When I close a book
I open life.
I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ignots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.
The ocean's surge is calling.
The wind
calls me
and Rodriguez calls,
and Jose Antonio—
I got a telegram
from the 'Mine' Union
and the one I love
(whose name I won't let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.
No book has been able
to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up
with typography,
with heavenly imprints
or was ever able
to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards
with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals
or to eat smoked beef
by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous
books,
books of forest or snow,
depth or sky
but hate
the spider book
in which thought
has laid poisonous wires
to trap the juvenile
and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won't go clothed
in volumes,
I don't come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems—
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I'm on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I'm going down into the streets.
I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived
with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song.
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Comments
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Amen!
I firmly believe that poetry that is going to have power in this age has to be grounded in everyday experience, and specific moments. The world is always true. Just describe the world faithfully and your work will be true as well. The rest is as meaningful as a crossword puzzle. Which is to say clever but empty. -
Spanish
From guest Kaeleigh (contact)
Many schools require the spanish translation and you don't have it. You should put the translation on here. -
'...Book, let me go.
I won't go clothed
in volumes,
I don't come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems--
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I'm on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I'm going down into the streets.
I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss...'
Sighhh... Wonderful, indeed...& so sad that ours are the only comments on this page...Good to see you were here, my Friend...It is rare for a (former) librarian to accept the words 'Book, let me go.' There are moments that cannot yet be lived on a page...moments when Life's music calls us to dance & sing...this is one of them, methinks...Bravo, Pablo...He teaches us well the things that cannot be taught... Wanda
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"Love I learned in a single kiss" How wonderful it is to see Neruda on the opening pages when i come to visit. My applause!
I have yet to find a poem by Pablo Neruda I have not loved!
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