Spain was a taut, dry drum-head
Daily beating a dull thud
Flatlands and eagle's nest
Silence lashed by the storm.
How much, to the point of weeping, in my soul
I love your hard soil, your poor bread,
Your poor people, how much in the deep place
Of my being there is still the lost flower
Of your wrinkled villages, motionless in time
And your metallic meadows
Stretched out in the moonlight through the ages,
Now devoured by a false god.
All your confinement, your animal isolation
While you are still conscious
Surrounded by the abstract stones of silence,
Your rough wine, your smooth wine
Your violent and dangerous vineyards.
Solar stone, pure among the regions
Of the world, Spain streaked
With blood and metal, blue and victorious
Proletarian Spain, made of petals and bullets
Unique, alive, asleep - resounding.
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Analysis of the poem "Poetry" by Pablo Neruda.
"Analysis of poems" is a great way to obfuscate them. For to separate an abstraction into it's constituent elements, is akin to pulling off butterfly wings to see why they areso beautiful. Yet inquisitiveness is as much a part of being human as our love, interest, and need for art. As I reflect on the "wings" of this beautiful poem, I feel as though I am witnessing the poet giving birth to himself. In a delicate procession of pen stokes, he takes us on the journey of his discovery of his divine essential nature. Through his revelation we gleam the light of our connection to the cosmos, that is inspiration. We can empathize and understand so well this portrait, because it is aself portrait of us all. The poet in all of us responds to that innate feeling of inspiration, and belonging, captured so poignantly in this work. The "pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing" is for me the essence of the paradox of enlightenment. From the blank page, the thought bares itself. Motion, is derived from stillness. In the poem he realizes that when he removes himself, his ego, his conceptions, and gives up everything, that is when he "saw the heavens unfastened and open." In this poem he is the Buddha sitting beneath the tree sharing the mystery and promise of Poetry,
3.Ode To Tomatoes by Pablo Neruda
filled with tomatoes,
through the streets.
it enters at lunchtime,
its own light,
Unfortunately, we must
into living flesh,
populates the salads
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union