mkdaniella

I had a pretty incredible evening yesterday. Went to the Kennedy Center for an event celebrating the 100th anniversary of the birth of Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. It was a panel of writers, poets, artists, an actress, a photographer, a singer and a little footage of the poet himself. A la mesa con Neruda. They spoke of their personal experiences with the writer as well as his work and read the poems that were special to them. In both English and Spanish sometimes collages of both languages every single person seemed to convey a very unique and extraordinary facet of this incredible man. The verses, the words, the interpretations of his work were without question the highlight of the night and brought back faith to my otherwise torn soul. It was a wake up call to the beauty that exists in the world and although I may be wounded it would be foolish to let it just pass by. It brought me back to the sense of wonderment I had in 6th grade while reading Blakes "Auguries of Innocence" for the first time. That first verse responsible for solidifying my fascination with the spoken and written word forever. The power of taking something that is functional as communication and turning into magic. The rhythms, the combinations, the sounds that gently lead you into a different vantage point of this same earth we all inhabit. This particular one was a humble and passionate one. Sweating with fervor in every breath. As if every love was his last, every pain the one that would kill, every joy the one that would last forever. I have spent so much time trying not live ragged that way, surrendering each time without questioning because lets face it... it just isnt practical. Somehow yesterday I wasnt so ashamed of my intense tendencies.

I leave you with Poema XX, and apologize for all translators that have done such an amazing job of interpreting Nerudas poems into the English language but the nature of both are so intrinsically different and theres nothing like the original. I wish to live in his veins at the moment the inspiration came for ... for in nights like this I held her in my arms

PUEDO escribir los versos ms tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche est estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos ms tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella tambin me quiso.
En las noches como sta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La bes tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo tambin la quera.
Cmo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos ms tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oir la noche inmensa, ms inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el roco.
Qu importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche est estrellada y ella no est conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazn la busca, y ella no est conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos
rboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cunto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su odo.
De otro. Ser de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como sta la tuve entre mis
brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque ste sea el ltimo dolor que ella me causa,
y stos sean los ltimos versos que yo le escribo.


Pablo Neruda


Thank you Pablo, thank you poetry, thank you joy, thank you life, thank you pain and the gift of sensitivity to take it all in without fear. Thank you.