You’ll have to pardon me tonight, Neruda,
But I’m finished.
I’m done poring over you words,
Tracing the perfection of their weave and hating myself
Because I cannot make my words sing like your versos mas tristes,
Verses so sad indeed that they flood my heart with ice water,
And buckle my knees if I think of them in stride.
I cannot transcribe the silence of evening
Nor the perfection of a floating bumblebee.
But things such as these you capture in words,
And as I read them I throw my hands in air,
Half in celebration, half in disbelief.
I have often wondered how it was you learned
The perfection of your craft. It could have been practice,
But as I sit here now, having intended to write a poem,
I am almost certain you were born with it.
I have been patient, dear Neruda,
But I cannot go any farther.
I am weak, for as much as
I praise your gift, I covet it more.
Bolivar and San Martin: Guayaquil, Ecuador
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3 comments:
"As the disturbances of 1973 unfolded, Neruda, then deathly ill from prostate cancer, was devastated by the mounting attacks on the Allende government. The final military coup led by General Augusto Pinochet on 11 September saw Neruda's hopes for a socialist and democratic Chile literally go up in flames. Shortly thereafter, during a search of the house and grounds at Isla Negra by Chilean armed forces at which he was present, Neruda famously remarked:
'Look around — there's only one thing of danger for you here — poetry.'"
Neruda's life was filled with many things I would never wish on you, not the last of which is a strong communist viewpoint. All politics aside, he was an amazing writer. That statement doesn't really need to be made. But as far as people that I have met (and I have met quite a few), you are the best Neruda around. Our words are only as futile as we make them be. You can be satisfied by a meager attempt, albeit meager, if it gets you closer to saying what you mean and making that known. You, my dear brother, do that better than any one else I have ever met. It is only your genious that leaves you dissatisfied with your masterpieces. That's the only danger I fear for you...that you will never know how far-reaching your words are. That is something of which you can never be convinced...you will believe it or you won't. Usually the best never come to believe it, and that is why they keep on writing. Perhaps then, it's best to keep you in the dark:)
i just wanted you to know that i printed and hung this poem on my wall above my desk...
:)
my kudos.
B-cos left such a wonderful comment, and I envy your gift. You have inspired me to figure out what I am trying to say before I write a poem. Sadly, I thought I could get away with leaving it all a messy puzzle. You can read my poems on my blog if you are curious, just look at my profile for the address.
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