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I'M Explaining A Few Things

Rating: 3.7
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll 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 blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
Ratnakar Mandlik 14 January 2021
The style of narration of a story with minutest details is captivating.
0 0 Reply
Khairul Ahsan 08 September 2020
Poets not only see 'dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land' but also the 'blood in the streets'! Poets remain true to what they see. An excellente poem deservingly honored as the 'Modern Poem of the Day'!
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1 1 Reply
Konab Ghumman 25 November 2019
great poet..wonderful poems...
2 1 Reply
Butch Decatoria 25 September 2019
I love and voted for Pablo.
1 1 Reply
Dominic Windram 25 September 2019
An excellent yet harrowing, nightmarish poem in which Neruda eschews all sentimentalism. Instead, he cast his intense gaze on the brutality of fascist forces during the Spanish Civil war.
1 1 Reply
Kumarmani Mahakul 25 September 2019
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? .....much impressive with lofty theme. Beautiful poem. Thanks and congratulations for being selected this poem as the modern poem of the poem of the day.
1 1 Reply
Dr Antony Theodore 25 September 2019
I lived in a suburb, a suburb of Madrid, with bells, and clocks, and trees. very fine poem of the great Neruda
1 1 Reply
Aniruddha Pathak 25 September 2019
Yes indeed, poetry is not always about birds, beauty, love and nature and dreams and the like. A typical Pablo Neruda here.
1 1 Reply

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4/20/2021 3:11:01 AM #