#extravagaria

[jaynovz]

No Me Pregunten by Pablo Neruda. Translated by Alastair Reid.

[Text id: "Don't ask

My being is so tired

knowing so many things.

It's as if I were lugging in a sack

stones of different sizes,

or as if rain had been falling

restlessly in my memory.

Don't ask me about it.

I know nothing about it.

I had no idea what happened.

Nobody else knew either

and so I went on in a fog,

thinking that nothing had happened, looking for fruit in the streets

and ideas in the fields.

And this was the result:

everybody is right

and I've been asleep so much.

So let them add to my load

not just stones but shadow,

not just shadow but blood.

That's the way things are, boy,

and also how they are not;

for, in spite of all, I'm alive

and my health is excellent;

my soul and my nails are growing,

I go round the barbershops,

I come and go through frontiers,

I make claims, I take my bearings

but if they wish to know more,

my trails get confused

and if they hear sadnesses howling

close to my house, it's a lie.

Love is clear weather,

weeping is time wasted.

So, of what I remember

and what I don't remember,

of what I know and knew,

of what I lost on the way

among so many things lost,

of the dead who never heard me

and perhaps wanted to see me,

better they ask no questions--

let them put a hand here, on my waistcoat,

and they'll see how I still tremble,

a sack of dark stones." /end id]

[merulae]

Keeping Quiet

Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth, let’s not speak in any language; let’s stop for one second, and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victories with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. Life is what it is about; I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.

–Pablo Neruda, from Extravagaria   translated by Alastair Reid

[alwaysandfourevermore]

And I go with you into the leaves between the pines and the silence, asking myself how and when I will have to pay for my luck.

Pablo Neruda, Extravagaria

[alwaysandfourevermore]

Why such harsh machinery? Why, to write down the stuff and people of every day, must poems be dressed up in gold, in old and fearful stone? I want verses of felt or feather which scarcely weigh, mild verses with the intimacy of beds where people have loved and dreamed, I want poems stained by hands and everydayness.

Pablo Neruda, Extravagaria

[hours]

Keeping Quiet

by: Pablo Neruda translated by: Alastair Reid from: Extravagaria

Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth, let's not speak in any language; let's stop for one second, and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victories with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. Life is what it is about; I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.

[jaehyunn-blog-blog]

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this is probably the only song i will never get sick of.

[a-bittersweet-life]

We Are Many by Pablo Neruda

  Of the many men who I am, who we are, 

I can’t find a single one; 

they disappear among my clothes, 

they’ve left for another city.

  When everything seems to be set 

to show me off as intelligent, 

the fool I always keep hidden 

takes over all that I say.

  At other times, I’m asleep 

among distinguished people, 

and when I look for my brave self, 

a coward unknown to me 

rushes to cover my skeleton 

with a thousand fine excuses.

  When a decent house catches fire, 

instead of the fireman I summon, 

an arsonist bursts on the scene, 

and that’s me. What can I do? 

What can I do to distinguish myself? 

How can I pull myself together?

  All the books I read 

are full of dazzling heroes, 

always sure of themselves. 

I die with envy of them; 

and in films full of wind and bullets, 

I goggle at the cowboys, 

I even admire the horses.

  But when I call for a hero, 

out comes my lazy old self; 

so I never know who I am, 

nor how many I am or will be. 

I’d love to be able to touch a bell 

and summon the real me, 

because if I really need myself, 

I mustn’t disappear.

  While I’m writing, I’m far away; 

and when I come back, I’ve gone. 

I would like to know if others 

go through the same things that I do, 

have as many selves as I have, 

and see themselves similarly; 

and when I’ve exhausted this problem, 

I’m going to study so hard 

that when I explain myself, 

I’ll be talking geography.