[1271] Poetry

GUest poem sent in by singh_abs2000 <singh_abs2000@>

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
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

 	-- Pablo Neruda

This was my first Neruda Poem (ok I admit I was introduced to him
through the film 'Il Postino' (Great Movie, Must watch!) ).
And when I heard it, I could feel the tips of my forgotten wings
quiver!

Neruda is such a passionate poet...but his passion is earthy, and
gentle, yet so...immediate. With this passion he can recreate the
most primeval of human emotions.

Like the 'encounter' with poetry...

Somehow, reading this poem brings images of Van Gogh to my mind.
Images - the heavens unfastened, palpitating planations, shadow
perforated (love that one!), winding night, the universe...wheeling
with the stars, hearts broken free on the open sky. What Van Gogh
did with paint in the 'Starry Night', Neruda does with words
in 'Poetry'.

By the way It would be great if we could get the original spanish
for this, too!

Finally I feel that this poem is particularly apt for
the 'Minstrels', since it captures something that is shared by all
of us here...the tug of poetry, fervid summons of the messiah that
lets the disciples loose,  freewheeling in the open skies!

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[this poem is archived, accessible and awaiting your comments at]
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1271.html
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From: "Martin Hill" <h&mhill@>

I have a Penguin bilingual edition of Neruda's verse. Here's the Spanish
text:

Y fue a esa edad . . . Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de inverno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

Yo no qué decir, mi boca
no sabía
nombrar,
mis ojos eran ciegos,
y algo golpeaba en mi alma,
fiebre o alas perdidas,
y me fui haciendo solo,
descifrando
aquella quemadura,
y escribí la primera línea vaga,
vaga sin cuerpo, pura
tontería,
pura sabiduría,
del que no sabe nada,
y vi de pronto
el cielo
desgranado
y abierto,
planetas,
plantaciones palpitantes,
la sombra perforada,
acribillada
por flechas, fuego y flores,
la noche arrolladora, el universo.

Y yo, minimo ser,
ebrio del gran vacío
constelado,
a semejanza, a imagen
del misterio,
me sentí parte pura
del abismo,
rodé con las estrellas,
mi corazón se desató en el viento.

From Memoria de la Isla Negra, 1964.

Martin Hill