Light Painting
Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
I EXPLAIN SOME THINGS
—Pablo Neruda
You may ask: Where are the lilacs?
And the metaphysics smothered in poppies?
And the rain that so often strikes
its words, filling them
with pinpricks and birds?
I’ll tell you everything that’s going on with me.
I lived for a while in a district
of Madrid, with bells,
with clocks, with trees.
From there you could see
the dry visage of Castille
like a leather ocean.
My house was known as
the house of the flowers, because all around it
geraniums were bursting: it was
a beautiful house
with dogs and little children.
Raúl, do you remember?
Do you remember, Rafael?
Federico, do you remember
deep under the earth,
do you remember? remember the house with balconies where
the June light drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, brother,
all of it
was great voices; salt from the wares of merchants,
jumbled heaps of pulsating bread,
my neighborhood markets of Argüelles
with its statue like a pale inkpot among the hake,
the oil that would brim the spoons,
a lowdown tattoo
of feet and fists thronging the streets,
meters, liters, sharp essence of life,
piled-up fish,
a texturing of rooftops with cold sunlight that
wears out the weathervane,
the delirious fine ivory of potatoes,
tomatoes arrayed as far as the sea.
And one morning all was burning
and one morning the bonfires
were leaving the earth
to devour living beings,
and from then on, fire,
and gunpowder from then on,
and from then on, blood.
Bandits with airplanes and Moors,
bandits with rings and duchesses,
bandits with black-robed friars giving blessing
came down from the skies to kill children
and through the streets the blood of children
ran simply, as children’s blood does.
Jackals even the jackal would reject,
rocks the dry thistle would bite and spit out,
vipers even the vipers would loathe!
Confronting you I have seen the blood
of Spain surge up
just to drown you in one great wave
of pride and of knives!
Generals,
traitors:
Look at my dead house,
behold a broken Spain:
but each dead house now spouts burning steel
instead of flowers,
from every shell hole of Spain
comes more Spain,
out of every dead child rises a rifle with eyes,
every crime begets bullets
that will one day seek you out and lodge
in your heart.
You may ask, Why does your poetry
not speak to us of dreams, of leaves,
of the great volcanos of your native land?
Come see the blood in the streets,
come see
the blood in the streets,
come see the blood
in the streets!
(Translated by Tom Goff, Carmichael)
___________________
—Medusa
—Pablo Neruda
You may ask: Where are the lilacs?
And the metaphysics smothered in poppies?
And the rain that so often strikes
its words, filling them
with pinpricks and birds?
I’ll tell you everything that’s going on with me.
I lived for a while in a district
of Madrid, with bells,
with clocks, with trees.
From there you could see
the dry visage of Castille
like a leather ocean.
My house was known as
the house of the flowers, because all around it
geraniums were bursting: it was
a beautiful house
with dogs and little children.
Raúl, do you remember?
Do you remember, Rafael?
Federico, do you remember
deep under the earth,
do you remember? remember the house with balconies where
the June light drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, brother,
all of it
was great voices; salt from the wares of merchants,
jumbled heaps of pulsating bread,
my neighborhood markets of Argüelles
with its statue like a pale inkpot among the hake,
the oil that would brim the spoons,
a lowdown tattoo
of feet and fists thronging the streets,
meters, liters, sharp essence of life,
piled-up fish,
a texturing of rooftops with cold sunlight that
wears out the weathervane,
the delirious fine ivory of potatoes,
tomatoes arrayed as far as the sea.
And one morning all was burning
and one morning the bonfires
were leaving the earth
to devour living beings,
and from then on, fire,
and gunpowder from then on,
and from then on, blood.
Bandits with airplanes and Moors,
bandits with rings and duchesses,
bandits with black-robed friars giving blessing
came down from the skies to kill children
and through the streets the blood of children
ran simply, as children’s blood does.
Jackals even the jackal would reject,
rocks the dry thistle would bite and spit out,
vipers even the vipers would loathe!
Confronting you I have seen the blood
of Spain surge up
just to drown you in one great wave
of pride and of knives!
Generals,
traitors:
Look at my dead house,
behold a broken Spain:
but each dead house now spouts burning steel
instead of flowers,
from every shell hole of Spain
comes more Spain,
out of every dead child rises a rifle with eyes,
every crime begets bullets
that will one day seek you out and lodge
in your heart.
You may ask, Why does your poetry
not speak to us of dreams, of leaves,
of the great volcanos of your native land?
Come see the blood in the streets,
come see
the blood in the streets,
come see the blood
in the streets!
(Translated by Tom Goff, Carmichael)
___________________
—Medusa
