design is vague enough to shelter under its praises the 21 who fell that day, and all the other victims of all the other empires of human history:

Closing the collection, the poem Coronación del día (Crowning of the Day) offers a reflection on the end of life, on the death that life imposes at the end and on the once sacred icons that break under the passage of time. In my opinion, this text (the most abstract of the group), uses words as a mask to confess, sidelong, a bitter but vindicating conclusion: the “creole gods”1 are nothing but “men whom the dance has turned into gods”:

With these lines the book ends. Having gone over the seven poems of this collection, we can attempt an answer to the question: who is Adam and why does he grumble? Adam is the symbol of man since the beginning of time, an immortal being who has witnessed the abuses of the many against the few, of the powerful against the weak, of the selfish against the innocent. That is why Adam, witness and victim of oppression, grumbles. But his grumbling is not a cowardly grouse muttered under the breath: it is the tenacious call to sanity of one who harbors no false illusions, knowing that the vices of human nature do not die easily.

The photograph that adorns the cover of the book, the fruit of José Luis Rodríguez Pittí’s immaculate lens, is titled Final del camino (End of the Road), and shows a man before a door, gazing into the distance at a sunset. One last question, then, is in order: in the twilight of our dear Don Álvaro, is this work the end of the road? Having analyzed the text I have presented today, and having talked with the author on many occasions as fellow members of the board of the Panamanian Writers’ Association, I have no doubt that this Adam—despite his grumbling—still has a long road ahead of him. As proof I offer that, of the seven collections of poetry that Menéndez Franco has given us in 54 years of romance with the lyre, two have appeared in the last two years. The brightness of his mind and the inspiration of his muse are—like a good wine—at their best.

Thank you very much.