Posted by: jaimegarciapulido | 8th Oct, 2017


Posted by: jaimegarciapulido | 7th Oct, 2018


Reading and writing demand talent for seclusion. You must catch your breath and drink a slow cup of coffee. In these two tasks, as well as in love, you must have enough courage to give yourself prison, you must have enough guts to risk yourself with restricted visits. 

Posted by: jaimegarciapulido | 7th Oct, 2018


Suddenly, I was bullyed by some classmate. She is a young, talented, inteligent english teacher of a public school. I was speaking about the influence of Shakespeare in Whitman. As the woman started to move her face in a negative way, the teacher Gillian Osborne asked me to explain my statement. Her face had changed. It looked like made of uncolourful marble. It took me a long time to take a deep breath and begin again. The entire class was waiting for an answer. The young, talented, inteligent english teacher was at the point to laugh out loud.

I spoke about the love of Whitman for the opera and the theather. I spoke about the way Robin Williams recites Whitman´s verses in a shakespearean style. I just forgot the name of the film. I also spoke about the way the poet used to carry something in his pockets. Those papers were not bills. Those papers were not pieces of the Daily Eagle. They were The Sonnets broken into pieces. He used to read them, like learning every verse at heart. Later on, the new yorker poet recognized it publicly.

I had noticed I was the only man in a group of wise women. They were looking at me. My voice was at the point to break down, my hands were sweating. In the end, I did not speak, but my pocket memory. In my own, trembling words, I quoted this sentence: “If I had not stood before those poems with uncover’d head, fully aware of their colossal grandeur and beauty of form and spirit, I could not have written ‘Leaves of Grass'” (Prose Works 2:721). Finally, Gillian Osborne smiled. The most pretty smile ever. After class, I went directly to the pub to drink beer until I fall drunk.  Certainly, I am south american, my surname is not american or english, but I have been reading poetry all my life long. Poetry is poetry, regardless of the language in which its demons are invoked. Period.

Posted by: jaimegarciapulido | 2nd Aug, 2018





Centenars of tourists rub the famously shiny foot of John Harvard statue. They smile, looking at the cámara for a couple of eternal seconds. Teens rub that foot, parents rub that foot. According to legend they will come back, sooner or later. This is how they pay tribute to the American Dream. As they leave with tears in their eyes, someone is smiling around. They will die in peace with the fairies and gnomes of higher education. This happens under the sunlight, here, in this remarkable place of my university.



Dozens of male Harvard students pee on the statue in spite of its significance. Urinating on the monument is a pristine attempt at self-affirmation. It says: “Not only do I am in Harvard, but I pee my warm, glorious, golden water on its abdomen, leg and foot as well.” According to legend some drunk girls pee on John.



John Harvard’s stern gaze tells us he is a just bit tired. The clicks of the flashbulbs are not too much, but the smell of urine is too much for a statue committed to inspire profound emotions in many generations. He urgently asks to leave this monument. Nobody listens to silence. The golden, glorious, light green statue is here to stay. I write this looking for a bathroom.

Posted by: jaimegarciapulido | 14th May, 2018


The itineraries of the cats are divided, as they advance or retreat. They are not like other animals, who live a single existence with no other possibilities, not to mention the helpless humans. Cats need to go further, to risk, to play scratching their faces in mirrors, and suffering other deaths, many others, like theirs. Every time an old maid dies her cat survives. The kitten tells the gossip to the ghosts of the opposite sex, assuring her passage to the next life.

Posted by: jaimegarciapulido | 19th Dec, 2017


¡The dashes in Emily Dickinson! Actually they are rivers of ink, a bunch of common places in the voice of critics. Perhaps, we must look for aesthetic reasons, given the fact that ethical, rational reasons are exhausted. It is also said that she used these dashes in the writing of her recipes. It is not a part of an equation, a sort of whim, but something normal for her. At first, she developed it as a tool, given the fact that words were incapable to achieve her objective. The way she lived and wrote was needing some particular slant at writing, to sublime herself, to add a particular visual effect.

Time went on, in the garden. The art of pressed flowers moved to the blank page. As she was looking for a certain enigma, as she could not touch it with her fingertips, she decided to illustrate it in the verse. As a result, they look much more than dashes. In every poem, she assembled, dash by dash, some veils. These veils can cover, and, at the same time, reveal. They can be compare, in a certain sense, with the sfumatto used by Leonardo in his paintings. That technique consists of adding delicate veils, layer by layer, pretending to dilute the edges, to blur the contours… The result is real and surreal, at the same time. It is not a joke to state that Dickinson is a master of ambiguity. These dashes are part of her personal, poetic recipe…

They are widely connotative. These dashes are primarily mistic. Then, they are lustful. They are fleshy. They are not supposed to mean, but to evoke. They don’t depend on the meaning of every verse. They are call to sublimate the page, in the very eyes of the reader, adding a new ending to the end. This is why I consider every dash is pictorial, in addition to musical. In this point, it is fair to say that Emily Dickinson is a painter, a draftswoman for poets, just as Leonardo is a poet for painters.

Posted by: jaimegarciapulido | 21st Apr, 2017


Mi first lesson at Harvard: Whitman is the poet of a rich country. He claims to be as infinite as a leaf of grass. Since his first verse, he goes far away. No doubt: he is the voice of The United States of America. His ‘big scale’ poetry voice has been leading the american culture in some way or another. Some day, the best economists of this world must treat this awesome stuff. It is not worthless. In fact, it is a poetrical tone turning into an economical factor, involving the use of a strong, green metaphor called ‘dolar’.

On the other hand, the rest of this continent is poor. Our poets think poorly. They claim to be the shadow of a ghost in hunger strike. Perhaps they ignore that Whitman is still an erotic, explicit, capitalist poet in a capitalist world.

Theme for an essay: ¡The impact of Whitman poems on the american economy!