For an Englishman who only has a rudimentary grasp of Spanish (albeit I have dusted off the grammar books recently), it may be dangerous territory for me to be writing a piece on the Latin American giant Neruda and the French Rimbaud. For my French aspirations, perhaps the phrase L’espoir est éternel is best used in this case… Hope springs eternal, that is
Or perhaps I can say, my french lessons came to a whole n’importe quoi…
(To those diligent enough to look up the translations I salute you!)
My knowledge on Neruda was limited; I know of him mainly through The Motorcycle Diaries where the two protagonists, including Che, would often quote him as their voyage continued. I had also heard of the famed Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.
In all honesty, I found it quite trite and sentimental, and did not enjoy it too much.
However, from my brief glimpse of time in the Sierra Morena, with my nomadic friends, the continuing hippie existence, the Russian girls and the conversations on philosophy, politics and nature that punctuated my time there; I quite fortuitously happened upon an old book of Neruda that Laura had amongst her extensive book collection. Other topics were child development, psychology, RD Laing and even the much-loved Socialist musician / artist / Author Woody Guthrie.
The above-pictured collection of Neruda’s poems was my half-hearted attempt at re-learning Spanish whilst living, very much in an English speaking house, in the heart of the Sierra.
Going through my musings and translations at the time, I did make quite an interesting note about the Spanish language; nacer con un pan debajo del brazo – which roughly translates; ‘to be born with a loaf of bread under your arm.’ It was my impression that this essentially meant the same as the phrase to be born with a silver spoon. However, it turns out after further analysis, that instead the term is connected to the birth of a child. The feelings of happiness and good fortune from the birth of a child – a baby is born with a loaf of bread under his arm – is a closer translation.
Coming back to Neruda.
Turns out I wrote down a fair few of his poems, and this is one I really enjoyed. I hope you like it too.
Fable of the Mermaids and The Drunks – P. Neruda
All these men were there inside
When she entered, utterly naked
They had been drinking, and begin to spit at her
Recently come from the river, she understood nothing.
She as a mermaid who had lost her way.
The taunts flowed over her glistening flesh.
Obscenities drenched her golden breasts
gleaming once more like a white stone in the rain;
and without a backward look, she swam once more
Swam toward nothingness, swam toward her dying
This struck me firstly as quite surrealistic. The poetry of Rimbaud, Dylan Thomas and even Charles Bukowski are by turns Surrealistic and abstract. However, I did not know Neruda had this particular strain as well. The poem seems to encapsulate ideas on the loss of innocence and perhaps even the attitude of locals to foreigners. That which is foreign is dangerous. There do seem to be undertones of xenophobia hidden here.
Another poem of his that I made a note of was the poem And How Long?
This poem is longer, and immediately made me think of my amigo Carlos. The man whom is eternally on a quest for answers. He travels far and wide in the search of such answers. Then on not being understood in the source of his quest, decides to cut his losses and return home.
And How Long?
How long does a man live, after all?
Does he live a thousand days, or one only? A week, or several centuries?
How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say ‘for ever’?
*****************
Lost in these preoccupations
I set myself to clear things up.
I sought out knowledgeable priests,
I waited for them after their rituals,
I watched them when they went their ways
to visit God and the Devil.
They wearied of my questions.
They on their part knew very little;
they were little more than administrators.
Medical men received me
in between consultations,
a scalpel in each hand,
saturated in aureomycin,
busier each day.
As far as I could tell from their talk,
the problem was as follows:
it was not so much the death of a microbe –
they went down by the ton –
but the few which survived showed signs of perversity
They left me so startled
that I sought out the grave-diggers.
I went to the rivers where they burn
enormous painted corpses,
tiny bony bodies,
emperors with an aura of terrible curses,
women snuffed out at a stroke
by a wave of cholera.
There were whole beaches of dead
and ashy specialists.
When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions.
They offered to burn me: it was the only thing they knew.
In my own country the
undertakers answered me, between drinks:
‘Get yourself a good woman
and give up this nonsense.’
I never saw people so happy
Raising their glasses they sang,
toasting health and death.
They were huge fornicators
I returned home, much older
after crossing the world.
Now I question nobody.
But I know less every day.
As you can see this is, by its nature, a metaphysical poem. The narrator is longing for answers; answers his heart can’t seem to give and the outside world seems too indifferent to answer. He travels far, but returns empty-handed, or perhaps even with more questions. However, this time he allows them to bubble up within.
Lastly, a documentary worth watching on Rimbaud, if you have the time (time has been given a new conception recently; in its abundance). Stumbled on this whilst sick one day, and it later inspired hitch-hiking travels.
An Englishman in Hanoi 