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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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.
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

In You The Earth

In You The Earth

Little
rose,
roselet,
at times,
tiny and naked,
it seems
as though you would fit
in one of my hands,
as though I’ll clasp you like this
and carry you to my mouth,
but
suddenly
my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:
you have grown,
your shoulders rise like two hills,
your breasts wander over my breast,
my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin
new-moon line of your waist:
in love you loosened yourself like sea water:
I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes
and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth.
564

I'm Explaining a Few Things

I'm Explaining a Few Things

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.


I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.


From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.


And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings -and
from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children



and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.


Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!


Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!


Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.


And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?


Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
667

I Explain A Few Things

I Explain A Few Things

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.


I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.


From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.


And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings and
from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children



and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.


Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!


Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!


Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.


And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?


Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
752

I Remember You As You Were

I Remember You As You Were

I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.


Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.


I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.


Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
620

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -because
-- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.


Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.


Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,


because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
772

Gentleman Alone

Gentleman Alone

The young maricones and the horny muchachas,
The big fat widows delirious from insomnia,
The young wives thirty hours' pregnant,
And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night,
Like a collar of palpitating sexual oysters
Surround my solitary home,
Enemies of my soul,
Conspirators in pajamas
Who exchange deep kisses for passwords.
Radiant summer brings out the lovers
In melancholy regiments,
Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;
Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,
There is a continual life of pants and panties,
A hum from the fondling of silk stockings,
And women's breasts that glisten like eyes.
The salary man, after a while,
After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night,
Has decisively fucked his neighbor,
And now takes her to the miserable movies,
Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes,
And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down
With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes.
The night of the hunter and the night of the husband
Come together like bed sheets and bury me,
And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating,
And the animals mount each other openly,
And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically,
And cousins play strange games with cousins,
And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient,
And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought,
Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast,
And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly
On beds big and tall as ships:
So, eternally,
This twisted and breathing forest crushes me
With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth
And black roots like fingernails and shoes.


Translated by Mike Topp
636

From The Heights Of Maccho Picchu

From The Heights Of Maccho Picchu

Rise up to be born with me, brother.
Give me your hand from the deep
Zone seeded by your sorrow.
You won’t return from under the rocks.
You won’t return from your subterranean time.
Your hardened voice won’t return.
Your gouged-out eyes won’t return.


Look at me from the depth of the earth,
laborer, weaver, silent shepherd:
tamer of wild llamas like spirit images:
construction worker on a daring scaffold:
waterer of the tears of the Andes:
jeweler with broken fingers:
farmer trembling as you sow:
potter, poured out into your clay:
bring to the cup of this new life
your old buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow,
Tell me, “Here I was punished,
Because the jewel didn’t shine or the earth
Didn’t yield grain or stones on time.”
Show me the stone you fell over
And the wood on which they crucified you,
Make a spark from the old flints for me,
For the old lamps to show the whips still stuck
After centuries in the old wounds
And the axes shining with blood.
I come to speak for your dead mouth.
Across the earth come together all
The silent worn-out lips
And from the depth speak to me all this long night
Like I was pinned down there with you.
Tell me all, chain by chain,
Link by link and step by step,
Sharpen the knives which you hid,
Put them in my breast and in my hand,
Like a river of yellow lighting
Like a river of buried jaguars
And let me weep, hours, days, years,
For blind ages, cycles of stars.


Give me silence, water, hope.


Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.


Stick bodies to me like magnets.


Draw near to my veins and my mouth.


Speak through my words and my blood.
579

From – Twenty Poems of Love

From – Twenty Poems of Love

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

Write for example: ‘The night is fractured
and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’


The night wind turns in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.


On nights like these I held her in my arms.
I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky.


She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes.


I can write the saddest lines tonight.
To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her.


Hear the vast night, vaster without her.
Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.


What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her.
The night is fractured and she is not with me.


That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,
my soul is not content to have lost her.


As though to reach her, my sight looks for her.
My heart looks for her: she is not with me


The same night whitens, in the same branches.
We, from that time, we are not the same.


I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.


Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes.


I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her.
Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.


Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,
my soul is not content to have lost her.


Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer,
and these are the last lines I will write for her.
531

Entrance Of The Rivers

Entrance Of The Rivers

Beloved of the rivers,beset
By azure water and transparent drops,
Like a tree of veins your spectre
Of dark goddess biting apples:
And then awakening naked
To be tattoed by the rivers,
And in the wet heights your head
Filled the world with new dew.


Water rose to your waist,
You are made of wellsprings
And lakes shone on your forehead.
From your sources of density you drew
Water like vital tears
And hauled the riverbeds to the sand
Across the planetary night,
Crossing rough, dilated stone,
Breaking down on the way
All the salt of geology,
Cutting through forests of compact walls
Dislodging the muscles of quartz.
569

Finale

Finale


Matilde, years or days
sleeping, feverish,
here or there,
gazing off,
twisting my spine,
bleeding true blood,
perhaps I awaken
or am lost, sleeping:
hospital beds, foreign windows,
white uniforms of the silent walkers,
the clumsiness of feet.


And then, these journeys
and my sea of renewal:
your head on the pillow,
your hands floating
in the light, in my light,
over my earth.


It was beautiful to live
when you lived!


The world is bluer and of the earth
at night, when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands
564

Quotes

18

Videos

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