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“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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