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Neruda And Vallejo: Selected Poems Part 33

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Hatred has grown scale on scale, blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp, with a snout full of ooze and silence.

Translated by Robert Bly

AMERICA, NO INVOCO TU NOMBRE EN VANO.

America, no invoco tu nombre en vano.

Cuando sujeto al corazn la espada, cuando aguanto en el alma la gotera, cuando por las ventanas un nuevo da tuyo me penetra, soy y estoy en la luz que me produce, vivo en la sombra que me determina, duermo y despierto en tu esencial aurora: dulce como las uvas, y terrible, conductor del azcar y el castigo, empapado en esperma de tu especie, amamantado en sangre de tu herencia.



AMERICA, I DO NOT CALL YOUR NAME WITHOUT HOPE.

America, I do not call your name without hope.

When I hold the sword against the heart, when I live with the faulty roof in the soul, when one of your new days pierces me coming through the windows, I am and I stand in the light that produces me, I live in the darkness which makes me what I am, I sleep and awake in your fundamental sunrise: as mild as the grapes, and as terrible, carrier of sugar and the whip, soaked in the sperm of your species, nursed on the blood of your inheritance.

Translated by Robert Bly

HIMNO Y REGRESO (1939).

Patria, mi patria, vuelvo hacia ti la sangre.

Pero te pido, como a la madre el nino lleno de llanto.

Acoge esta guitarra ciega y esta frente perdida.

Sal a encontrarte hijos por la tierra, sal a cuidar cados con tu nombre de nieve, sal a hacer una casa con tu madera pura, sal a llevar tu estrella a los heroes heridos.

Ahora quiero dormir en tu substancia.

Dame tu clara noche de penetrantes cuerdas, tu noche de navo, tu estatura estrellada.

Patria ma: quiero mudar de sombra.

Patria ma: quiero cambiar de rosa.

Quiero poner mi brazo en tu cintura exigua y sentarme en tus piedras por el mar calcinadas, a detener el trigo y mirarlo por dentro.

Voy a escoger la flora delgada del nitrato, voy a hilar el estambre glacial de la campana, y mirando tu il.u.s.tre y solitaria espuma un ramo litoral tejere a tu belleza.

Patria, mi patria toda rodeada de agua combatiente y nieve combatida, en ti se junta el guila al azufre, y en tu antrtica mano de armino y de zafiro una gota de pura luz humana brilla encendiendo el enemigo cielo.

Guarda tu luz, oh patria!, manten tu dura espiga de esperanza en medio del ciego aire temible.

En tu remota tierra ha cado toda esta luz difcil, este destino de los hombres, que te hace defender una flor misteriosa sola, en la inmensidad de America dormida.

HYMN AND RETURN.

(1939).

Country, my country, I turn my blood in your direction.

But I am begging you the way a child begs its mother, with tears: take this blind guitar and these lost features.

I left to find sons for you over the earth, I left to comfort those fallen with your name made of snow, I left to build a house with your pure timber, I left to carry your star to the wounded heroes.

Now I want to fall asleep in your substance.

Give me your clear night of piercing strings, your night like a ship, your alt.i.tude covered with stars.

My country: I want to change my shadow.

My country: I want to have another rose.

I want to put my arm around your narrow waist and sit down on your stones whitened by the sea and hold the wheat back and look deep into it.

I am going to pick the thin flower of nitrate, I am going to feel the icy wool of the field, and staring at your famous and lonesome sea-foam I'll weave with them a wreath on the sh.o.r.e for your beauty.

Country, my country, entirely surrounded by aggressive water and fighting snow, the eagle and the sulphur come together in you, PART VII, called "Canto General of Chile," was evidently the seed of the whole book, and contains some of the earliest poems written for the volume. Neruda touches on the geography and history of Chile here in a way he was later to do for all of South America. It is a sort of ode of praise to Chile, a homesick poem. The poem "Ocean," often translated, is from this section. We have chosen the poem he wrote in 1939, after deciding to go back to Chile following the collapse of the Spanish Republican army, a poem called "Hymn and Return."

and a drop of pure human light burns in your antarctic hand of ermine and sapphire, lighting up the hostile sky.

My country, take care of your light! Hold up your stiff straw of hope into the blind and frightening air.

All of this difficult light has fallen on your isolated land, this future of the race, that makes you defend a mysterious flower alone, in the hugeness of an America that lies asleep.

Translated by Robert Bly The poems in PART VIII are centered about people, usually ordinary or "unknown" Chileans. At times the Chileans themselves talk, telling their stories, at other times Neruda describes their lives. Several of the monologues contain descriptions of torture performed by the police. The poems vary in quality. We have chosen the first poem of the fourteen, about a shoveler Neruda met in the nitrate works.

CRISTBAL MIRANDA.

(Palero-Tocopilla) Te conoc, Cristbal, en las lanchas anchas de la baha, cuando baja el salitre, hacia el mar, en la quemante vestidura de un da de Noviembre.

Recuerdo aquella exttica apostura, los cerros de metal, el agua quieta.

Y slo el hombre de las lanchas, hmedo de sudor, moviendo nieve.

Nieve de los nitratos, derramada sobre los hombros del dolor, cayendo a la barriga ciega de las naves.

All, paleros, heroes de una aurora carcomida por cidos, sujeta a los destinos de la muerte, firmes, recibiendo el nitrato caudaloso.

Cristbal, este recuerdo para ti.

Para los camaradas de la pala, a cuyos pechos entra el cido y las emanaciones asesinas, hinchando como guilas aplastadas los corazones, hasta que cae el hombre, hasta que rueda el hombre hacia las calles, hacia las cruces rotas de la pampa.

Bien, no digamos ms, Cristbal, ahora este papel que te recuerda, a todos, a los lancheros de baha, al hombre ennegrecido de los barcos, mis ojos van con vosotros en esta jornada y mi alma es una pala que levanta cargando y descargando sangre y nieve, junto a vosotros, vidas del desierto.

CRISTOBAL MIRANDA.

(Shoveler at Tocopilla) I met you on the broad barges in the bay, Cristobal, while the sodium nitrate was coming down, wrapped in a burning November day, to the sea.

I remember the ecstatic nimbleness, the hills of metal, the motionless water.

And only the bargemen, soaked with sweat, moving snow.

Snow of the nitrates, poured over painful shoulders, dropping into the blind stomach of the ships.

Shovelers there, heroes of a sunrise eaten away by acids, and bound to the destinies of death, standing firm, taking in the floods of nitrate.

Cristobal, this memento is for you, for the others shoveling with you, whose chests are penetrated by the acids and the lethal gases, making the heart swell up like crushed eagles, until the man drops, rolls toward the streets of town, toward the broken crosses out in the field.

Enough of that, Cristobal, today this bit of paper remembers you, each of you, the bargemen of the bay, the man turned black in the boats, my eyes are moving with yours in this daily work and my soul is a shovel which lifts loading and unloading blood and snow next to you, creatures of the desert.

Translated by Robert Bly

QUE DESPIERTE EL LEADOR.

Al oeste de Colorado River hay un sitio que amo.

Acudo all con todo lo que palpitando transcurre en m, con todo lo que fu, lo que soy, lo que sostengo.

Hay unas altas piedras rojas, el aire salvaje de mil manos las hizo edificadas estructuras: el escarlata ciego subi desde el abismo y en ellas se hizo cobre, fuego y fuerza.

America extendida como la piel de bfalo, aerea y clara noche del galope, all hacia las alturas estrelladas, bebo tu copa de verde roco.

S, por agria Arizona y Wisconsin nudoso, hasta Milwaukee levantada contra el viento y la nieve o en los enardecidos pantanos de West Palm, cerca de los pinares de Tacoma, en el espeso olor de acero de tus bosques, anduve pisando tierra madre, hojas azules, piedras de cascada, huracanes que temblaban como toda la msica, ros que rezaban como los monasterios, nades y manzanas, tierras y aguas, infinita quietud para que el trigo nazca.

All pude, en mi piedra central, etender al aire ojos, odos, manos, hasta or libros, locomotoras, nieve, luchas, fbricas, tumbas, vegetales, pasos, y de Manhattan la luna en el navo, el canto de la mquina que hila, la cuchara de hierro que come tierra, la perforadora con su golpe de cndor y cuanto corta, oprime, corre, cose: seres y ruedas repitiendo y naciendo.

Amo el pequeno hogar del farmer. Recientes madres duermen aromadas como el jarabe del tamarindo, las telas recien planchadas. Arde el fuego de mil hogares rodeados de cebollas.

(Los hombres cuando cantan cerca del ro tienen una voz ronca como las piedras del fondo: el tabaco sali de sus anchas hojas y como un duende del fuego lleg a estos hogares.) Missouri adentro venid, mirad el queso y la harina, las tablas olorosas, rojas como violines, el hombre navegando la cebada, el potro azul recien montado huele el aroma del pan y de la alfalfa: campanas, amapolas, herreras, y en los destartalados cinemas silvestres el amor abre su dentadura en el sueno nacido de la tierra.

Es tu paz lo que amamos, no tu mscara.

No es hermoso tu rostro de guerrero.

Eres hermosa y ancha Norte America.

Vienes de humilde cuna como una lavandera, junto a tus ros, blanca.

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Neruda And Vallejo: Selected Poems Part 33 summary

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