Neruda and Vallejo: Selected Poems Read online

  fuí por los callejones miserables,

  sin compasión, cantando en las fronteras

  del delirio. Los muros se llenaron de rostros:

  ojos que no miraban la luz, aguas torcidas

  que iluminaba un crimen, patrimonios

  de solitario orgullo, cavidades

  llenas de corazones arrasados.

  Con ellos fuí: sólo en su coro

  mi voz reconoció las soledades

  donde nació.

  Entré a ser hombre

  cantando entre las llamas, acogido

  por compañeros de condición nocturna

  que cantaron conmigo en los mesones,

  y que me dieron más de una ternura,

  más de una primavera defendida

  por sus hostiles manos,

  único fuego, planta verdadera

  de los desmoronados arrabales.

  PART XV, the final section, is called “I Am.” It contains thirty-eight autobiographical poems, of which we have chosen the fourth, describing his school days in Santiago when he was seventeen. The first poem of the section touches on the frontier in the year he was born, and the last records the day, February 5, 1949, when Canto General was finished, “a few months before the forty-fifth year of my age.”

  FRIENDS ON THE ROAD

  (1921)

  Then I arrived at the capital, vaguely saturated

  with fog and rain. What streets were those?

  The garments of 1921 were breeding

  in an ugly smell of gas, coffee, and bricks.

  I walked among the students without understanding,

  pulling the walls inside me, searching

  each day into my poor poetry for the branches,

  the drops of rain, and the moon, that had been lost.

  I went deep into it for help, sinking

  each evening into its waters, grasping

  energies I could not touch, the seagulls of a deserted sea,

  until I closed my eyes and was shipwrecked in the middle

  of my own body.

  Were these things dark shadows,

  were they only hidden damp leaves stirred up from the soil?

  What was the wounded substance from which death was pouring out

  until it touched my arms and legs, controlled my smile,

  and dug a well of pain in the streets?

  I went out into life: I grew and was hardened,

  I walked through the hideous back alleys

  without compassion, singing out on the frontiers

  of delirium. The walls filled with faces:

  eyes that did not look at light, twisted waters

  lit up by a crime, legacies

  of solitary pride, holes

  filled with hearts that had been condemned and torn down.

  I walked with them: it was only in that chorus

  that my voice refound the solitudes

  where it was born.

  I finally became a man

  singing among the flames, accepted

  by friends who find their place in the night,

  who sang with me in the taverns,

  and who gave me more than a single kindness,

  something they had defended with their fighting hands,

  which was more than a spring,

  a fire unknown elsewhere, the natural foliage

  of the places slowly falling down at the city’s edge.

  Translated by Robert Bly

  and James Wright

  from

  Odas Elementales

  1954–1957

  ODA A LOS CALCETINES

  Me trajo Maru Mori

  un par

  de calcetines

  que tejió con sus manos

  de pastora,

  dos calcetines suaves

  como liebres.

  En ellos

  metí los pies

  como en

  dos

  estuches

  tejidos

  con hebras del

  crepúsculo

  y pellejo de ovejas.

  Violentos calcetines,

  mis pies fueron

  dos pescados

  de lana,

  dos largos tiburones

  de azul ultramarino

  atravesados

  por una trenza de oro,

  dos gigantescos mirlos,

  dos cañones:

  mis pies

  fueron honrados

  de este modo

  por

  estos

  celestiales

  calcetines.

  Eran

  tan hermosos

  que por primera vez

  mis pies me parecieron

  inaceptables

  come dos decrépitos

  bomberos, bomberos,

  indignos

  de aquel fuego

  bordado,

  de aquellos luminosos

  calcetines.

  Sin embargo

  resistí

  la tentación aguda

  de guardarlos

  como los colegiales

  preservan

  las luciérnagas,

  como los eruditos

  coleccionan

  documentos sagrados,

  resistí

  el impulso furioso

  de ponerlos

  en una jaula

  de oro

  y darles cada día

  alpiste

  y pulpa de melón rosado.

  Como descubridores

  que en la selva

  entregan el rarísimo

  venado verde

  al asador

  y se lo comen

  con remordimiento,

  estiré

  los pies

  y me enfundé

  los

  bellos

  calcetines

  y

  luego los zapatos.

  Y es ésta

  la moral de mi oda:

  dos veces es belleza

  la belleza

  y lo que es bueno es doblemente

  bueno

  cuando se trata de dos calcetines

  de lana

  en el invierno.

  ODE TO MY SOCKS

  Maru Mori brought me

  a pair

  of socks

  which she knitted herself

  with her sheepherder’s hands,

  two socks as soft

  as rabbits.

  I slipped my feet

  into them

  as though into

  two

  cases

  knitted

  with threads of

  twilight

  and goatskin.

  Violent socks,

  my feet were

  two fish made

  of wool,

  two long sharks

  sea-blue, shot

  through

  by one golden thread,

  two immense blackbirds,

  two cannons:

  my feet

  were honored

  in this way

  by

  these

  heavenly

  socks.

  They were

  so handsome

  for the first time

  my feet seemed to me

  unacceptable

  like two decrepit

  firemen, firemen

  unworthy

  of that woven

  fire,

  of those glowing

  socks.

  Nevertheless

  I resisted

  the sharp temptation

  to save them somewhere

  as schoolboys

  keep

  fireflies,

  as learned men

  collect

  sacred texts,

  I resisted

  the mad impulse

  to put them

  into a golden

  cage

  and each day give them

  birdseed


  and pieces of pink melon.

  Like explorers

  in the jungle who hand

  over the very rare

  green deer

  to the spit

  and eat it

  with remorse,

  I stretched out

  my feet

  and pulled on

  the magnificent

  socks

  and then my shoes.

  The moral

  of my ode is this:

  beauty is twice

  beauty

  and what is good is doubly

  good

  when it is a matter of two socks

  made of wool

  in winter.

  Translated by Robert Bly

  ODA A LA SANDIA

  El árbol del verano

  intenso,

  invulnerable,

  es todo cielo azul,

  sol amarillo,

  cansancio a goterones,

  es una espada

  sobre los caminos,

  un zapato quemado

  en las ciudades:

  la claridad, el mundo

  nos agobian,

  nos pegan

  en los ojos

  con polvareda,

  con súbitos golpes de oro,

  nos acosan

  los pies

  con espinitas,

  con piedras calurosas,

  y la boca

  sufre

  más que todos los dedos:

  tienen sed

  la garganta,

  la dentadura,

  los labios y la lengua:

  queremos

  beber las cataratas,

  la noche azul,

  el polo,

  y entonces

  cruza el cielo

  el más fresco de todos

  los planetas,

  la redonda, suprema

  y celestial sandía.

  Es la fruta del árbol de la sed.

  Es la ballena verde del verano.

  El universo seco

  de pronto

  tachonado

  por este firmamento de frescura

  deja caer

  la fruta

  rebosante:

  se abren sus hemisferios

  mostrando una bandera

  verde, blanca, escarlata,

  que se disuelve

  en cascada, en azúcar,

  en delicia!

  Cofre del agua, plácida

  reina

  de la frutería,

  bodega

  de la profundidad, luna

  terrestre!

  Oh pura,

  en tu abundancia

  se deshacen rubíes

  y uno

  quisiera

  morderte

  hundiendo

  en ti

  la cara,

  el pelo,

  el alma!

  Te divisamos

  en la sed

  como

  mina o montaña

  de espléndido alimento,

  pero

  te conviertes

  entre la dentadura y el deseo

  en sólo

  fresca luz

  que se deslíe

  en manantial

  que nos tocó

  cantando.

  Y así

  no pesas

  en la siesta

  abrasadora,

  no pesas,

  sólo

  pasas

  y tu gran corazón de brasa fría

  se convirtió en el agua

  de una gota.

  ODE TO THE WATERMELON

  The tree of intense

  summer,

  hard,

  is all blue sky,

  yellow sun,

  fatigue in drops,

  a sword

  above the highways,

  a scorched shoe

  in the cities:

  the brightness and the world

  weigh us down,

  hit us

  in the eyes

  with clouds of dust,

  with sudden golden blows,

  they torture

  our feet

  with tiny thorns,

  with hot stones,

  and the mouth

  suffers

  more than all the toes:

  the throat

  becomes thirsty,

  the teeth,

  the lips, the tongue:

  we want to drink

  waterfalls,

  the dark blue night,

  the South Pole,

  and then

  the coolest of all

  the planets crosses

  the sky,

  the round, magnificent,

  star-filled watermelon.

  It’s a fruit from the thirst-tree.

  It’s the green whale of the summer.

  The dry universe

  all at once

  given dark stars

  by this firmament of coolness

  lets the swelling

  fruit

  come down:

  its hemispheres open

  showing a flag

  green, white, red,

  that dissolves into

  wild rivers, sugar,

  delight!

  Jewel box of water, phlegmatic

  queen

  of the fruitshops,

  warehouse

  of profundity, moon

  on earth!

  You are pure,

  rubies fall apart

  in your abundance,

  and we

  want

  to bite into you,

  to bury our

  face

  in you, and

  our hair, and

  the soul!

  When we’re thirsty

  we glimpse you

  like

  a mine or a mountain

  of fantastic food,

  but

  among our longings and our teeth

  you change

  simply

  into cool light

  that slips in turn into

  spring water

  that touched us once

  singing.

  And that is why

  you don’t weigh us down

  in the siesta hour

  that’s like an oven,

  you don’t weigh us down,

  you just

  go by

  and your heart, some cold ember,

  turned itself into a single

  drop of water.

  Translated by Robert Bly

  ODA A LA SAL

  Esta sal

  del salero

  yo la ví en los salares.

  Sé que

  no

  van a creerme,

  pero

  canta,

  canta la sal, la piel

  de los salares,

  canta

  con una boca ahogada

  por la tierra.

  Me estremecí en aquellas

  soledades

  cuando escuché

  la voz

  de

  la sal

  en el desierto.

  Cerca de Antofagasta

  toda

  la pampa salitrosa

  suena:

  es una

  voz

  quebrada,

  un lastimero

  canto.

  Luego en sus cavidades

  la sal gema, montaña

  de una luz enterrada,

  catedral transparente,

  cristal del mar, olvido

  de las olas.

  Y luego en cada mesa

  de este mundo,

  sal,

  tu substancia

  ágil

  espolvoreando

  la luz vital

  sobre

  los alimentos.

  Preservadora

  de las antiguas

  bodegas del navío,

  descubri
dora

  fuiste

  en el océano,

  materia

  adelantada

  en los desconocidos, entreabiertos

  senderos de la espuma.

  Polvo del mar, la lengua

  de ti recibe un beso

  de la noche marina:

  el gusto funde en cada

  sazonado manjar tu oceanía

  y así la mínima,

  la minúscula

  ola del salero

  nos enseña

  no sólo su doméstica blancura,

  sino el sabor central del infinito.

  ODE TO SALT

  I saw the salt

  in this shaker

  in the salt flats.

  I know

  you

  will never believe me,

  but

  it sings,

  the salt sings, the hide

  of the salt plains,

  it sings

  through a mouth smothered

  by earth.

  I shuddered in those deep

  solitudes

  when I heard

  the voice

  of

  the salt

  in the desert.

  Near Antofagasta

  the entire

  salt plain

  speaks:

  it is a

  broken

  voice,

  a song full

  of grief.

  Then in its own mines

  rock salt, a mountain

  of buried light,

  a cathedral through which light passes,

  crystal of the sea, abandoned

  by the waves.

  And then on every table

  on this earth,

  salt,

  your nimble

  body

  pouring out

  the vigorous light

  over

  our foods.

  Preserver

  of the stores

  of the ancient ships,

  you were

  an explorer

  in the ocean,

  substance

  going first

  over the unknown, barely open

  routes of the sea-foam.

  Dust of the sea, the tongue

  receives a kiss

  of the night sea from you:

  taste recognizes

  the ocean in each salted morsel,

  and therefore the smallest,

  the tiniest

  wave of the shaker

  brings home to us

  not only your domestic whiteness

  but the inward flavor of the infinite.

  Translated by Robert Bly

  THE LAMB AND THE PINECONE

  (An interview with Pablo Neruda by Robert Bly)

  A great river of images has flowed into your poetry, as well as into the poetry of Lorca, Aleixandre, Vallejo, and Hernández—an outpouring of poetry from the very roots of poetry. Why has the greatest poetry in the twentieth century appeared in the Spanish language?

  I must tell you it is very nice to hear such a thing from an American poet. Of course we believe in enthusiasm too, but still we are all modest workers—we must not make too many comparisons. I must tell you two different things about poetry in Spanish. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Spanish poetry was great—you had such giants as Góngora, Quevedo, Lope de Vega, and many, many others. Then, for three centuries after that, no poetry—a very, very small poetry. Finally, the generation of Lorca, Alberti, and Aleixandre wrote a large poetry again—they rose up against this small poetry. How, and why? We should remember that this generation of poets is coincident with the political awakening of Spain as a republic, the awakening of a great country that was asleep. Suddenly they had all the energy and strength of a man waking. I told about that in my poem, “How Spain Was,” which I am sure you remember from our reading at the Poetry Center last night. Unfortunately, you see what happened. The Franco revolt. It sent into exile and to death so many of the poets. That happened with Miguel Hernández, Lorca, and Antonio Machado, who was really a classic of the century.