Epistle to Neruda

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Superb,
Like a seasoned lion,
Neruda buys bread in the shop.
He asks for it to be wrapped in paper
And solemly puts it under his arm:
“Let someone at least think
that at some time
I bought a book…”
Waving his hand in farewell,
like a Roman
rather dreamily royal,
in the air scented with mollusks,
oysters,
rice,
he walks with the bread through Valparaiso.
He says:
” Eugenio, look!
You see–
over there, among the puddles and garbage,
standing up under the red lamps
stands Bilbao-with the soul
of a poet — in bronze.
Bilbao was a tramp and a rebel.
Originally
they set up the monument, fenced off
by a chain, with due pomp, right in the center,
although the poet had lived in the slums.
Then there was some minor overthrow or other,
and the poet was thrown out, beyond the gates.
Sweating,
they removed
the pedestal
to a filthy little red-light district.
And the poet stood,
as the sailor’s adopted brother,
against a background
you might call native to him.
Our Bilbao loved cracking jokes.
He would say:
‘On this best of possible planets
there are prostitutes and politutes –
as I’m a poet,
I prefer the former.’”
And Neruda comments, with a hint of slyness:
“A poet is
beyond the rise and fall of values.
It’s not hard to remove us from the center,
but the spot where they set us down
becomes the center!”
I remember that noon,
Pablo,
as I tune my transistor at night, by the window,  now,
when a wicked war with the people of Chile
brings back the smell of Spain.
Playing about at a new overthrow,
politutes in generals’ uniforms
wanted, whichever way they could,
to hustle your poetry out of sight.
But today I see Neruda–
he’s always right in the center
and, not faltering,
he carries his poetry to the people
as simply and calmly
as a loaf of bread.
Many poets follow false paths,
but if the poet is with the people to the bitter end,
like a conscience-
then nothing
can possibly overthrow poetry.

~Yevgeny Yevtushenko~
(1973)

Translated by Arthur Boyars amd Simon Franklin

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Love

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Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.

I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?

Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.

I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.

Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will do me irreparable harm.

Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.

Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting stars, falling objects.
~ Pablo Neruda ~

I am explaining a few things…

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you are going to ask:and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them fullof apertures and birds?
i’ll tell you all the news.

i lived in a suburb,
a suburb of madrid,with bells,
and clocks,and trees.

from there you could look out
over castille’s dry face:
a leather ocean.
my house was called
the house of flowers,because in every cranny
geraniums burst:it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
remember,raul?
eh,rafael?federico,do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of june drowned flowers in your mouth?
brother,my brother!!
everything
loud with big voices,the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of arguelleswith its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres,litres,the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roof with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine,frenzied ivory of potatoes
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

and one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings–
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
bandits with planes and moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children.

and the blood of children ran through streets
without fuss,like children’s blood.

jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the viper would abominate!

face to face with you i have seen the blood
of spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives! treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken spain:
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of spain
spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes.
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull’s eye of your hearts.

and you’ll ask:why doesn’t his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and great volcanoes of his native land?

come and see the blood in the streets.
come and see
the blood in the streets.
come and see
the blood in the streets!!

~ Pablo Neruda ~

I do not love you…

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I do not love you as if you were salt-rose or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms,
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.
Thanks to your love a certain fragrance,
risen darkly from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride,
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where “I” does not exist, nor “you,”
So close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
So close that your eyes close and I fall asleep.

~ Pablo Neruda ~

Poetry

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And it was at that age…Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

– Pablo Neruda

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The Dictators

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An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence.

~Pablo Neruda~

(Listen to this song after reading this poem)

Sonnet XI

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I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

~Pablo Neruda~

(Thanks to Aparna for this poem)

XX

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Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write for example, ‘The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.’

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to a pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

~Pablo Neruda~