Somos en escrito The Latino Literary Online Magazine
Follow us on Twitter @Somosenescrito
 |
José Manuel Solá Gómez August 1, 1944 – September 11, 2017 |
An Elegy:
The Poet and the Hurricane
by Idalie Muñoz Muñoz
The storm, the storm, here comes the storm.
The storm, the storm, here comes the storm.
The storm, the storm, here comes the storm.
—Traditional Plena
He felt the first pangs when everyone was all atwitter about the advancing storm.
He clutched at his chest and collapsed just as Irma made her approach.
What will become of my Borinquen when the tempest comes?
What will become of Puerto Rico when the tempest comes?
Before Irma made landfall, the poet was rushed to the hospital with a heart attack. At first the doctors said he would pull through, then, maybe not. It was not his first heart attack, but it would be his last.
Holy Mary, deliver us from evil,
Shelter us, our Lady, from the terrible tempest.
---Traditional Plena
He died as the storm raged against the Island.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death…
He died on the saddest day of the year, September 11th—that ill-fated date flooded with bad memories. The day that Irma smacked us broadside with her ruffled train, leaving disaster in her wake.
There are those who will say that Irma did not want to leave alone. There are those who will say that the covetous storm swept him up in her arms and carried him off.
Who would have guessed that the Bard of Caguas would leave us so hastily, without even bidding a fond farewell?
The world of Che, as many called him, was a magical rainbow of “other horizons”—a hidden place with chirping birds and blooming hibiscus, misty blue rain and feverish kisses in the night—where one was permitted to visit, but not to linger. The poet always had one foot firmly planted on the ground, and the other…somewhere in that other world that called to him with increasing insistence, like the song of the Lorelei.
On a sunny morning, the sixth of June 2017, he gave us a glimpse into that other world, by way of warning:
If they ask for me
Tell them
That I wander through other realms,
That I look to a new horizon…
It’s no wonder that the Bard of Caguas never wanted to leave his birthplace. From the time of its founding, the destiny of the Solás was always intimately bound to the future and wellbeing of the town. The first mayors born in Caguas were the Solás. The venerable Solá family was fully integrated into the town’s social and political fabric and had served with distinction from the 19th to the 20th centuries. So it was not at all surprising that one of their descendants had such great influence in the cultural life of the town and in the international poetry community.
The town of Caguas was founded in 1775 on acreage that was donated by the local landowners, including several of my ancestors from the Muñoz family. They named the town after the heroic Taino chieftain Caguax, a native of those parts.
Those ancient ties of blood and friendship held fast through the 20th century, and that was how I was introduced to José Manuel as my distant cousin. I was 17 years old; he was 24. He was welcomed into the bosom of the family and he stayed with us for a time in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. During the day, he supported himself by holding down a full-time job (I forget where) and came home to help my parents at night at their mom-and-pop corner grocery store.
From the beginning, José Manuel showed the earliest signs of the mature man he would eventually become—the budding celebrated poet, the well-loved teacher, the devoted husband and father, the loyal friend. The young José Manuel had an innately sweet disposition, always polite, always attentive and helpful, always with a smile on his lips and some scribbled verses in his pocket. He always smoked. But when he did it, it looked “cool.”
There came a time in my school life that I needed a partner to take me to my Senior Prom. My parents did not allow me to have a boyfriend, let alone wear lipstick. How were they going to allow a boy to take me to the prom? The ideal solution presented itself in the person of José Manuel—young, handsome and presentable—and, as a distant cousin, he posed no risk of romantic entanglements; at least that’s how they figured it.
That is how José Manuel and I wound up spending one of the most memorable nights of our lives—dressed to the nines—with José Manuel looking so sophisticated in his black tuxedo and I all glamorous in my sky-blue chiffon gown with white opera gloves and an orchid corsage pinned to my wrist. My best friend Anita, resplendent in her baby pink gown and bouffant up-do, and her beau Billy, movie-star handsome in his white dinner jacket and a wayward lock of jet-black hair shading his dreamy black eyes.
Billy’s shiny red Mustang, a snarling little spitfire, was our Cinderella coach. The Senior Prom was held at the Brandywine Ballroom at the City Line Marriott (1961-1985), a local landmark known for the distinctive Tiki architecture of its Kona Kai Polynesian restaurant/lounge. (The hotel was closed in 1985 and the building was later demolished.)
Days later, Anita and I found out that, throughout the dance, our classmates were going gaga over José Manuel and Billy and had been very envious of our dates. Anita and I were the only Puerto Ricans at the all-girls high school, and, for four years, we were the objects of great curiosity.
Later we left the dance and headed across the river to New Jersey to another popular landmark in Cherry Hill, the Hawaiian Cottage (1938-1978), famous for its dome-shaped entrance in the form of a giant pineapple. Once we were seated amidst much “Asian-themed” splendor, we ordered filet mignon (quite a luxury then at $17.00 a plate!) while we were treated to an “authentic” show—a “luau” with Hawaiian dancers. (This restaurant burned down in 1978.)
Shortly after my high-school graduation, José Manuel returned to Puerto Rico and I lost touch with him for many years. It was only through the good ministrations of my dear cousin Tato, another Caguas native, that we were finally able to renew our friendship. Although we were more than 3,000 miles apart, for many years we were able to maintain the strong ties of a warm and lasting friendship through regular email exchanges and long telephone visits.
With his parting, José Manuel left a hollowed-out core in my heart, impossible to fill. It’s so hard to accept that I’ll never hear his dear voice again, its rich and resonant timbre so well suited to a poet. And in his absence, the mind goes into a tailspin of endless speculation of what-ifs and what-abouts—the stuff of non-sense.
Did José Manuel Solá Gómez, aged 73, know that he had a one-way ticket for a long-anticipated trip, and that he had reached the end of the line?
Does the answer lie between the lines of his last messages, written so laboriously in his last few months, to his closest family and friends?
A maelstrom of emotions stirs within me when I ask myself, what was the final fatal blow that struck down the great Poet?
Was it the senseless death of the little boy Domingo Andrés Mimoso Solá, grandson of his cousin Bernardo Solá (“the one who was a judge”), that moved him to write in anguish: “You have no idea of the depths of the pain this has caused me.” (July 11, 2017, 5:22 AM).
Was it his own body’s cruel betrayal, a blasphemy against the fiercely independent spirit of the great poet? “Yes, of course, call me when you like (or can). If I am slow to answer, don’t hang up; it’s just that the wheelchair makes me move so slowly,” he wrote in response to my expression of concern (June 24, 2017, 7:21 PM.
Perhaps it was evil incarnate walking the earth that prompted him to write: “How many centuries of war, ay, how much hatred!” (A poem, “El corazón a la deriva”, June 24, 2017, 9:56 AM.)
He had already lost interest in things: “But, well, I was saying that I no longer write, nor read. Not even the newspaper, it just piles up…” (May 23, 2017, 9:55 AM)
Deeply disillusioned with the world, he railed against the futility of life when he wrote:
“So tired of this world, this country, of everything, one would wish not to see anymore, no more thinking, no more questioning the why of things, no more trusting anyone-or anything-and the only thing that’s left to one (at least, to me) is to swallow that bile and think: to the devil with everything. One cannot help but become cynical.” (June 9, 2017, 12:12 PM)
<0>
In the tug-of-war between the two fearsome daughters of the Taino god Huracán, although Maria was stronger and more aggressive, Irma proved to be the stealthier and the most jealous of the two. And that is why she carried off the poet, before her sister could overtake her.
And when Maria finally made landfall, and she realized that José Manuel was long gone, Maria cried and cried. She cried torrents of tears, cried with a vengeance, cried until every trace of the town which abandoned him had been washed away.
And that same night, and every night after that, in spite of the tormented Maria, the coquí burst into song. He sang his verdant verses into the night, a lullaby of hope, a cradlesong to all Boricuas born-and-bred, a litany of blessings (ay bendito), a mantra of affirmations (here I’ll stay…just because…).
And yes, when Irma called out to him, the great Poet was ready, and together they left, hand in hand.
<0>
Sent: Sunday, June 4, 2017 3:13 PM
Subject: Palabras de este domingo (para leer mientras se escucha el intermezzo de Cavallería Rusticana (Words for this Sunday (to read while listening to the interlude of Cavalleria Rusticana)
Subject: Palabras de este domingo (para leer mientras se escucha el intermezzo de Cavallería Rusticana (Words for this Sunday (to read while listening to the interlude of Cavalleria Rusticana)
José Manuel Solá / 4 de junio de 2017 / 6: 00 p.m.
Una despedida anticipada
Pues bien, amigos buenos, amigos todos,
digámonos adiós, aún estamos a tiempo,
digámosnos adiós mientras aún son claras las ideas,
mientras aún nos queda un hálito de luz en las palabras...
Ah, digamos adiós con el adiós sereno de los barcos,
con las manos en paz de quien no olvida nada en el camino.
¿Volveremos a vernos? ...¡Y qué sé yo.... qué más quisiera uno
que al pasar por algún recodo de la eternidad
nuestros ojos se vieran en los ojos
de aquellos que quisimos y nos quisieron tanto...!
Yo no tengo ni impongo los límites del tiempo
pero el hombre intuye el horizonte último
cuando el tiempo se escapa como el humo en los dedos mientras fumas...
Sólo quiero decir adiós sin dramas ni gestos teatrales,
civilizadamente,
sin arrepentimientos, sin odios y sin culpas, pues todo lo he vivido.
Me llevo las auroras, los pájaros, los sueños, la memoria,
el recuerdo de un un atardecer de barcos que se alejan
y el abrazo inolvidable de los amigos buenos
que son ustedes.
Hasta siempre.
José Manuel Solá, a proud son of Puerto Rico, was an internationally acclaimed poet. He retired from his chosen profession as a dedicated and well-loved social studies and history teacher and dedicated the rest of his life to the world of poetry. For many years, he served as editor of the literary bulletin, “Bodegón de los poetas,” and as facilitator at the “Taller de Narrativa” Colegio Católico Notre Dame, Puerto Rico. Among his numerous awards and literary prizes, in 2001 he won First Prize in Narrative and 2nd Prize in Poetry in the 7th National Contest in Literatire FMPR. Among his many publications, his most recent included Opus 9, de mi locura en sol mayor, 2012, poetry, y Actos vandálicos, 2014, poetry.
Idalie Muñoz Muñoz was born in Puerto Rico. She holds a bachelor's degree in Communications from Temple University and currently resides in Seattle, WA.