Category: Pablo Neruda
There’s No Forgetting (Sonata)
Ask me where I have been
and I’ll tell you: “Things keep on happening.”
I must talk of the rubble that darkens the stones;
of the river’s duration, destroying itself;
I know only the things that the birds have abandoned,
or the sea behind me, or my sorrowing sister.
Why the distinctions of place? Why should day
follow day? Why must the blackness
of nighttime collect in our mouths? Why the dead?
If you question me: where have you come from, I must talk
___with things falling away,
artifacts tart to the taste,
great, cankering beasts, as often as not,
and my own inconsolable heart.
Those who cross over with us are no keepsakes,
nor the yellowing pigeon that sleeps in forgetfulness:
only the face with its tears,
the hands at our throats,
whatever the leafage dissevers:
the dark of an obsolete day,
a day that has tasted the grief in our blood.
Here are the violets, swallows—
all the things that delight us, the delicate tallies
that show in the lengthening train
through which pleasure and transience pass.
Here let us halt, in the teeth of a barrier:
useless to gnaw on the husks that the silence assembles.
For I come without answers:
see: the dying are legion,
legion, the breakwaters breached by the red of the sun,
the headpieces knocking the ship’s side,
the hands closing over their kisses,
and legion the things I would give to oblivion.
—Pablo Neruda
© Translation: 1974, Ben Belitt
From: Pablo Neruda, Five Decades: Poems 1925-1970
Publisher: Grove Press, New York, 1974
Hear this recited at Poetry International Festival Rotterdam, 2004 by Krip Yuso.
Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado
debo decir “Sucede”.
Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras,
del río que durando se destruye:
no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden,
el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando.
Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día
se junta con un día? Por qué una negra noche
se acumula en la boca? Por qué muertos?
Si me preguntáis de dónde vengo, tengo que conversar con
cosas rotas,
con utensilios demasiado amargos,
con grandes bestias a menudo podridas
y con mi acongojado corazón.
No son recuerdos los que se han cruzado
ni es la paloma amarillenta que duerme en el olvido,
sino caras con lágrimas,
dedos en la garganta,
y lo que se desploma de las hojas:
la oscuridad de un día transcurrido,
de un día alimentado con nuestra triste sangre.
He aquí violetas, golondrinas,
todo cuanto nos gusta y aparece
en las dulces tarjetas de larga cola
por donde se pasean el tiempo y la dulzura.
Pero no penetremos más allá de esos dientes,
no mordamos las cáscaras que el silencio acumula,
porque no sé qué contestar:
hay tantos muertos,
y tantos malecones que el sol rojo partía,
y tantas cabezas que golpean los buques,
y tantas manos que han encerrado besos,
y tantas cosas que quiero olvidar.
"I remember you as you were"
I remember as you were last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the calm heart.
In your eyes the lights of the twilight fought.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clinging to my arms like a climbing vine,
the leaves recognized your voice, slow and calm.
Bonfire of stupor in which my thirst burned.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted about my soul.
I feel your eyes travel and distant is the autumn:
grey beret, a bird’s voice and a house’s heart
to where my deepest longings flew
and my kisses fell joyously like glowing embers.
Sky from a ship. Field from the hills.
Your memory is of light, of smoke, of the calm pool!
Beyond your eyes burned the twilights.
Dry autumn leaves twisted in your soul.
“Te recuerdo como eras”
Te recuerdo como eras en el último otoño.
English translation by Charles W. Johnson
We are the clumsy passersby
When words fail me (or I fail them), sometimes the only consolation is the realization that I will never approach the greatness of what’s been said:
We are the clumsy passersby, we push past each other with elbows,
with feet, with trousers, with suitcases,
we get off the train, the jet plane, the ship, we step down
in our wrinkled suits and sinister hats.
We are all guilty, we are all sinners,
we come from dead-end hotels or industrial peace,
this might be our last clean shirt,
we have misplaced our tie,
yet even so, on the edge of panic, pompous,
sons of bitches who move in the highest circles
or quiet types who don’t owe anything to anybody,
we are one and the same, the same in time’s eyes,
or in solitude’s: we are the poor devils
who earn a living and a death working
bureautragically or in the usual ways,
sitting down or packed together in subway stations,
boats, mines, research centers, jails,
universities, breweries,
(under our clothes the same thirsty skin),
(the hair, the same hair, only in different colors).-Pablo Neruda
"Everybody" by Pablo Nedura
I, perhaps I never will be, perhaps I was not able,
never was, never saw, don’t exist:
what is all this? In which June, in what wood
did I grow until now, being born and born again?
I didn’t grow, never grew, just went on dying?
In doorways, I repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
I asked for myself, with wonder,
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
I was always arriving late.
I had traveled far from who I was,
I could not answer any questions about myself,
I had too often left who I am.
I went to the next house,
to the next woman,
I traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you, for everybody:
and where I was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn’t today,
it was tomorrow.
Why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
That is how I found out
that I was exactly like you
and like everybody.
-from “The Sea and the Bells”
translated by William O’Daly
Todos
Yo tal vez yo no seré, tal vez no pude,
i,
perhaps i never will be,
perhaps i was not able,
never was,
never saw,
don’t exist:
what is all this?
in which June,
in what wood
did i grow until now,
being born and born again?
i didn’t grow,
never grew,
just went on dying?
in doorways, i repeated
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
i asked myself, with wonder
(and later with trembling hands),
with little bells, with water,
with sweetness:
i was always arriving late.
i had traveled far from who i was,
i could not answer any questions
about myself,
i had too often left who i am.
i went to the next house,
to the next woman,
i traveled everywhere
asking for myself, for you,
for everybody:
and where i was not there was no one,
everywhere it was empty
because it wasn’t today,
it was tomorrow.
why search in vain
in every door in which we will not exist
because we have not arrived yet?
this is how i found out
that i was exactly like you
and like everybody
–alternate translation
(translator unknown)
arch.memory 