pablo neruda II

TO ENVY
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I plucked the envious ones, one by one
From my shirt, from my skin
I saw them all around me every day
I brooded on them
In the transparent kingdom
Of a drop of water.
I loved them as much as I could, in their misfortune
Or in the equanimity of their labors,
And even now I have no idea
How and when
They replaced lilies and lemon trees
With a silent frown
Or, where an ordinary smile frown
Or, where an ordinary smile should have been
A gash set in.
That gash of a mouth!

All that honey that was replaced!

The heavy wind of age
Brought in its flight
Dust, food,
Seeds split off from love,
Petals wound with snakes,
Cruel ash of dead hatred,
And everything
Flourished in the wounded mouth.
A web of passions started up
And the woeful dregs of being forgotten
Gave root to the spreading tentacles,
The violet medusa of envy.

When you catch fish, Pedro, what do you do?
Do you throw them back, rip up your net,
Close your eyes to the urges
In the vast web of procreation?

I confess to my own sin!
Whatever I took from the sea,
Coral, fish scales,
Rainbow tail,
Fish or word or silvered leaf,
Or even an underwater stone,
I raised it up, I gave it the light of my spirit.

Fisherman myself, I gathered whatever was lost,
And my efforts harmed no one.
I did no harm, or maybe I did to death
Someone who wanted the light himself, and got instead
Me, emptying myself in song,
Which silenced his untamed ways,
Someone who didn’t want
To swim in my breast,
And cut out
On his own,
But the wind come
And carried off his voice,
And they were never born,
Those who longed to see light.

The tree is part of the forest, but perhaps a man
Can grow up ignoring
The bent of everything around him,
And quite suddenly
Its not just roots but darkness,
Not just fruit but shadow,
Shadow and night which time and foliage
Left behind as they grew,
Till in the close dampness
Where the seeds expected to swell
There is no trace of the fingering light.
The gift of the sun is denied
The hungry seed
And deep in darkness the spirit
Unwinds in its own contortions.

Perhaps I don’t know, perhaps I didn’t know,
Perhaps I never know.

Preoccupied as I was, I had no time
To see, or hear, or seek out or feel
All that was happening, and for loves sake
I believe my obligation was to sing,
To sing as I grew and left my life behind,
Out of the pain of the struggle.
It was my dedication, my function,
Alongside carpenters in the morning,
Drinking at night with the horsemen,
To pour out my song in writing,
And I thought I was doing it,
On fire or far away
From the fire,
Close to the source or out of the ashes;
I thought that by giving all I had,
Jabbing myself to keep myself awake,
Giving my whole vision, my whole time, my while life,
My blood and all my thinking,
And what I learned from every thing,
The generosity of carnations,
Wood and its sweet-smelling peace,
Love itself, rivers, death,
All I was given by the city, by the earth
All I gathered in from a green wave,
Or a house left empty by war,
Or a lamp I found lit
In the middle of autumn,
And men too, and their machinery,
Working men and their troubles,
Or the ship steering through the fog—
All that,more than all, all that I owed
To every man for the life in him,
I did what I could to repay, and I had
No other currency but my own blood.

So what do I do now with this man and this other?what can I do to give back
What I never stole? Why did the spring
Brings me yellow crown
And who, aggrieved and puzzled,
Searched for it in the forest?
Its perhaps too late to uncover
The missing clarity of truth
And pour it into his bitter cup.

Maybe time has hardened his voise,
His mouth, his righteousness,
And the clock cannot turn back
To bring us together in tenderness.

Raw hatred took its time
Making an outpost of its rage
And prepared for me a savage crown
With rusty, bloodstained spikes.
It wasn’t pride that made me keep
My heart at a distance from such terror
Nor did I waste
On revenge
Or the pursuit of power
The forces that came from my selfish grief’s
Or my accumulate joys.

Its was something else-my helplessness.

It was because with every taunt
The day
That dawned
Detached me from new hurt,
Bound my hands, and lichen
Grew on the stone of my breast.
I was overgrown by creeping plants,
Small green hands covered me,
And I took to the woods, unfisted,
Or slept in care of the clover.

Oh, I am most careful with
My swords keen edge, I am slow
To anger,
I rejoice in
My hard nature,
But when the turtledove in the tower
Croons, and the potter stretches his hand
To his clay, raising a bowl,
I tremble, I am pierced through
By the sharp air.
My heart takes off with the dove

It rains, and I go out to try the shower.

I go out to the being I love, naked presence
Of sun on a rock,
Everything growing, growing, unware
That it cannot put an end to its own growing;
The wheat going to grain, multiplying
Far beyond reason, so it was ordained,
Without order or instruction;
And among undivided things,
Perhaps this secret urge,
This agitation of bread and sand,
Imposed its own conditions,
And I am not me but living matter
Fermenting and forming its own shapes
In the fruitfulness of every day.

Perhaps envy, when it flashed
Its knife at me
And became the profession of certain people,
Gave to my body an extra food
Which I needed in my work,
A fierce acid which gave me
Sharp stimulation for an odd hour,
Corrosive tongue against the water.

Perhaps envy, a star
Made from broken glass
Fallen
In a bitter street,
Was a medal pinned on
The bread I bring, singing, everyday,
And my good bakes heart.
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