Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda

1904–1973 · lived 69 years CL CL

Pablo Neruda was a Chilean poet, diplomat, and politician. He is widely regarded as one of the most influential poets of the 20th century, celebrated for his lyrical and evocative verse, which often explored themes of love, nature, politics, and everyday life. Neruda's prolific output and diverse thematic concerns earned him international acclaim, culminating in the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1971. His work is characterized by its passionate imagery, sensuous language, and profound connection to the landscapes and people of Latin America.

n. 1904-07-12, Parral · m. 1973-09-23, Santiago

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‘Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,’

‘Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,’

Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?
Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a genital fire, transformed by delight,
slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.
Read full poem
Bio

Identification and basic context

Pablo Neruda, born Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto, was a renowned Chilean poet, diplomat, and politician. He is considered one of the most important literary figures of the 20th century and a significant voice for social justice in Latin America. Neruda's work is characterized by its passionate, often surreal imagery, its deep connection to nature, and its engagement with political and social issues. He wrote in Spanish, and his poetry has been translated into numerous languages.

Childhood and education

Neruda was born in Parral, Chile. His mother died shortly after his birth, and he was raised by his father and stepmother in Temuco. He showed an early aptitude for literature, publishing his first poems at the age of 13. He studied French at the Temuco Normal School for Men and later moved to Santiago to study at the University of Chile, although his primary focus remained his literary pursuits. His early life in the Chilean landscape, with its forests, rivers, and the proximity to the ocean, profoundly shaped his poetic sensibility.

Literary trajectory

Neruda's literary career began in his youth, and he quickly gained recognition. He published his first book, "Crepusculario" (Twilight), in 1923. However, it was "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada" (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, 1924) that brought him widespread fame. He served as a diplomat for Chile in various countries, including Burma, Ceylon, Java, Argentina, Spain, Mexico, and France. These experiences significantly influenced his writing, broadening his perspective and introducing him to new political and cultural landscapes. His poetry evolved from early romanticism and surrealism to a more politically engaged and socially conscious style.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Neruda's vast body of work includes "Residencia en la tierra" (Residence on Earth), "Canto general" (General Song), and "Odas elementales" (Elemental Odes). His style is marked by its sensuousness, its rich metaphors, and its profound connection to the natural world. He explored themes of love, death, time, memory, political struggle, and the beauty of everyday objects and natural phenomena. His language is often direct yet deeply evocative, capable of capturing both the grand sweep of history and the intimate details of human experience. He experimented with various forms, from traditional verse to free verse, and his "Elemental Odes" are known for their concise, accessible celebration of ordinary things.

Cultural and historical context

Neruda lived through a turbulent period in Latin American history, marked by political instability, social upheaval, and the rise of authoritarian regimes. As a member of the Communist Party, his political activism led to periods of exile and persecution. His poetry often reflected these historical realities, serving as a voice for the oppressed and a testament to the struggles of the common people. He was a contemporary of other major Latin American writers and intellectuals, contributing to the vibrant literary and political discourse of the region.

Personal life

Neruda had three marriages and several significant relationships that influenced his poetry. His political activities often led to periods of separation from his loved ones. He was a dedicated communist, and his political beliefs deeply informed his life and work, leading him to serve as a senator and a presidential candidate before going into exile. He was known for his deep love of Chile, its landscapes, and its people, which he sought to express through his art and his political actions.

Recognition and reception

Neruda received numerous awards and honors throughout his career, most notably the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1971 for "his poetic works which, with the action of an elemental force, have given a continent its destiny and dreams." He is one of the most widely read poets in the world, and his work continues to resonate with readers across cultures and generations. His reception has been overwhelmingly positive, celebrating his lyrical genius and his unwavering commitment to humanity.

Influences and legacy

Neruda was influenced by poets like Walt Whitman and the European surrealists, but he forged a unique voice that became emblematic of Latin American poetry. He, in turn, influenced countless poets throughout the world with his passionate style, his commitment to social justice, and his ability to find poetry in the ordinary. His "Canto General" is considered a monumental epic of the Americas. Neruda's legacy is that of a poet who captured the soul of a continent and used his art as a powerful tool for social and political change.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Neruda's poetry is frequently analyzed for its exploration of identity, belonging, and the relationship between the individual and the collective. His surrealist leanings in earlier works are often contrasted with the direct political engagement of his later poetry. Critics have examined his role as a national poet and a voice for the marginalized, exploring the ways in which his work both reflects and shapes Latin American consciousness.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Neruda was an avid collector of unusual objects, including various types of shells, ships in bottles, and typewriters, which he displayed in his homes. His houses, particularly La Chascona in Santiago, Isla Negra, and El Cañete in Buenos Aires, are now museums dedicated to his life and work. He was also known for his immense generosity and his support for other artists and writers.

Death and memory

Pablo Neruda died in 1973, shortly after the military coup in Chile that overthrew Salvador Allende's government. While officially attributed to cancer, there have been ongoing investigations and debates surrounding the possibility of foul play. His death was a profound loss for Chile and the literary world. His works continue to be widely read and celebrated, and his memory remains a potent symbol of artistic expression and political conviction in Latin America and beyond.

Poems

72

Your Feet

Your Feet

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
615

Your Laughter

Your Laughter

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.


Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.


My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.


My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.


Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.


Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
658

We Are Many

We Are Many

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.


When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.


On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.


When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?


All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.


But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.


While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.
825

XVII (I do not love you...)

XVII (I do not love you...)

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.

Translated by Stephen Tapscott

Anonymous Submission
723

Walking Around

Walking Around

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie


houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse

sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.


Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.


I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.


I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.


That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the


night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist

houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical


cords.


I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic


shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

Translated by Robert Bly
1,033

Waltz

Waltz


I touch hatred like a covered breast;
I without stopping go from garment to garment,
sleeping at a distance.


I am not, I'm of no use, I do not know
anyone; I have no weapons of ocean or wood,
I do not live in this house.


My mouth is full of night and water.
The abiding moon determines
what I do not have.


What I have is in the midst of the waves,
a ray of water, a day for myself,
an iron depth.


There is no cross-tide, there is no shield, no costume,
there is no special solution too deep to be sounded,
no vicious eyelid.


I live suddenly and other times I follow.
I touch a face suddenly and it murders me.
I have no time.


Do not look for me when drawing
the usual wild thread or the
bleeding net.


Do not call me: that is my occupation.
Do not ask my name or my condition.
Leave me in the middle of my own moon
in my wounded ground.
613

Tower Of Light

Tower Of Light

O tower of light, sad beauty
that magnified necklaces and statues in the sea,
calcareous eye, insignia of the vast waters, cry
of the mourning petrel, tooth of the sea, wife
of the Oceanian wind, O separate rose
from the long stem of the trampled bush
that the depths, converted into archipelago,
O natural star, green diadem,
alone in your lonesome dynasty,
still unattainable, elusive, desolate
like one drop, like one grape, like the sea.
596

Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.


I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.


Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.


How could one not have loved her great still eyes.


Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.


And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.


What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.


My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.


My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.


We, of that time, are no longer the same.


I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.


Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.


I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms


my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.


translated by W.S. Merwin
876

The Wide Ocean

The Wide Ocean

Ocean, if you were to give, a measure, a ferment, a fruit
of your gifts and destructions, into my hand,
I would choose your far-off repose, your contour of steel,
your vigilant spaces of air and darkness,
and the power of your white tongue,
that shatters and overthrows columns,
breaking them down to your proper purity.


Not the final breaker, heavy with brine,
that thunders onshore, and creates
the silence of sand, that encircles the world,
but the inner spaces of force,
the naked power of the waters,
the immoveable solitude, brimming with lives.
It is Time perhaps, or the vessel filled
with all motion, pure Oneness,
that death cannot touch, the visceral green
of consuming totality.


Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm,
that lifts a spray: a humid scent,
of the damp flower, is left,
from the bodies of men. Your energies
form, in a trickle that is not spent,
form, in retreat into silence.


The falling wave,
arch of identity, shattering feathers,
is only spume when it clears,
and returns to its source, unconsumed.


Your whole force heads for its origin.
The husks that your load threshes,
are only the crushed, plundered, deliveries,
that your act of abundance expelled,
all those that take life from your branches.


Your form extends beyond breakers,
vibrant, and rhythmic, like the chest, cloaking
a single being, and its breathings,
that lift into the content of light,
plains raised above waves,
forming the naked surface of earth.
You fill your true self with your substance.
You overflow curve with silence.


The vessel trembles with your salt and sweetness,
the universal cavern of waters,
and nothing is lost from you, as it is
from the desolate crater, or the bay of a hill,
those empty heights, signs, scars,
guarding the wounded air.



Your petals throbbing against the Earth,
trembling your submarine harvests,
your menace thickening the smooth swell,
with pulsations and swarming of schools,
and only the thread of the net raises
the dead lightning of fish-scale,
one wounded millimetre, in the space
of your crystal completeness.
620

The Weary One

The Weary One

The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,
didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didn't want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here: the straight-angled stone,
the infinite look of the granite prism,
the circular solitude all banished him:
he went somewhere else with his sorrows,
he returned to the agony of his native land,
to his indecisions, of winter and summer.
636

Quotes

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