I'm Explaining A Few Things - Pablo Neruda
I'm Explaining a Few Things
The Poem: English Translation
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!
Everything
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!
Treacherous
generals:
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!
The Poem: Analysis
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?
Rude Shake: Neruda starts the poem with a furious
dismissal of the general demand that poetry should limit itself to stock themes
and topics, and that it should be simply beautiful, spiritual and
apolitical. It brings to us a shocking question: what is your expectation
of art?
The phrase
"Poppy-petalled" suggests dulling opium; a critique, perhaps, of
the poet's own discarded aesthetics- One of Neruda’s earliest works: Twenty
Love Poems and a Song of Despair – was selling in millions. The rain,
the conventional poetic outpouring, is described using violent words and sounds
which mimic gunfire: "spattering its words" and "drilling them
full of/apertures". It can imply that poetry, if it ignores history and
limits itself to conventional aesthetics, will become warlike.
I'll tell you all the news./ I lived in a
suburb,/ a suburb of Madrid, with bells,/ and clocks, and trees.
Reversal of Tone: "I'll tell you all the news". The reader is alerted to expect something different and distasteful. It points to the title of the poem – he is going to explain a few things. , and we realise that we are in for the narrator's explanation, as in the title, his argument. The poem turns polemical: the poet begins to start an attack in strong words. He speaks of his life in Madrid, the capital of Spain. The use of the past tense ‘lived’ is significant. Without any ambiguity, and in a simplicity of words, he informs us that a life of ordinary things- bells, clocks, trees- has been destroyed.
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
Re-entering the Past: invoking friends like Communist poet Rafel Alberti and
poet/dramatist Federico Garcia Lorca- the latter killed by the fascists-
Neruda seems actively to re-enter the past; the address becomes insistent, like
waking the dead. The haunting lines "Federico, do you
remember/from under the ground" pull us up sharply and makes us feel the
bitterness of his grief. The contrasting images: ‘the light of June on the
balconies’ against ‘under the ground’ and ‘the flowers in the mouth’
(suggesting the grave) takes us back to the challenge in the opening lines.
Everything/ 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 to the sea.
Reliving the Good Old Days: The local market at
Arguelles, in all its vibrant richness, where the foods that sustain life are
almost alive themselves. The bread is "palpitating", the hake
swirls, the oil flows, the tomatoes are "rolling down to the sea."
The statue, in its
black colour, stands out as lifeless amidst the activity around. Hake is a type
of fish. Neruda may be thinking of the life after the civil war, when the
vitality of the market is no more, and what remains is a lifeless statue.
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.
Reverberations of War: The burning and bonfires, the fire and
gunpowder, evoke hell on earth; the repetition of "one morning" and
"from then on" conveys the shock of the inescapable onslaught.
The fascist bandits come reinforced by German and Italian-supplied bombers and
by North African colonial soldiers, their allies the monarchist aristocracy and
the Catholic church.
“Spattering” used
earlier in the opening lines, is repeated here. In both instances, it indicates
something good: rain and blessings. But here too, it indicates an opposite
note: blessings appear synonymous to burning, fire, blood and the like.
The word
"Bandits" opens three consecutive lines to hammer the point, while in
the Spanish original the softer-sounding "ninos"
("children") closes the following three lines, the children's
vulnerability and innocence given in the one understated phrase "without
fuss".
Jackals that the jackals would despise,/ stones
that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,/ vipers that the vipers would
abominate!
Rhetorics of Curse: The rhetoric works cumulatively, like a series of curses. The
strong and superlative indicators of evil impact without the need of
explanations.
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!/
Treacherous/ generals:/ 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 will ask: why
doesn't his poetry/ speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Reversed Images: the images are of the peaceful Spain: the tower, house, flowers,
child. But, they are inverted, heightening the magnitude of the war and
destruction caused by the civil strife. But Spain itself will rise once more
out of itself. The voice is defiant, vengeful as a Greek tragic chorus,
condemning the "Treacherous/generals" to face the consequences of
their violence.
The poet turns
prophetic, and sees the rise of a force that will arise to destroy the
destroyers. The standards of poetry they had set earlier, which they had asked
the poet to follow, will haunt them at this moment of destruction.
Neruda sums up the poem, having explained why he can no longer write a poetry of "dreams and leaves." We can feel the wrench, having seen how metaphor and image-making and music come naturally to him. Yet he's shut down his peacetime praise of the "the great volcanoes" (a reference to his Latin American origins) because of the horror.
Come and see the blood in the streets./ Come and see/ the blood in the streets./ Come and see the blood/ in the streets!
Reverberating End: the repetition makes a kind of mad,
gasping sound when read aloud, a sobbing effect, and the plain words, all
monosyllables, affect us far more than a purple passage.
Preguntaréis: Y dónde están las lilas?
Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas?
Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba
sus palabras llenándolas
de agujeros y pájaros?
Os voy a contar todo lo que me pasa.
Yo vivía en un barrio
de Madrid, con campanas,
con relojes, con árboles.
Desde allí se veía
el rostro seco de Castilla
como un océano de cuero.
Mi casa era
llamada
la casa de las flores, porque por todas partes
estallaban geranios: era
una bella casa
con perros y chiquillos.
Raúl,
te acuerdas?
Te acuerdas, Rafael?
Federico, te acuerdas
debajo de la tierra,
te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en donde
la luz de junio ahogaba flores en tu boca?
Hermano, hermano!
Todo
eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías,
aglomeraciones de pan palpitante,
mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatua
como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas:
el aceite llegaba a las cucharas,
un profundo latido
de pies y manos llenaba las calles,
metros, litros, esencia
aguda de la vida,
pescados hacinados,
contextura de techos con sol frío en el cual
la flecha se fatiga,
delirante marfil fino de las patatas,
tomates repetidos hasta el mar.
Y una mañana todo estaba ardiendo
y una mañana las hogueras
salían de la tierra
devorando seres,
y desde entonces fuego,
pólvora desde entonces,
y desde entonces sangre.
Bandidos con aviones y con moros,
bandidos con sortijas y duquesas,
bandidos con frailes negros bendiciendo
venían por el cielo a matar niños,
y por las calles la sangre de los niños
corría simplemente, como sangre de niños.
Chacales que el chacal rechazaría,
piedras que el cardo seco mordería escupiendo,
víboras que las víboras odiaran!
Frente a vosotros he visto la sangre
de España levantarse
para ahogaros en una sola ola
de orgullo y de cuchillos!
Generales
traidores:
mirad mi casa muerta,
mirad España rota:
pero de cada casa muerta sale metal ardiendo
en vez de flores,
pero de cada hueco de España
sale España,
pero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos,
pero de cada crimen nacen balas
que os hallarán un día el sitio
del corazón.
Preguntaréis por qué su poesía
no nos habla del sueño, de las hojas,
de los grandes volcanes de su país natal?
Venid a ver la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver
la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver la sangre
por las calles!
Prepared by Jacob Eapen Kunnath
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