I Explain a Few Things: Selected Poems by Pablo Neruda

Author:Pablo Neruda [Neruda, Pablo]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781466894525
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Published: 2015-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

AUTUMN TESTAMENT

The poet talks of his state and his predilections

Between dying and not dying

I picked on the guitar

and in that dedication

my heart takes no respite,

for where I’m least expected

I turn up with my stuff

to gather the first wine

in the sombreros of autumn.

If they close the door, I’ll go in;

if they greet me, I’ll be off.

I’m not one of those sailors

who flounder about on the ice.

I’m adaptable as the wind is,

with the yellowest leaves,

with the fallen histories

in the eyes of statues,

and if I come to rest anywhere,

it’s in the nub of the fire,

the throbbing crackling part

that flies off to nowhere.

Along the margins

you’ll have come across your name;

I don’t apologize,

it had to do with nothing

except almost everything,

for you do and you don’t exist—

that happens to everybody—

nobody realizes,

and when they add up the figures,

we’re not rich at all—

now we’re the new poor.

He speaks of his enemies and divides up his possessions

I’ve been ripped apart

by a set of spitting rodents

who seemed too much for me.

In the sea I would often eat

dark sea cucumbers,

strange kinds of amber,

and storm lost cities

in my shirt and my armor

in ways that would kill you—

you would die of laughter.

So I leave to all who snarled at me

my traveler’s eyelashes,

my passion for salt,

the slant of my smile—

let them take it all away

discreetly, if that’s possible;

since they weren’t able to kill me

I can hardly stop them

from dressing in my clothes

or appearing on Sundays

convincingly disguised.

I left no one in peace

so they’ll grant me no peace.

That’s clear, but it doesn’t matter—

they’ll be publishing my socks.

He turns to other matters

I’ve left my worldly goods

to my party and my people—

we’re talking here of other things,

things both obscure and clear

which all add up to one thing.

It’s the same with the grapes

and their two powerful children,

white wine, red wine.

All life is red and white,

all clarity is cloudy.

It’s not all earth and adobe—

I inherited shadows and dreams.

He replies to some well-meaning people

Once they asked me

why my writing was so obscure.

They might ask the night that,

or minerals, or roots.

I didn’t know what to answer,

then, some time after,

two crazy men attacked me,

saying I was simple—

the answer’s in running water

and I went off, running and singing.

He parcels out his sufferings

Has anyone been granted

as much joy as I have

(it flows through my veins)

and this fruitful unfruitful mixture

that is my nature?

I’ve been a great flowing river

with hard ringing stones,

with clear night-noises,

with dark day-songs.

To whom can I leave so much,

so much and so little,

joy beyond its objects,

a lone horse by the sea,

a loom weaving the wind?

And hands on his joys

My own sorrows I leave to

all those who made me suffer

but by now I’ve forgotten them

and I don’t know where I lost them—

if they turn up in the forest

they’re like tangleweed.

They grow from the ground up

and end where you end,

at your head, at the air—

to keep them from growing,

spring has to be changed.

He comes out against hate

I’ve come within range of hate.

Terrifying, its tremors,

its dizzying obsessions.

Hate’s like a swordfish

invisible in the water,

knifing suddenly into sight

with blood on its blade—

clear water misleads you.

Why, why do we hate

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