Sublime Blue: Selected Early Odes by Pablo Neruda (6 page)
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Authors: Pablo Neruda
Natural poets of the earth,
hidden in furrows,
singing about street corners
and blind alleys, you bards
of warehouses and prairiesâ
if we could understand
the waters
perhaps the waters
would speak like you,
if stones could declare their sorrow
or silence
they would speak, brothers,
with your voices.
But what a multitude
you are, like the roots.
From the ancient heart
of a people
you are born
and it's from there you
come by your voices.
Yours is the hierarchy
of the quiet pitcher of white clay
unseen in the corners,
which suddenly sings out
when it overflows
and it is so simple,
its song,
only earth and water.
And just so I wish
my poems to sing,
to carry
earth and water,
fertilidad y canto,
a todo el mundo.
Por eso,
poetas
de mi pueblo,
saludo
la antigua luz que sale
de la tierra.
El eterno
hilo en que se juntaron
pueblo
y
poesÃa,
nunca
se cortó
este profundo
hilo de piedra,
viene
desde tan lejos
como
la memoria
del hombre.
Vio
con los ojos ciegos
de los vates
nacer la tumultuosa
primavera,
la sociedad humana,
el primer beso,
y en la guerra
cantó sobre la sangre,
allà estaba mi hermano
barba roja,
cabeza ensangrentada
y ojos ciegos,
con su lira,
fecundity and song,
to the whole world.
That is why,
poets
of my people,
I salute
the ancient light flowing
from the earth.
The eternal thread
by which people
and
poetry
are joined,
it was never
cut,
this profound
thread of stone,
come
from as far
as the
memory
of man.
It has witnessed with
the blind eyes
of poets
the birth of
tumultuous
spring, human society,
the first kiss;
in war
it sang over the blood,
and there, then, was my brother,
beard red,
head bloodied
and eyes blind;
with his lyre
allà estaba
cantando
entre los muertos,
Homero
se llamaba
o Pastor Pérez,
o Reinaldo Donoso.
Sus endechas
eran allà y ahora
un vuelo blanco,
una paloma,
eran la paz, la rama
del árbol del aceite,
y la continuidad de la hermosura.
Más tarde
los absorbió la calle,
la campiña,
los encontré cantando
entre las reses,
en la celebración
del desafÃo,
relatando las penas
de los pobres,
llevando las noticias
de las inundaciones,
detallando las ruinas
del incendio
o la noche nefanda
de los asesinatos.
Ellos,
los poetas
de mi pueblo,
errantes,
pobres entre los pobres,
sostuvieron
sobre sus canciones
he was there
singing
among the dead,
Homer
was his name
or Pastor Pérez
or Reinaldo Donoso.
His dirges
were there and now
came the white flight
of a dove,
bearing
in the olive twig
peace and the continuity
of beauty. Later,
reabsorbed among streets
and open fields,
I met them singing
among the cattle
in a celebration
of defiance,
telling the trials
of the poor,
carrying news
of floods,
detailing ravages
of fires,
the unspeakable darkness
of assassinations.
These, the poets
of my people,
wandering
poor among the poor,
maintained
a smile
throughout their songs,
la sonrisa,
criticaron con sorna
a los explotadores,
contaron la miseria
del minero
y el destino implacable
del soldado.
Ellos,
los poetas
del pueblo,
con guitarra harapienta
y ojos conocedores
de la vida,
sostuvieron
en su canto
una rosa
y la mostraron en los callejones
para que se supiera
que la vida
no será siempre triste.
Payadores, poetas
humildemente altivos,
a través
de la historia
y sus reveses,
a través
de la paz y de la guerra,
de la noche y la aurora,
sois vosotros
los depositarios,
los tejedores
de la poesÃa,
y ahora
aquà en mi patria
está el tesoro,
el cristal de Castilla,
ironically judging
exploiters,
relating the misery
of the miner
and the relentless
fate of the soldier.
These,
the poets
of my people,
guitars battered
and eyes skilled
at discerning
what survives,
kept a rose
in their song
and paraded it
through the alleys
so that it would be known
that life
will not always be sad.
Guitarist and singer, poets
proud to be humble
throughout history
and its setbacks,
throughout
peace and war,
darkness and dawn,
your voices
have been the repository,
the warp and woof
of poetry,
and now
here in my homeland
lies the treasure
the crystal of Castille,
la soledad de Chile,
la pÃcara inocencia,
y la guitarra contra el infortunio,
la mano solidaria
en el camino,
la palabra
repetida en el canto
y transmitida,
la voz de piedra y agua
entre raÃces,
la rapsodia del viento,
la voz que no requiere librerÃas,
todo lo que debemos aprender
los orgullosos:
con la verdad del pueblo
la eternidad del canto.
the solitude of Chile,
the mischievous innocence,
and the guitar strummed against misfortune,
the helping hand
along the way,
the words repeated in song
and passed on,
the voice of stone and water
among roots,
the rhapsody of wind,
the voice with no need for books,
we, the proud, must
learn these words:
From the truth of the people
springs the eternity of song.
Tristeza, escarabajo
de siete patas rotas,
huevo de telaraña,
rata descalabrada,
esqueleto de perra:
Aquà no entras.
No pasas.
Ãndate.
Vuelve
al Sur con tu paraguas,
vuelve
al Norte con tus dientes de culebra.
Aquà vive un poeta.
La tristeza no puede
entrar por estas puertas.
Por las ventanas
entra el aire del mundo,
las rojas rosas nuevas,
las banderas bordadas
del pueblo y sus victorias.
No puedes.
Aquà no entras.
Sacude
tus alas de murciélago,
yo pisaré las plumas
que caen de tu manto,
yo barreré los trozos
de tu cadáver hacia
las cuatro puntas del viento,
yo te torceré el cuello,
te coseré los ojos,
cortaré tu mortaja
y enterraré tus huesos roedores
bajo la primavera de un manzano.
Gloom, you scarab
of seven broken legs,
you cobweb's egg,
scramble-brained rat,
skeleton of a bitch:
Don't come in here.
Don't bother to stop.
Walk right on by.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
Here lives a poet.
Gloom cannot
trudge in through these doors.
Through these windows
blow the breezes of the world,
the roses red and fresh,
the flags embroidered
by the people and their victories.
Not you.
Don't come in here.
Beat your bat wings,
and I will tromp on the plumes
that fall from your cloak.
I will sweep every scrap
of your sorry carcass
to the four corners of the wind,
I'll wring your neck,
stitch your eyes shut,
cut out your shroud,
and I will bury you, Gloom,
I will sink your rat-gnawed bones deep
under the spring of a blossoming apple tree.
Cuando nacÃ,
pobreza,
me seguiste,
me mirabas
a través
de las tablas podridas
por el profundo invierno.
De pronto
eran tus ojos
los que miraban desde los agujeros.
Las goteras,
de noche, repetÃan
tu nombre y apellido
o a veces
el salto quebrado, el traje roto,
los zapatos abiertos,
me advertÃan.
Allà estabas
acechándome
tus dientes de carcoma,
tus ojos de pantano,
tu lengua gris
que corta
la ropa, la madera,
los huesos y la sangre,
allà estabas
buscándome,
siguiéndome,
desde mi nacimiento
por las calles.
Cuando alquilé una pieza
pequeña, en los suburbios,
When I was born,
Poverty,
you followed me,
you would look at me
aslant
through the rotten slats
of deep winter.
Suddenly
they were your eyes
the ones that would look
from the holes.
The drips,
at night, repeated
your first and last names
and sometimes
the bankrupt wit, the torn suit,
the shoes split wide open,
were warning me.
There you were
waiting for me
like gnawing teeth,
your eyes swampy,
your grey blade of a tongue
cut clothing, wood,
bones, blood,
there you were
looking for me,
stalking me
through the streets
ever since I was born.
When I rented a small
room in the suburbs,
sentada en una silla
me esperabas,
o al descorrer las sábanas
en un hotel oscuro,
adolescente,
no encontré la fragancia
de la rosa desnuda,
sino el silbido frÃo
de tu boca.
Pobreza,
me seguiste
por los cuarteles y los hospitales,
por la paz y la guerra.
Cuando enfermé tocaron
a la puerta:
no era el doctor, entraba
otra vez la pobreza.
Te vi sacar mis muebles
a la calle:
los hombres
los dejaban caer como pedradas.
Tú, con amor horrible,
de un montón de abandono
en medio de la calle y de la lluvia
ibas haciendo
un trono desdentado
y mirando a los pobres
recogÃas
mi último plato haciéndolo diadema.
Ahora,
pobreza,
yo te sigo.
Como fuiste implacable,
soy implacable.
Junto
a cada pobre
seated in a chair
you waited for me,
and when I drew the curtains back
in a hotel, dark,
adolescent,
I wasn't met with the fragrance
of the naked rose,
only the cold hiss
from your lips.
Poverty,
you followed me
through barracks and hospitals,
through peace and war.
When I fell ill, a knock
at the door:
It wasn't the doctor; Poverty
entered again.
I watched you take my furniture out
to the street:
The men
let it all fall like thrown stones.
You, with horrible love,
from a heap of discards
in the middle of the street and the rain
were making
a toothless throne
and looking at the poor
you would take back
my last dish
making of it a diadem.
Now,
Poverty,
I follow you.
As you were relentless
I am relentless.
Alongside
every poor person
me encontrarás cantando,
bajo
cada sábana
de hospital imposible
encontrarás mi canto.
Te sigo,
pobreza,
te vigilo,
te acerco,
te disparo,
te aÃslo,
te cerceno las uñas,
te rompo
los dientes que te quedan.
Estoy
en todas partes:
en el océano con los pescadores,
en la mina
los hombres
al limpiarse la frente,
secarse el sudor negro,
encuentran
mis poemas.
Yo salgo cada dÃa
con la obrera textil.