BW15: Latin American Poetry

Pablo Neruda

It is apropos we are armchair traveling through South America and April is National Poetry Month. Especially since we have two South American writers who have won the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Gabriel Mistral, the first female Latin American to win the prize in 1945 “for her lyric poetry which, inspired by powerful emotions, has made her name a symbol of the idealistic aspirations of the entire Latin American world”


Chilean poet Pablo Neruda,  who according to Gabrial Garcia Marquez, "is the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language."  Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971 "for a poetry that with the action of an elemental force brings alive a continent's destiny and dreams"

Not to be overlooked is also North American poet, Octavio Paz from Mexico City, Mexico who was encouraged by Pablo Neruda to write poetry and won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1990 "for impassioned writing with wide horizons, characterized by sensuous intelligence and humanistic integrity".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Past by Pablo Neruda

We have to discard the past

and, as one builds

floor by floor, window by window,

and the building rises,

so do we go on throwing down

first, broken tiles,

then pompous doors,

until out of the past

dust rises

as if to crash

against the floor,

smoke rises

as if to catch fire,

and each new day

it gleams

like an empty

plate.

There is nothing, there is always nothing.

It has to be filled

with a new, fruitful

space,

then downward

tumbles yesterday

as in a well

falls yesterday's water,

into the cistern

of all still without voice or fire.

It is difficult to teach bones

to disappear,

to teach eyes

to close

but

we do it

unrealizing.

It was all alive,

alive, alive, alive

like a scarlet fish

but time

passed over its dark cloth

and the flash of the fish

drowned and disappeared.

Water water water

the past goes on falling

still a tangle

of bones

and of roots;

it has been, it has been, and now

memories mean nothing.

Now the heavy eyelid

covers the light of the eye

and what was once living

now no longer lives;

what we were, we are not.

And with words, although the letters

still have transparency and sound,

they change, and the mouth changes;

the same mouth is now another mouth;

they change, lips, skin, circulation;

another being has occupied our skeleton;

what once was in us now is not.

It has gone, but if the call, we reply;

"I am here," knowing we are not,

that what once was, was and is lost,

is lost in the past, and now will not return.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Sad Mother by Gabriela Mistral 

Sleep, sleep, my beloved,

without worry, without fear,

although my soul does not sleep,

although I do not rest.

Sleep, sleep, and in the night

may your whispers be softer

than a leaf of grass,

or the silken fleece of lambs.

May my flesh slumber in you,

my worry, my trembling.

In you, may my eyes close

and my heart sleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As One Listens To The Rain

 

Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page. 


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