Reading non love poems by Pablo Neruda makes me realize why literature favors those. His regular poems are all over the place, but the most bizarre ones were my favorites. For instance:

Two feet
like a tangle of porcupines,
two half-opened fists,
two slovenly
cucumbers...

-You Flame Foot!

I was regularly moved to excitedly email friends with poems I read. Here's the first of those emails, written one restless spring day not long after I began the collection:

The book starts with Toward An Impure Poetry, which I've read before but is so great and reminds me of my favorite defiant Ferlinghetti stuff, like Junkman's Obbligato and Poetry as Insurgent Art. Then there are some clumsy early poems before the collection hits its stride with appropriately restless and mid-April ish works. There's one called Gentleman Alone that's so fun to read aloud! Try this part: "At long last, the petty employee, delivered from weekly routine, after bedding himself for the night with a novel, seduces his neighbor conclusively. They go on to a villainous movie." And these lonely lines: "All the twilight seducers, the nights of the wedded, close over like bed sheets and bury me..." Then there's a three-page ode to the author's legs while lying in bed, and man, it makes me weirdly giddy just reading it! And after that is the best one so far: Walking Around. As I said, a lot of the poems feel restless, melancholy, and vaguely manic, and I think those combined feelings fit spring really well. This one reminds me of one of my all time favorite literary passages (from Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse):

"When I have neither pleasure nor pain and have been breathing for a while the lukewarm insipid air of these so called good and tolerable days, I feel so bad in my childish soul that I smash my moldering lyre of thanksgiving in the face of the slumbering god of contentment and would rather feel the very devil burn in me than this warmth of a well-heated room. A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. I have a mad impulse to smash something, a warehouse, perhaps, or a cathedral, or myself..."

The narrator of that paragraph longs to "commit outrages" in protest of "this contentment, this healthiness and comfort, this carefully preserved optimism of the middle classes, this fat and prosperous brood of mediocrity." (Swoon.) I get the same sense from Walking Around. The author is tired of being a man, and yet he also has the sense that he hasn't lived as a man to his full, chaotic capacity. Relatable, right? Here's the poem as my book (and not the poetry website I just found) translates it:

Walking Around
by Pablo Neruda
translated by Ben Belitt

It so happens I'm tired of just being a man.
I go to a movie, drop in at the tailor's - it so happens -
feeling wizened and numbed, like a big, woolly swan
awash in an ocean of clinkers and causes.

A whiff from a barbershop does it: I yell bloody murder.
All I ask is a little vacation from things: from boulders and woolens,
from gardens, institutional projects, merchandise,
eyeglasses, elevators - I'd rather not look at them.

It so happens I'm fed up - with my feet and my fingernails
and my hair and my shadow.
Being a man leaves me cold: that's how it is.

Still - it would be lovely
to wave a cut lily and panic a notary,
or finish a nun with a left to the ear.
It would be nice
just to walk down the street with a green switchblade handy,
whooping it up till I die of the shivers.

I won't live like this - like a root in a shadow,
wide-open and wondering, teeth chattering sleepily,
going down to the dripping entrails of the universe
absorbing things, taking things in, eating three square meals a day.

I've had all I'll take from catastrophe.
I won't have it this way, muddling though like a root or a grave,
all alone underground, in a morgue of cadavers,
cold as a stiff, dying of misery.

That's why Monday flares up like an oil-slick
when it sees me up close, with the face of a jailbird,
or squeaks like a broken-down wheel as it goes,
stepping hot-blooded into the night.

Something shoves me toward certain damp houses, into certain dark corners,
into hospitals, with bones flying out of the windows;
into shoe stores and shoemakers smelling of vinegar,
streets frightful as fissures laid open.

There, trussed to the doors of the houses I loathe
are the sulfurous birds, in a horror of tripes,
dental plates lost in a coffeepot,
mirrors
that must surely have wept with the nightmare and shame of it all;
and everywhere, poisons, umbrellas, and belly buttons.

I stroll unabashed, my eyes and my shoes
and my rage and oblivion.
I go on, crossing offices, retail orthopedics,
courtyards with laundry hung out on a wire:
the blouses and towels and the drawers newly washed,
slowly dribbling a slovenly tear.

ode to my socks is probably one of the most comforting, wooly poems you will ever read in your life.

I started this book back in the summer and have been reading it in little chunks on and off since. It has side-by-side versions of each poem in Spanish and English so its thickness as an object is slightly deceptive. It's depth as literature though is unfathomable.

Poetry in translation is always an oddity. Poetry is language distilled. Its rhythms and rhymes are hard to duplicate in translation. "The original is unfaithful to the translation" as Jorge Luis Borges once said. And it also reminds me in particular of my pathetic monoglot Englishness. I wish I could read them in the original Spanish and reach for my own translation, which would probably be worse but it would be mine.

Neruda's poetry is sometimes hard to understand. That's not a bad thing. Sometimes it is simple but always there are lines and images that make one gasp and this selection makes me want to read everything he wrote.

I have long liked the poem, 'Tonight I Can Write.../Puedo Escribir Los Versos...' from 'Veinte Poemas De Amor' (1924) since I came across it elsewhere but there is wonderful poem after wonderful poem in here. Poems about love and loss. Poems about politics and poems about poetry. I really liked the selection from 'Odas Elementales' (1954), particularly 'Ode To a Yellow Bird'. I wish I could hear these poems read out loud, which I think is the way poetry should be heard. I'm going off now to find out if there are any out there on the internet.

I really enjoyed this collection. It repays the work put into it.

Very good.

BEING BORN IN THE WOODS

"When the rice withdraws from the earth
the grains of its flour,
when the wheat hardens its little hip-joints and lifts its face of a thousand hands,
I make my way to the grove where the woman and the man embrace,
to touch the innumerable sea
of what continues.
...

Lives resting beside my clothes like parallel doves
or contained in my own existence and in my lawless sound
in order to return to being, to lay hold on the air denuded of its leaf
and on the moist birth of the soil in the wreath: how long
can I return and be, how long can the odour
of the most deeply buried flowers, of the waves most finely
pulverized on the high rocks, preserve in me their homeland
where they can return to be fury and perfume?
..."


Leaning into the afternoons
"...
Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes.

The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land. "


THERE'S NO FORGETTING (SONATA)
"Ask me where I have been
and I'll tell you: “Things keep on happening.”
I must talk of the rubble that darkens the stones;
of the river’s duration, destroying itself;
I know only the things that the birds have abandoned,
or the ocean behind me, or my sorrowing sister.
Why the distinctions of place? Why should day
follow day? Why must the blackness
of nighttime collect in our mouths? Why the dead?
.........................
Here let us halt, in the teeth of a barrier:
useless to gnaw on the husks that the silence assembles.
For I come without answers:
see: the dying are legion,
legion, the breakwaters breached by the red of the sun,
the headpieces knocking the ship’s side,
the hands closing over their kisses,
and legion the things I would give to oblivion."

I see only a summer's
transparency, I sing nothing but wind,
[...]
and I stand by myself
in the spring, knowing nothing but rivers.

Before reading this selection of poetry, I had a very different and wrong impression of Pablo Neruda. Neruda is very popular among Iranians, with some of his poems translated by our own famous poets. Based on the vague image of Neruda that I had received from having lived in the atmosphere of Iran’s literary collective unconsciousness I thought of him as a sentimental and preachy and overly political poet. But the poems in this section are beautiful and impactful. Their emotion is very intense and their sincerity clashes hard with the dominant taste of our age which welcomes cynicism and irony, but they’re very rarely sentimental. His love and erotic feelings are intense, his connections with nature and society are intense, and he’s a poet very worth reading.

This book allows you to see how his poems progressed over the years. They begin in 1924 and end in 1967. He selected these poems himself for the book. It shows his voice in everything surronding him. Very rich, colorful and moving!

The last third was a five/five. Ode to a Cat was a 10/5.

pablo, plz!

Editor's Foreword

from Veinte Poemas de Amor (1924)
--I. Cuerpo de Mujer . . . / Body of a woman . . .
--III. Ah Vastedad de Pinos . . . / Ah Vastness of Pines . . .
--VII. Inclinado en las Tardes . . . / Leaning into the Afternoons . . .
--XIII. He Ido Marcando . . . / I Have Gone Marking . . .
--XIV. Juegas Todos Los Días . . . / Every Day You Play . . .
--XVII. Pensando, Enredando Sombras / Thinking, Tangling Shadows . . .
--XX. Puedo Escribir Los Versos . . . / Tonight I Can Write . . .

from Residencia en la Tierra, I (1933)
from I
--Alianza (Sonata) / Alliance (Sonata)
--Caballos de Los Sueños / Dream Horses
--Débil del Alba / Weak With the Dawn
--Unidad / Unity
--Sabor / Tang
--Ausencia de Joaquín / Absence of Joaquín
--Colección Nocturna / Nocturnal Collection
--Serenata / Serenade
--Arte Poética / Ars Poetica
--Sistema Sombrío / Bleak System
--Sonata y Destrucciones / Sonata and Destructions
from II
--La Noche del Soldado / The Night of the Soldier
--Establecimientos Nocturnos / Nocturnal Statutes
--Entierro en el Este / Burial in the East
from III
--Caballero Solo / Lone Gentleman
--Tango del Viudo / Widower's Tango
from IV
--Significa Sombras / Signifying Shadows

from Residencia en la Tierra, II (1935)
from I
--Sólo la muerte / Death Alone
--Barcarola / Barcarole
--El Sur del Océano / Oceanic South
from II
--Walking Around / Walking Around
from III
--Oda Con un Lamento / Ode With a Lament
from IV
--Entrada a la Madera / The Way Into Wood
from VI
--Vuelve el Otoño / Autumn Returns
--No Hay Olvido (Sonata) / There's No Forgetting (Sonata)

from Tercera Residencia (1947)
from I. La Ahogada del Cielo
--Alianza (Sonata) / Pact (Sonata)
--Vals / Waltz
--Bruselas / Brussels
--Naciendo en los Bosques / Being Born in the Woods
from II. Las Furias y Las Penas
--Las Furias y Las Penas / Furies and Sufferings
from IV. España en el Corazón
--Explico Algunas Cosas / I'm Explaining a Few Things
--Cómo Era España / The Way Spain Was
--Batalla del Río Jarama / Battle of the Jarama River

from Canto General (1950)
from I. La Lámpara en la Tierra
--Amor América (1400) / Love, America (1400)
--Algunas Bestias / Some Beasts
--Los Ríos Acuden / Entrance of the Rivers
from II. Alturas de Macchu Picchu
--La Poderosa Muerte . . . / Irresistible Death . . .
--Entonces en la Escala . . . / Then Up the Ladder
--Sube Conmigo . . . / Come Up with Me . . .
--Piedra en la Piedra . . . / Stone Within Stone . . .
--A Través del Confuso . . . / Through a Confusion . . .
from III. Los Conquistadores
--Vienen Por las Islas (1493) / They Come For the Islands (1493)
--Duerme un Soldado / A Soldier Sleeps
--Descubridores de Chile / Discoverers of Chile
--El Corazón Magallánico (1519) / The Magellan Heart (1519)
--A Pesar de la Ira / In Spite of Wrath
from IV. Los Libertadores
--Educación del Cacique / Education of the Chieftain
from XI. Las Flores de Punitaqui
--El Oro / Gold
--El Poeta / The Poet
from XIV. El Gran Océano
--El Gran Océano / The Great Ocean
--Los Peces y el Ahogado / The Fish and the Drowned Man
--Rapa Nui / Rapa Nui
--Los Constructores de Estatuas (Rapa Nui) / The Builders of Statues (Rapa Nui)
--La Lluvia (Rapa Nui) / Rain (Rapa Nui)
--Antártica / Antarctic
--La Ola / The Wave
--Los Navíos / The Ships
--A Una Estatua de Proa (Elegía) / To a Ship's Figurehead (Elegy)
--Las Aves Maltratadas / The Brutalized Birds
--Leviathan / Leviathan
--No Sólo el Albatros / Not Alone the Albatross
--La Noche Marina / The Marine Night
from XV. Yo Soy
--El Vino / Wine

from Odas Elementales (1954)
--Oda a Una Castaña en el Suelo / Ode to a Fallen Chestnut
--Oda al Libro (I) / Ode to the Book (I)
--Oda a Mirar Pájaros / Birdwatching Ode
--Oda al Pájaro Sofré / Ode to the Yellow Bird
--Oda a la Pereza / Ode to Laziness
--Oda a un Reloj en la Noche / Ode to a Watch at Night
--Oda al Tomate / Ode to the Tomato
--Oda a la Tormenta / Ode to the Storm
--Oda al Traje / Ode to the Clothes
--Oda a César Vallejo / Ode to Cesar Vallejo

from Nuevas Odas Elementales (1956)
--Oda a la Bella Desnuda / Ode to a Beautiful Nude

from Estravagario (1958)
--Y Cuánto Vive? / And How Long?
--Fábula de la Sirena y los Borrachos / Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
--El Miedo / Fear
--Muchos Somos / We are Many
--Demasiados Nombres / Too Many Names
--Furiosa Lucha de Marinos Con Pulpo de Colosales Dimensiones / Furious Struggle Between Seamen and an Octopus of Colossal Size
--El Perezoso / Lazybones
--Bestiario / Bestiary
--Testamento de Otoño / Autumn Testament

from Las Piedras de Chile (1961)
--Casa / House
--El León / The Lion
--Yo Volveré / I Will Come Back
--El Retrato en la Roca / The Portrait in the Rock

from Cantos Ceremoniales (1961)
--Fin de Fiesta / Fiesta's End

from Plenos Poderes (1962)
--Deber del Poeta / Poet's Obligation
--La Palabra / The Word
--Océano / Ocean
--El Mar / The Sea
--El Constructor / The Builder
--Pasado / Past
--El Pueblo / The Pueblo

from Memorial de Isla Negra (1964)
from I. Donde Nace la Lluvia
--La Poesía / Poetry
--La Pensión de la Calle Maruri / The Pension on the Calle Maruri
from II. La Luna en el Laberinto
--Religión en el Este / Religion in the East
--La Noche en Isla Negra / The Night in Isla Negra
from III. El Fuego Cruel
--El Desconocido / The Unknown One
--Mareas / Tides
from IV. El Cazador de Raíces
--El Pescador / The Fisherman
--Oh Tierra, Espérame / Oh Earth, Wait For Me
from V. Sonata Crítica
--La Soledad / Loneliness
--La Memoria / Memory
--El Largo Día Jueves / The Long Day Called Thursday

from Una Casa en la Arena (1966)
--Los Nombres / The Names
--La Bandera / The Flag

from La Barcarola (1967)
--La Barcarola Termina / The Watersong Ends

Beautiful. The English translation brilliantly conveys Neruda’s writing genius. I found myself sighing at 4am and thinking of cicadas, life, and love. It’s something you have to read more than once in your life.