During my years as a
professor, I particularly appreciated the line
"The university is a muck full of frogs."
... Images buried in the eye of the dog of the dead fallen in the blind well of origins whirlwinds of reflections in the stone theater of memory images whirling in the circus of the empty eye ideas of red brown and green swarms of flies ideas ate the deities the deities became ideas great bladders full of bile the bladders burst the idols exploded putrefaction of deities the sanctuary was a dungheap the dungheap a nursery armed ideas sprouted ideolized ideodeities sharpened syllogisms cannibal deities ideas idotic as deities rabid dogs dogs in love with their own vomit We have dug up Rage The amphitheatre of the genital sun is a dungheap The fountain of lunar water is a dungheap The lovers' park is a dungheap The library is a nest of killer rats The university is a muck full of frogs The altar is Chanfalla's swindle The eggheads are stained with ink The doctors dispute in a den of thieves The businessmen with fast hands and slow thoughts negotiate in the graveyard The dialecticians exalt the subtlety of the rope The casuists sprinkle thugs with holy water nursing violence with dogmatic milk The fixed idea gets drunk with its opposite The juggling ideologist sharpener of sophisms in his house of truncated quotations and assignations plots Edens for industrious eunuchs forest of gallows paradise of cages Stained images spit on the origins future jailers present leeches affront the living body of time We have dug up rage On the chest of Mexico tablets written by the sun stairway of the centuries spiral terrace of wind the disinterred dance anger panting thirst the blind in combat beneath the noon sun thirst panting anger beating each other with rocks the blind are beating each other the men are crushing the stones are crushing within there is a water we drink bitter water water whetting thirst Where is the other water?
Where is the other water? This is revealed in the final verse of Blanco, generally acknowledged as Paz's finest poem:
The spirit is an invention of the body The body is an invention of the world The world is an invention of the spirit No Yes the unreality of the seen tranparency is all that remains Your footsteps in the next room the green thunder ripening in the foliage of the sky You are naked like a syllable like a flame an island of flames the passion of compassionate coals the world a bundle of your images drowned in music Your body spilled on my body seen dissolved brings reality to seeing