El Diario Ilustrado
Santiago de Chile
March 29, 1952
David Rosenmann-Taub, whose first book, Cortejo y Epinicio, has allowed a select public to know him, is a poet of authentic value.
In reading "The Flooded Furrows," we discover the real secrets of Rosenmann-Taub's poetic magic. He focuses on his themes with an exquisite wisdom; everything is in its place and even the play of words and images was precisely where he put it. This poet dedicates himself entirely to his art, sails on the waters of poetry, and rather than be taken away from them, he would prefer to drown.
"Creation," "Childbirth," and "Son" form the "First Sonata." The way in which the poet delves into his poetry is remarkable: always in the midst of life, never forgetting that it is man who suffers, who sings and cries. The verse takes on the feeling of a whip that punishes the poet and the reader; he has spilled blood and all is weeping while creation is realized. The son is coming into the world:
Appear, ray of maternal moon:
know the air, move the entrails;
hoped-for fountainhead, let out the hoarse
bellow: blind spear.
Hours later, years later, the son is …
Gale-force tree, violent living earth:
for your waves my heart cleaves the light;
let the sleep that covers you be the impulse, my son;
I will be the eiderdown of the sleeping slope.
The poet eagerly searches for new expressions, new symbols, constant audacities in order to talk to the son. The triumph of life over death is present all the time:
Let eternal eternal flash spring forth for your eyes;
let my bleeding tenderness thrust toward your blood;
you are the farewell to my ripe brio;
like a harvest, son, I will live again in your wonder.
Among the poets of the newest generation in our literature, the author of this book is, without doubt, one of the most serious and original. He has remarkable mastery of the language and of the technique of verse.
He possesses the gift of synthesis; he knows how to look and to sing without straying from the earth, from man, and from God, but always communicating a new and personal vision of poetry, created and sifted through his talent and inspiration.
The reader will delight in the color of his subjective descriptions of the earth, and will feel an oppression of imponderable sadness as he reads the "Second Sonata" in which the sweet figure of little "dandún" is evoked:
The shadow of death at the threshold stops.
Oh dandún, oh dandún, don't look at its face.
Strange, noble, pure, with the maturity of ears of grain ready for the mill, is the poetry of Rosenmann-Taub, who is definitely a rising star; a living lesson for so many poets who barely achieve a caricature of what true Poetry is – eternal, timeless, current.