Sunday, May 17, 2009
Posted by Vignesh
And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the bloods in the streets.
Come...and see the blood in the streets!
Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
When a poet is born, the angels in the sky come alive from their dreams, a gush of warm water flows through the springs across the ends of the world, the tree by the river sheds a single leaf which floats in the air for an eternity, a light bulb kept in an old hut fades slowly to darkness, a few fleas keep sucking blood from the wound of the dead, hiding in a dark corner a grown man cries bleeding his heart out, a tint of wild lust is mixed with gallons of love as a woman deeply kisses the man she loves. When a poet is born the world gets ready for him, for he would soon capture in the magic of his lyrics the warmth of the water, the journey of the lonely leaf, the silence of the angels, the pain of the man caught in darkness, the passion of love, the glitter of the tear and the smell of the dark and humid drop of blood.When a poet is born he doesn't come out crying, but he comes out looking at the world with with his indifferent eyes, which will make poems out of the moments of his birth. A poet I believe is never a kid, a boy, a man but, a poet begins and ends as a poet. As if the only reason for his journey is to capture his share of the poems which keep floating like butterflies in the middle of a sunny day. A poet is born to write poems, the poems which are destined for him to write. Poems which are as unique as the waves of lines in the palm. Poetry is art of capturing the world in little canvasses. To put in words the essence of the intense moments, the art of seizing the emotions which flow through the inner walls of the being, the search for truth. Poets are not gay, they share a deeper solitude inside them which pulls them towards the words. I always wished that i may have the vision of a poet, i wished i could share the sight of a poet so i could interpret the world as he does, cos in his vision there is a search for ultimate truth, he looks at the gore of the beautiful and the beauty of what that is despicable.A poet doesn't write for his reader, he writes just to capture the magnificence of the moment, he writes a poem just like a painter immersed in painting a still life art.His poems with equal measures captures the beauty of the first drop of the rain, the last tear for the dead, the purity of the white snow which slowly melts into the mountain river, and the purity of the white liquids which are melted in the hour of making love.
Just like old friends leading you to new ones, S.Ra introduced me to Pablo Neruda, who in-turn introduced me to his poetry which more than just magic of words has become a obsession for war and peace for me. He ignites fire, he throws inside some dust, he drenches with water, he puts a knife in bleeding wounds. When he wrote he did not write to impress me or guide me, he did not write to give false hopes to people or to inspire them, he did not write to teach or to preach, he just wrote.He wrote poetry to explain himself to himself. And that brings him closer to me, i read him knowing that his poems were not written for me, when i read him I and Neruda sit opposite to each other and we discuss the poem. It has not been long since i came in terms with Neruda, say it has just been a few months. Slowly i started collecting his poems, spending my midnights to interpret its meanings. After spending time with him, now i can say he taught me nothing except to accept to life as is it, to cry when you cry. to laugh when you laugh, to let life rule over you.I wonder how gifted are the ones who read in Spanish, the language in which Neruda wrote his poems. Neruda was born in Chile, belonged to every corner street of the world. He roamed around the world in Vietnam, in Lanka, in France in Spain in Italy. The Picasso of poetry was conferred with a Nobel for literature in 1971.
Neruda love for words is evident in the way he plays with them, like the piper driving with him the rats, the words run in the back of Neruda, they drown into his pen and come out as the wet ink filling in the paper. A word reaches its pinnacle of glory when it is written by Neruda. be it the beauty of the phrase "The lemons move down from the tree's planetarium","i want to be my love, alone with a tip of your breast of snow" or the pain of love in the words "Don't leave me alone, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart". Neruda had a never ending love for words, which spoke on people, society, life, truth and beauty. But Neruda is celebrated for the poems he wrote on Love. Yes Neruda was a poet of love, most of his poems share with us heavenly peace and the numbing pain of love. For anyone who reads Neruda the beginnings would be his poems on love, his first book twenty love poems and a song of despair is a must read for people who for once knew in their life how is it to love and to be loved. When a man becomes mad about a women, all his insanities are interpreted as poems. Neruda loved women, he praised her, prayed to her and he celebrated and cursed her. Neruda was in love with love. The pure essence of love keeps flowing in all his poems. As S.Ra says young men and women in Chile and across the world still visit his memorial in groups, they stand in crowds on the shore facing his house and recite the poems of love. Neruda was a saint who preached love. In his in numerous sonnets and poems my favourites ones written about love would be Sonnet XVII which in it says "so I love you because I know no other way" and Tonight i can write the saddest lines which in it says "Love is so short, forgetting is so long".
Poetry is nothing but a vision, a state of mind that you share with the poet.My days are getting drifted in the magic of his words, I have almost done with all his poems on love and now slowly moving into his poems on life which range from communism to the struggle for social justice.Lover, political activist, the voice of the common man Neruda has had a number of faces.It is in his poems i find my reasons and my reflections. It is after reading him I found that there is no good or bad poetry any word that emerges from the depth of the soul is poetry. Now i know what to search when i read a poem, what to look at when i glance the life around me.Yes! than beauty, than gloss, than the infinite possibilities of hope, give me truth.
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