I See Everything That Lives

Neruda
Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)

“Look around – there’s only one thing of danger for you here – poetry.”

Pablo Neruda, while having his house searched by soldiers on Pinochet’s orders.

Love Sonnets

Sonnet VIII

By Pablo Neruda

If your eyes were not the color of the moon,
of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,
if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,
if you were not an amber week,

not the yellow moment
when autumn climbs up through the vines;
if you were not that bread the fragrant moon
kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

oh, my dearest, I would not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is–
sand, time, the tree of the rain,

everything is alive so that I can be alive:
without moving I can see it all:
in your life I see everything that lives

Cien Sonetos de Amor

Soneto VIII

by Pablo Neruda

Si no fuera porque tus ojos tienen color de luna,
de día con arcilla, con trabajo, con fuego,
y aprisionada tienes la agilidad del aire,
si no fuera porque eres una semana de ámbar,
si no fuera porque eres el momento amarillo
en que el otoño sube por las enredaderas
y eres aún el pan que la luna fragante
elabora paseando su harina por el cielo,
oh, bienamada, yo no te amaría!
En tu abrazo yo abrazo lo que existe,
la arena, el tiempo, el árbol de la lluvia,
y todo vive para que yo viva:
sin ir tan lejos puedo verlo todo:
veo en tu vida todo lo viviente.


I realize more and more how tenuous the right of free speech and political freedom remains around the world.  Americans may think because we have access to the internet and rights based on our constitution that free speech is something that is widely protected.  However objecting to political dictators and strong men has always carried risks.   Around the world politicians are becoming bolder in bolder in silencing their critics, political activists and artists who share a contradictory message, silencing them by any means necessary.  The recent killings of journalists in Russia, Africa, the Middle East, even American journalists like Jamal Khashoggi, illustrate how all of us who value the right of free speech need to defend it vigorously.  It is why the current voter suppression efforts by the Republicans across this country is so frightening.    At the core of this movement by Republicans are not democratic principles to improve the safety of elections, but rather dishonest collusion to silence the vote and voice of the majority of our population through restrictions to voting access that will weaken our nation.  Making it harder to vote is suppressing free speech. It will take individuals from across our society, including artists, to step forward and turn back what could become the greatest threat to the concept of the United States of America since its founding.

Pablo Neruda’s death is an example of artistic suppression taken to the extreme. Neruda was hospitalized with cancer in September 1973, during the coup d’état led by Augusto Pinochet.  Neruda, an outspoken critic of the regime, left the hospital after a few days when he suspected a doctor of injecting him with an unknown substance, murdering him on Pinochet’s orders.  Neruda died at his house in Isla Negra on September 23, 1973, hours after leaving the hospital.  Pinochet denied permission for Neruda’s funeral to be public.  Chileans ignored the curfew and thousands crowded the streets to honor the poet.  Neruda’s death has remained controversial to this day.   Although officially his death was reported as heart failure, the Chilean government issued a statement in 2015 saying;  “it was possible and highly likely” that Neruda was killed as a result of “the intervention of third parties”.

A far more pleasing topic is to focus on Neruda’s life and mastery as poet.    He used the sonnet form it to its full effect, a tour de force in imaginative expression, unique to the Spanish language.  Neruda’s sonnets embrace love as a force that gives life, extends life and goes beyond our mortal days.


Love Sonnets

Sonnet XCIV

by Pablo Neruda

If I die, survive me with such pure force
that you waken the furies of the pallid and the cold,
flash your indelible eyes from south to south,
from sun to sun dream through your singing mouth.
I don’t want your laugh or your steps to waver,
I don’t want my legacy of joy to die.
I’m not there, don’t call to my breast in favor,
Live in my absence as in a house.
Absence is a house so vast
that inside you will pass through its walls
and hang pictures on the air
Absence is a house so transparent
that even being dead I will see you there,
and if you suffer, my love, I will die again.

Cien Sonetos de Amor

Soneto XCIV

Si muero sobrevíveme con tanta fuerza pura
que despiertes la furia del pálido y del frío,
de sur a sur levanta tus ojos indelebles,
de sol a sol que suene tu boca de guitarra.
No quiero que vacilen tu risa ni tus pasos,
no quiero que se muera mi herencia de alegría,
no llames a mi pecho, estoy ausente.
Vive en mi ausencia como en una casa.
Es una casa tan grande la ausencia
que pasarás en ella a través de los muros
y colgarás los cuadros en el aire.
Es una casa tan transparente la ausencia
que yo sin vida te veré vivir
y si sufres, mi amor, me moriré otra vez.

Naked You Are Simple

Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.

Pablo Neruda

Sonnet XXVII

by Pablo Neruda

Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,
Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:
You have moonlines, applepathways:
Naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked, you are blue as the night in Cuba;
You have vines and stars in your hair;
Naked, you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.

Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails,
Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
And you withdraw to the underground world,

as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.

Soneto XXVII

by Pablo Neruda

Desnuda eres tan simple como una de tus manos,
lisa, terrestre, mínima, redonda, transparente,
tienes líneas de luna, caminos de manzana,
desnuda eres delgada como el trigo desnudo.

Desnuda eres azul como la noche en Cuba,
tienes enredaderas y estrellas en el pelo,
desnuda eres enorme y amarilla
como el verano en una iglesia de oro.

Desnuda eres pequeña como una de tus uñas,
curva, sutil, rosada hasta que nace el día
y te metes en el subterráneo del mundo

como en un largo túnel de trajes y trabajos:
tu claridad se apaga, se viste, se deshoja
y otra vez vuelve a ser una mano desnuda


Body of a Woman

By Pablo Neruda

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
when you surrender, you stretch out like the world.
My body, savage and peasant, undermines you
and makes a son leap in the bottom of the earth.

I was lonely as a tunnel. Birds flew from me.
And night invaded me with her powerful army.
To survive I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow for my bow, or a stone for my sling.

But now the hour of revenge falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of firm and thirsty milk!
And the cups of your breasts! And your eyes full of absence!
And the roses of your mound! And your voice slow and sad!

Body of my woman, I will live on through your marvelousness.
My thirst, my desire without end, my wavering road!
Dark river beds down which the eternal thirst is flowing,
and the fatigue is flowing, and the grief without shore.

Cuerpo de Mujer

by Pablo Neruda

Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.
Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava
y hace saltar el hijo del fondo de la tierra.

Fui solo como un túnel. De mí huían los pájaros
y en mí la noche entraba su invasión poderosa.
Para sobrevivirme te forjé como un arma,
como una flecha en mi arco, como una piedra en mi honda.

Pero cae la hora de la venganza, y te amo.
Cuerpo de piel, de musgo, de leche ávida y firme.
Ah los vasos del pecho! Ah los ojos de ausencia!
Ah las rosas del pubis! Ah tu voz lenta y triste!

Cuerpo de mujer mía, persistiré en tu gracia.
Mi sed, mi ansia sin límite, mi camino indeciso!
Oscuros cauces donde la sed eterna sigue,
y la fatiga sigue, y el dolor infinito.

We Bear The Sole, Relentless Tenderness

pablo-neruda
Pablo Neruda

You can cut all the flowers, but you can not keep Spring from coming.

Pablo Neruda

In The Wave-Strike Over Unquiet Stones

by Pablo Neruda

In the wave-strike over unquiet stones
the brightness bursts and bears the rose
and the ring of water contracts to a cluster
to one drop of azure brine that falls.
O magnolia radiance breaking in spume,
magnetic voyager whose death flowers
and returns, eternal, to being and nothingness:
shattered brine, dazzling leap of the ocean.
Merged, you and I, my love, seal the silence
while the sea destroys its continual forms,
collapses its turrets of wildness and whiteness,
because in the weft of those unseen garments
of headlong water, and perpetual sand,
we bear the sole, relentless tenderness.


I am like Neruda at the start of his poem Poetry, I don’t where poetry arrived in search of me, but I do know when.   I was just about to turn 50 and it came over me like a wave, quite suddenly my connection to poetry.  And it wasn’t just one poet, it was a host of poets, calling to me, dropping little bombs into my life, most of them resonating because of one or two lines before the whole of it made more sense after many readings. And then it turned into a flood, a torrent, that carried me along of its own accord.  I could have swum sideways to the current and reached shore and gotten out, but I decided to see where that river might carry me and it has carried me beyond where I ever anticipated.

As Neruda says; “it was at that age.”  What age was it for you, when poetry arrived?  How did it come into your life, slowly or with a host of trumpets, heralding its arrival?  Where is poetry now on your journey?  Where have you yet to let it take you? Where will you let it take you?


Poetry

by Pablo Neruda

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 plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

The Light Of Hidden Flowers

Pablo-Neruda
Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)

Xvii (I Do Not Love You…)

By Pablo Neruda

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 dark 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 solid fragrance,
risen 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 as I fall asleep.


 

o te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.