Comments on: Pablo Neruda – Poetry

By: Rena Navon

Rena Navon — Mon, 21 Jan 2013 07:23:16 +0000

Just having bought my apartment, I take cautious steps into its untried definitions of space. So does the poet in his new poem hesitatingly begin writing. Neruda is so generous to give those less than him the truth about his feelings of smallness in the dimensions of poetry. We less than him would not be so humble. His statement confirms my belief that a poet always is beginning all over again at the opening of each poem and never has the security of fame or name to fall back on. Isn’t that challenge its fiercesome beauty and constant creativity its high price?

By: Peg

Peg — Sat, 19 Jan 2013 16:20:19 +0000

I love that first part where the poet has no face, no mechanics to create a voice. Then, the tentative steps to begin. Beautiful! Jane Kenyon did it for me. I was reading her poems in a rocking chair in spring in front of a huge picture window with the shadows of leaves speaking to me from the walls. I felt the expanse of the universe, but it wasn’t till a few years later that I made my first conscious travels into the cosmos. It is difficult now to write poetry, words fall so short anymore, lying in a heap at lights feet.

By: Zoe Durga Harber

Zoe Durga Harber — Fri, 18 Jan 2013 02:42:05 +0000

This is a beautiful poem. It is written in such a way as to demonstrate the state of mind he describes. Neruda, who is a master of poetry, writes like a beginner, someone who is new to poetry, does not know the ropes. He personifies in the voice of the poet the newness the awesomeness the sense of wonder that often accompanies the first mystical encounters. The fragments of sentences and non-completed thoughts, the lack of reference, as if caught in the midst of what can only be understood by being there. the self referrals as if he were observing self rather then being self. He continually presents the “not”-ness – not this, not that – the nothing, without substance. He gives a sense of complete abandon, the words of his poem seem to be the original words, the first word to spring into the mind, not worked over, looked over, but, like the experience of finding our creator, spontaneous and fresh. It feels uncorrected, simple, a sense of allowing all the parts of his self to co-exist – just as he describes the experience to be for him.
I particularly like the lines “an I made my own way….and I wrote the first faint line,”
This is such a wonderful expression of the triumph of knowing you are truly on the path – have found your path, and ,such as it is, it is magnificent in the freedom it reveals.

By: fuzzy tom

fuzzy tom — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 22:58:01 +0000

A charming commentary by Iwan, of Pablo’s work – pure nonsense, pure wisdom. This commentary no doubt unfastened this poem and left it on the open sky but it struck me with a semlblance of my awakening in poetry and poems.
Good insight, Iwan!

By: Ivan M. Granger

Ivan M. Granger — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 16:09:10 +0000

Bob -
I’ve had one other person recently say they couldn’t make a donation through PayPal. I haven’t figured out what the issue is. But, yes, you can always mail in donations, as well, at:

Poetry Chaikhana
PO Box 2320
Boulder, CO 80306

Every donation genuinely does help – thanks!

Ivan

By: Carol Burns

Carol Burns — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 12:43:44 +0000

Thank you again, Ivan.

I was not familiar with this poem, but have become so. . . Beautiful and compelling,
sweeping us along so our. . ‘ heart breaks free on the open sky’

By: Madathil Nair

Madathil Nair — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 10:16:47 +0000

This is the second time this poem has appeared at chaikhana. I had translated it to my native Malayalam when it was posted first. Many liked the translation, although there were some who thought Neruda was inscrutable. Yet, the charm of his words enchanted them.

This is the part I like most:

“I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.”

What could that “branches of night” be!? It is stupid to ask such questions when one is listening to a genius.

Incidentally, I remember the first version you published, which I translated, was a little different. Was that a different translation?

By: Bob Corbin

Bob Corbin — Thu, 17 Jan 2013 02:02:44 +0000

Now i see why why some people who write poems insist that they are not poets, but mere makers of rhymes. Neruda was a poet!

Incidentally, i have tried to make a small donation to poetry chaikhana but Pay Pal will not accept my credit card. Any way i could send cash?

By: Jenny

Jenny — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 21:16:56 +0000

My very favorite Neruda poem. Just reading it is like stepping into eternity.

By: simonbagh

simonbagh — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 21:11:10 +0000

we are nothing, but an upshot of resurrection
believing in being nothing is way to salvation