“Yo guardo la perla triste”:
Discerning the Divine in José Martí’s Versos sencillos
“Yo sé de un gamo aterrado
Que vuelve al redil, y expira,—
Y de un corazón cansado
Que muere oscuro y sin ira.
[I know of a startled deer / That returns to the flock, and expires,—
/ And of a tired heart / That dies, dark and without hatred.]
- José Martí, “Yo sé de Egipto y Nigricia…”
When José Martí published Ismaelillo in 1882, he was living in exile in New
York City while lamenting the return of his wife and son to Cuba. Ten years later, he
continued to live in exile, but the weight of his anxiety had shifted to the cause of Cuban
Independence from Spain. For a six month period spanning 1889 and 1890, Martí
attended the first Pan-American Conference in Washington D.C. as the Uruguayan
delegate. He focused his attention on the increasing United States intervention in the
Cuban independence struggle, and the U.S.’s inquiry into purchasing the island. Martí
experienced the profound sense of loss he had felt when his son had been taken from him.
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But this time it was his beloved patria he watched slip away. It is in this setting that
Martí writes Versos sencillos (1891), his poetic response to the anguish weighing upon
him, and what Fina García Marruz considers to be “el más importante de sus libros
poéticos” [the most important of his poetic books] (251). She notes that “lo que Martí
pide no es una renovación de formas o de metros sino una renovación de esencias” [what
Martí asks for is not a renovation of forms or meters but a renovation of essence] (248).
Martí’s second published book of poetry unintentionally presents a new view of sacred
history through the formulation of Martí’s personal poetic mythology. As Carlos Ripoll
astutely recognizes, Versos sencillos “[es] esa involuntaria revelación que se produce
cuando el poeta se da a evocar episodios de su vida, o deja que salga espontánea, en un
temblor de inspiración, la palabra de su intimidad” [is that involuntary revelation that is
produced when the poet draws upon episodes from his life, or lets them come
spontaneously, in a flash of inspiration, the intimate word] (273). He revealed his poetic
motivation and incorporated it with his spiritual anguish to create a new religious
ideology.
While Versos sencillos is often praised for its simplicity and sincerity, what José
Martí himself describes as “el sentimiento en formas llanas y sinceras” [emotion in plain
and honest forms] (233), his final poetic publication reveals Martí’s visionary mythology
by weaving four major themes into the work: Nature, Love, Freedom and Poetry. His
opening poem, “Yo soy un hombre sincero” [“I am a sincere man”], by far the best
known poem in all of Martí’s writing, prepares us for the entire collection and acquaints
us with these four principle themes. As the poem develops, synonymous to the book’s
own development, we learn how the first three all lead to the book’s final section on the
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subject of his poetics. Nature is equal to Poetry, Love is equal to Poetry and Freedom is
equal to Poetry. Poetry is Martí’s conception of the Absolute on earth, or at least his
clearest comprehension of it. By striving for an understanding of Poetry, what Roberto
Agramonte calls his “transvaloración” [transvaloration] of religion (476), Versos
sencillos enables us to perceive sacred history’s blueprint behind the poems. The opening
stanzas to “Yo soy un hombre sincero” introduce the speaker’s assertion of sincerity and
project his poetic undertaking:
Yo soy un hombre sincero
De donde crece la palma,
Y antes de morirme quiero
Echar mis versos del alma.
Yo vengo de todas partes,
Y hacia todas partes voy:
Arte soy entre las artes,
En los montes, monte soy.
Yo sé los nombres extraños
De las yerbas y las flores,
Y de mortales engaños,
Y de sublimes dolores. (235)
[I am an honest man / from where the palm tree grows, / and I want,
before I die, / to cast these verses from my soul. / I come from all places /
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and to all places go: / I am art among the arts / and mountain among the
mountains. / I know the strange names / of flowers and herbs / and of fatal
deceptions / and magnificent griefs.]1
This proclamation suggests the speaker’s need to cleanse himself of hypocrisy. Of all the
poems in Versos sencillos, or in Martí’s writing, this opening most clearly depicts this
assertion. Clearly, he does not want to be remembered for his political commentaries, nor
does he hope to dazzle with his many talents as writer and orator. Instead he chooses
sincerity. Carlos Ripoll notes that “sinceridad y sencillez son las palabras básicas del
libro, hasta en su más amplio significado: sin artificio, sin trampa, puro y sin doblez”
[Sincerity and simplicity are the basic words of the book, even in their most extensive
meanings: without artifice, without trickery, pure and without duplication] (275). Sincero
gains even greater significance when understanding the etymology of the word. Ripoll
observes that “en castellano antiguo la palabra ‘sincero’ era sinónimo de ‘sencillo’, por lo
que descubrimos que el adjetivo era sinónimo de ‘sencillo’, resulta ser intercambiable
con el del primer verso: así prescindiendo de la sonoridad menos grata, Martí podía haber
titulado su colección ‘Versos sinceros’ en vez de ‘Versos sencillos’” (275) [In ancient
Castilian the word sincere was a synonym of simple, by which we discover that the
adjective simple can be interchangeable with the first verse: Martí, who rejected the word
for its lesser sonority, could have entitled his collection Sincere Verses instead Simple
Verses]. Thus, to be simple is to be sincere. Further, sincero also means sin cero, or
without wax. There is no cover up or varnish. Martí explains, “la tierra es hoy una vasta
morada de disfrazados. Se viene a la tierra como cera, y el azar nos vacía en moldes
1
Translation by Esther Allen.
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prehechos” [The earth today is a vast dwelling of costumes. We come to earth like wax,
and the arrival empties us into pre-made molds] (18:290). That is, by being sin cero, the
speaker does not fit into society’s molds like others. He is unique, authentic, completely
exposed and void of all deceit. Alberto Hernández-Chiroldes notes that “la sinceridad de
Martí es la búsqueda y afirmación de una autenticidad existencial que el hombre
revolucionario encuentra en la entrega a la causa de la redención de sus compatriotas”
[Martí’s sincerity is the search and affirmation of an existential authenticity that the
revolutionary man finds in giving himself to the redemptive cause of his compatriots]
(19). Thus, the speaker articulates a necessity to evade artificiality and assert his
modernity by departing from the poetic simulacrum that limited many of his
contemporaries. His voice, poetry, politics, and spiritual stance are all authentic, thanks to
his proposed sincerity. Yet what is it that makes him a “sincere” individual instead of
someone with idle words? Beyond being “sincere,” the poet is “de donde crece la palma”
[from where the palm tree grows], referring to the Caribbean, particularly Cuba. Most
importantly, the speaker identifies himself as a person who wishes to “echar mis versos
del alma” [cast these verses from my soul]. Thus, Martí defines his two patrias, the
obvious choices, by extension, Cuba and poetry, and teaches us how they define his level
of sincerity and represent a religious quest.
The poet then declares that “yo vengo de todas partes, / y hacia todas partes voy”
[I come from all places / and to all places go:]. He asserts the poet’s limitless boundaries
including his ability to transcend geographical space. Such an omnipresence, which
equally implies omniscience, allows for the poet’s work to transcend all works of art. He
is not limited by previous boundaries, and for this reason, his poetry is “art among the
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arts / and mountain among the mountains.” Intuitive awareness allows him to see beyond
the limits of geography or language and provides the capacity to express in layman’s
terms both the visions he beholds, as well as the sublimes dolores [sublime grief] he
suffers. “El dolor es útil,” affirms Cintio Vitier,” de utilidad trascendente, porque nos
redime de la vida, como si la vida fuera la material combustible y el dolor el fuego que la
transfigura” (16) [Pain is useful, of a transcendent usefulness, because it redeems us from
life, as if life were a combustible material and pain were the fire that transfigures it]. In
other words, to produce his visionary experience and engender a new religious
philosophy, the poet must first suffer and pass through a refiner’s fire.
It is at this point in the work that the poet begins to formulate his vision:
Yo he visto en la noche oscura
Llover sobre mi cabeza
Los rayos de lumbre pura
De la divina belleza.
Alas nacer vi en los hombros
De las mujeres hermosas:
Y salir de los escombros
Volando las mariposas. (235)
[In night’s darkness I’ve seen / raining down on my head / pure flames,
flashing rays / of beauty divine. / Wings I saw springing / from fair
women’s shoulders, / and from beneath rubble / I’ve seen butterflies
flutter.]
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The speaker projects the experience of his enlightenment by diminishing the power that
darkness once held over him. This world of shadows, an image associated with the
blindness of society and mankind’s inability to perceive greater truth, has no power over
the poet’s intuitive vision. Even in moments of obscurity, he still “receives” revelatory
insight that “rains” truth to his intellect. In the same way that rain purifies and gives life,
so, too, does “light” give him access to “pure flames, flashing rays / of beauty divine.”
Such an enlightened state reveals a hidden realm detached from the representational
world we know. That is, the speaker emphasizes his lack of dependence on the images
and objects that surround him, which hold no power in and of themselves. The vision he
receives, the rays of pure light, represent something more real and more tangible than the
world’s objects. The poetic voice outlines the access to the Absolute and enriches
readers’ lives by giving them insight into this spiritual world. Poetics emerge as the union
of philosophy and art, thus creating a new ideal similar to the concepts of I-hood and the
pursuit of the Absolute that many of the early Romantics discussed. By so doing, the text
acts as a type of manual, a spiritual guide that provides direction to a wandering soul.
These visions become comprehensible by associating them to earlier experiences.
Similar to Ismaelillo and the image of his son floating above, angel-like, a woman here
grows wings from her shoulders, as if signifying the birth of an angelic minister. This
newly formed messenger relates to the visionary speaker the message to be shared. Up to
this point in the poem the speaker has yet to reveal any key message that will enlighten
his readers, but merely suggests the source of inspiration in order to validate its
authenticity. There is no reason to question such words; they come from a heavenly
messenger that dictates truth; a message of joy, mercy, love, and hope, a butterfly that
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springs from ashes like a phoenix bird, which exemplifies the overall poetic theme. The
speaker then reveals the visionary poetics by imbuing common experiences with
phenomenal elements:
He visto vivir a un hombre
Con el puñal al costado,
Sin decir jamás el nombre
De aquella que lo ha matado.
Rápida, como un reflejo,
Dos veces vi el alma, dos:
Cuando murió el pobre viejo,
Cuando ella me dijo adiós.
Temblé una vez,—en la reja,
A la entrada de la viña,—
Cuando la bárbara abeja
Picó en la frente a mi niña.
Gocé una vez, de tal suerte
Que gocé cual nunca:—cuando
La sentencia de mi muerte
Leyó el alcaide llorando.
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Oigo un suspiro, a través
De las tierras y la mar,
Y no es un suspiro,—es
Que mi hijo va a despertar. (235-36)
[I’ve seen a man live / with a knife in his side, / never speaking the name /
of the woman who killed him. / Twice, quick as thinking, / I saw the soul,
twice: / When the poor old man died, / and when she told me good-bye. /
Once I trembled, at the bars / of the vineyard gate— / when a savage bee
stung / the forehead of my little girl. / Once I reveled in destiny / like no
other joy I’d known: / when the warden—reading / my death sentence—
wept. / I hear a sigh that passes / over lands and seas, / and is not a sigh—
it is / my son, awakening from sleep.]
The speaker redefines what could be considered everyday events as being
prophetic by mingling them with the phenomenal. As he sees wings sprout from women’s
shoulders, so does he recount the fear he felt when his daughter was stung by a bee. Each
of these experiences contributes to the poet’s visionary makeup. Both a visionary and a
real man, he supports his visions through real experiences that open up a secondary
world. He explains the ability to perceive the “soul” through two rather common
experiences: a poor old man’s death and a woman’s departure.
This opening image is both striking and symbolic. The description of a man living
with a dagger thrust into his side while concealing the name of the woman who killed
him describes how love governs every aspect of life. As was already noted, Martí
considers that “éste es tiempo de amor” [this is a time of love] (7: 226), even if that view
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of love is also filled with pain, frustration, agony, compassion, and forgiveness. Love can
be both violent and forgiving, thus demonstrated in the woman’s action and man’s
reaction whose heart has died. It would not be an exaggeration to say that love permeates
Martí’s entire canon. Love is the exemplary image that dominates his world because it
coincides with the search for sincerity, simplicity, and authenticity. Love promotes, for
better or for worse, spontaneous action, and reveals the “soul[’s]” content. That is why
the speaker calls upon love to open this vision of the world; it encompasses both joy and
pain. As noted in the following stanza, twice the speaker saw “the soul,” first when the
poor old man died and second when “she” said goodbye.
Both the woman’s departure and the man’s death relate to Martí’s family
experience. His wife’s return to Cuba caused him major pain and introspection. Yet his
longing and pain does not mean that he agonized over her departure as much as his son’s.
Ismaelillo is a testament to this longing, and the pain that he feels can be seen throughout
his poetry, particularly in a poem like “Maldice la mujer” from Flores del destierro.
However, pain is a necessary element for producing the visionary. José Olivio Jiménez
notes that “análoga importancia otorga Martí al dolor, a quien llama de continuo alimento
y purificación del espíritu. Nacimiento para la vida del bien, brote de fe en la existencia
venidera” [Martí awards analogous importance to pain, to whom he calls for the
continuous nutrition and purification of his spirit. Born for the good life, sprouting faith
in the life to come] (82). The distance between Martí and his child does not keep him
from envisioning or even hearing the son’s activities. As he states, “oigo un suspiro, a
través / De las tierras y la mar, / y no es un suspiro,—es / Que mi hijo va a despertar” [I
hear a sigh that passes / over lands and seas, / and is not a sigh—it is / my son, awakening
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from sleep]. The breath he hears, the voice from the unknown carried across land and sea
gains greater significance as revealed in the sound of the son waking. This reference is a
reminder of the visions in Ismaelillo, where such dependence on the son defined the
entire poetics. Poetic inspiration has thus progressed from the image of love and
heartache to a hopeful futuristic image of the son. And while this vision still embodies an
aspect of love, it is now the more purified love between a parent and a child. The vision
now encapsulates images evoked earlier in Ismaelillo’s “Sueño despierto” where the son
passes through sea and land until he sits floating above the speaker. Hernández-Chiroldes
perceptively observes that “la semejanza entre ambos poemas consiste en la imagen del
niño ausente que atraviesa tierra y mar” [the similarities between both poems consist of
the image of an absent child that crosses land and sea] (45) He does note, however, a key
distinction between the two poems, “En [este poema] se percibe una actitud de más
intimidad y sosiego. En ‘Sueño despierto’ hay un tono más optimista y externo, propio
del padre que tiene grandes esperanzas depositadas en su hijo” [In this poem we perceive
a more intimate and subdued attitude. In “Sueño despierto” there is a more optimistic and
outward tone, unique to the father who has great hope in his child] (46). The spiritual
message crossing land and sea is for the poet only, emphasizing his visionary insight.
The poet’s vision begins to step from his primary encounter with Love and Nature
towards a much more universal understanding of Love:
Si dicen que del joyero
Tome la joya mejor,
Tomo a un amigo sincero
Y pongo a un lado el amor.
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Yo he visto al águila herida
Volar al azul sereno.
Y morir en su guarida
La víbora del veneno.
Yo sé bien que cuando el mundo
Cede, lívido, al descanso,
Sobre el silencio profundo
Murmura el arroyo manso. (236)
[If I’m told to choose / the jeweler’s finest gem, / I’ll leave love aside /
and take an honest friend. / I’ve seen the wounded eagle / soar through
serene azure; / I’ve watched the viper die / of venom in its lair. / I know
that when the world / surrenders, pallid, to repose, / the murmur of a
tranquil stream / through the deep silence flows.]
Confronted with the question of selecting the most precious of jewels in life, the speaker
reiterates his dependence upon sincerity. The choice is ruled by the distinction between
un amigo sincero and amor [a sincere friend and love]. While love plays a vital role in
determining the poet’s fashioning, the poet here reminds us of the distinction between
intimate love between two lovers, and that of a more exalted nature: of trust, compassion,
honesty, self-sacrifice. The choice of a sincere friend embodies all of those features that
the speaker hopes will become more universal in our understanding and relationships
with one another. Honesty is the element that supersedes all others because it empowers
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us to see beyond limits clouded by the distractions of modernization, deceitful politics or
empty poetry. In the world Martí lives in, honesty is the voice of reason and truth, a
concept he elucidates in the next stanza.
The contrast between the two animals named in the following stanza helps to
clarify Martí’s view of the poet/seer and its opposite: the hypocrite. Similar to the eagle
described here, the speaker views the visionary poet as one who overcomes the world,
even with the injury and pain it suffers. Not unlike this eagle, the poet is not limited in the
way other mortals are, since he has the capacity to explain his view. Vision becomes
clearer and more sincere because he views the world as it really is, not as it is perceived;
this in direct opposition to the view of hypocrites represented by the venomous snake.
Rather than soar, the snake hides in its lair, waiting to pounce upon those who cross its
path. But such a position is limiting, and detrimental. In a moment of despair, no one can
assist it. The snake, unlike the eagle, will die not by some exterior source, but rather, by
its own venom. Poison meant for others will ultimately result in the snake’s own
destruction, like the hypocrisy and dishonesty that consume those who attempt to attack
others. As the eagle soars with its pain, and the snake falls in its demise, so the poetic
seer prospers, while the vicious hypocrite poisons himself.
The snake and eagle analogy leads to the speaker’s view of death. Although the
earth will come to rest, thus symbolizing the end of humanity, Martí alludes to the
peaceful running of water that will come with silence. Just like the rain that gave light
and inspiration, the stream brings comfort with its calming message of a hereafter. The
image dictates a peace that overcomes the silence of death. His message, once again,
fulfills a religious obligation as it accesses an alternative world distinct from our own. He
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addresses the questions posed by philosophy regarding the Absolute through the poetics
of language, thus giving a sacred account of the world.
The concluding stanzas reveal the transformation of poetry into something sacred:
Yo he puesto la mano osada,
De horror y júbilo yerta,
Sobre la estrella apagada
Que cayó frente a mi puerta.
Oculto en mi pecho bravo
La pena que me lo hiere:
El hijo de un pueblo esclavo
Vive por él, calla, y muere.
Todo es hermoso y constante,
Todo es música y razón,
Y todo, como el diamante,
Antes que luz es carbón.
Yo sé que el necio se entierra
Con gran lujo y con gran llanto,—
Y que no hay fruta en la tierra
Como la del camposanto
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Callo, y entiendo, y me quito
La pompa del rimador:
Cuelgo de un árbol marchito
Mi muceta de doctor. (236)
[I’ve set my daring hand / stiff with horror and exultation, / upon a fallen
star / that lay lifeless at my door. / In my bold breast I hide / the pain that
ever wounds it: / the son of a people enslaved / lives for them, falls silent,
dies. / All is beautiful and unceasing, / all is music and reason, / and all,
like the diamond, / is carbon first, then light. / I know that fools are buried
/ with much luxury and wailing— / and that no fruit on earth can rival / the
cemetery’s crop. / I fall silent, and understand, / and drop my rhymester’s
show: / upon a barren tree I hang / my fine scholar’s robes.]
These final stanzas thus relate the speaker’s self-evaluation. The first of these stanzas
describes the poet’s encounter with a fallen star found on his doorstep. Similar to Versos
libre’s “Canto de otoño” where he finds Death waiting for him upon his doorstep, the
poet finds a unique object that no one else has found or seen. He reaches forth with
trepidation and excitement for his encounter with the something sublime. More than just
an ordinary object, this fallen star is a heavenly vision meant for the poet. But what is the
vision? He reveals it in the next stanza. He himself is this fallen star, full of pain and
sorrow as it sits extinguished on his doorstep. Like the son of sky (the fallen star), the
poet is the son of an enslaved people will eventually fall silent and die. The fallen star
describes the speakers divine heritage and foretells his ultimate sacrifice, a sacrifice in
behalf of his own enslaved Cubans.
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The poet’s self-sacrifice does come with its benefits though. With the
continuation of the poem, the speaker reveals why “oculto en mi pecho bravo / la pena
que me lo hiere” [In my bold breast I hide / the pain that ever wounds it]. He objectifies
the hardships of reality by comparing the pain he keeps within to that of the
transformation of carbon to a diamond. Although pain injures him and causes him to
suffer unto death, the result, this diamond made from carbon, is a beautiful poem.
Although the pain will require an ultimate sacrifice from him, the poetry produced from it
will be more beautiful and pure than we can possibly understand at this time.we are
solely in a process of beautification. While such a sacrifice might not gain the praise of
the world, it will produce something that no fruit on earth can rival. The poet chooses this
fate over that of “el necio [que] se entierra / con gran lujo y con gran llanto” [fools that
are buried / with much luxury and wailing] because he is able to remain sincere, as the
opening poem suggests. Like many of the sharp comments found in his poetry, this one,
too, seems to be directed towards Carmen, Martí’s estranged wife. In one of his early
journals written between 1878-1880 Martí wrote a similar statement directed towards his
wife:
¿Qué quieres tú, mi esposa? ¿Qué haga la obra que ha de serme aplaudida
en la tierra—o que yo viva, mordido de rencores, sin ruido de aplausos, sin
las granjerías del que se pliega,—haciendo sereno la obra cuyo aplauso ya
no oiremos? (21:148)
[What do you want, my wife? That I do work for the applause of the
world—or that I live, bitten by my rancor, without the noise of applause,
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without the benefits of those who yield—making the work serene whose
applause we will never hear?]
Although it will eventually bring him death, he will not veer from his path to receive the
praise of the world. He will push towards the Absolute. The speaker suggests that to
pursue the visionary journey, he needs to abandon his rhyme, and set it aside along with
the doctor’s robe, his image of scientific modernity. Hernández-Chiroldes suggests that
“cuando observamos en Martí el rechazo al tipo de vida banal y sin contenido ético,
estamos presenciando su repudio al Romanticismo, al menos en sus aspectos más
superficiales” [when we observe in Martí the rejection of a type of banal life without
ethical content, we are witnessing his repudiation of Romanticism, at least its most
superficial aspects] (20). That is, he distances himself from the limitation of labored
verse, the Romantic versos graves he abandons, and relies solely upon poetry to progress
towards the Absolute to which his poem refers. Martí fuses the roles of poet, philosopher,
and prophet as he steps from the phenomenal to the spiritual.
Perhaps the best way to understand this concept is to return one last time
to his poetry. The opening stanza of his poem “Cual de incensario roto” best explains the
conclusion of “Yo soy un hombre sincero:”
Cual de incensario roto huye el perfume
Así de mi dolor se escapa el verso:
Me nutro del dolor que me consume,
De donde vine, ahí voy: al Universo.
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[Just as perfume flees from a broken incensory / So escapes my verse from
my pain. / I am nourished by the pain that consumes me, / from where I
came, is where I’ll go: to the Universe.]
Martí’s verse is born from his pain and it is that pain that takes us to where we came
from, “el Universo”. This final phrase, “De donde vine, ahí voy: al Universo,” reminds us
that Martí’s progressive vision goes beyond the limited boundaries of mortality. His
death was merely the physical manifestation of his attempt to combine Cuba and night, to
unite his crisis with his vision, to go where he came from, the Universe, because “el
Universo / habla mejor que el hombre” [the Universe / speaks better than man] (“Dos
patrias”). Ultimately it is through death that his “dos patrias” become one patria and
Cuba, the night, death and poetry unite to complete his religious quest.
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