Swimming with Neruda: "Drunk with Pines"

"My solid marine madness": W.S. Merwin's translation of Neruda's "el solido frenesi marino" is a phrase that speaks to me, that calls for me. Riptides of the soul; passion's relentless currents. What did T.S. Eliot offer in this regard? Something about Phlebas, "As he rose and fell / He passed the stages of his age and youth / Entering the whirlpool"--and "Consider Phlebas, who was once as handsome and tall as you." Or, to shift to a beloved passage from Shakespeare's Tempest: "full fathoms five / thy father lies."

Water--whether held in check or fiercely flowing, the undersea realm, anything marine-- means mortal transformation, means death for most poets, but not for Homer, and not for Neruda.

Pablo Neruda is offering a more immediate drama of "marine madness," of aquatic passion that is suffered and that transcends. Neruda puts us into the midst of the sea-change, first keeps us in the curl of the wave and then within the first two fathoms or so of the surface, though there's plenty of depth here.

In the third stanza below, I see the surfer, though Neruda most likely had a swimmer in mind, though in the earlier stanzas the speaker could be a sailor or, more likely, a passenger on a boat. In this third stanza, I see this body-surfer riding the wave in a mix of frustration and ecstasy-- "mounted" and then "becalmed"--and ending with that lovely, haunting phrase: "in the throat of the fortunate isles / that are white and sweet as cool hips"; "en las garganta de las afortunadas / islas blancas y dulces como caderas frescas."

"Drunk with Pines" is the ninth poem in Viente Poemas de Amor y una Cancion Desesperada from 1924, when Neruda was only twenty years old. I've commented in the previous blog entry about Neruda's passion and poetics. His imagery can be both strikingly clear and paradoxical, evocative and mysterious. (I'll admit I don't always understand certain phrases, certain lines --or at least not yet-- but I don't find that uncertainty the obstacle it would be with other poets.) In particular, the depth of longing that informs the vivid imagery makes this volume a particular favorite for so many people.

Here, I want to share the ninth poem in both Neruda's original Spanish and W.S. Merwin's English translation. As I've said before, I have mostly lost my high school level Spanish, though with my rusty Latin, a dictionary, and a translation alongside, I do enjoy working my way through Neruda's original poetry, reading aloud as best I can to hear the music, the considerable music, of this Chilean poet.

And, that final image of the paired swimmers, "quick and slow, in the energy under the sky" -- "rapido y lento en la energia subceleste."

IX. Ebrio De Trementina

Ebrio de trementina y largos besos,

estival, el velero de las roasas dirijo,

torcido hacia la muerte del delgado dia,

cimentado en el solido frenesi marino.

Palido y amarrado a mi agua devorante

cruzo en el agrio olor del clima descrubierto,

aun vestido de gris y sonidos amargos,

y una cimera triste de abandonada espuma.

Voy, duro de pasiones, montado en mi ola unica,

lunar, solar, ardiente y frio, repentino,

dormido en la garganta de las afortunadas

islas blancas y dulces como caderas frescas.

Tiembla en la noche humeda mi vestido de besos

locamente cargado de electricas gestiones,

de modo heroico dividido en suenos

y embriagadoras rosas practicandose en mi.

Aguas arribe, en medio de las olas externas,

tu paralelo cuerpo se sujeta en mis brazos

como un pez infinitamente pegado a mi alma

rapido y lento en la energia subceleste.

IX. Drunk with Pines

Drunk with pines and long kisses,

like summer I steer the fast sail of the roses,

bent towards the death of the thin day,

stuck into my solid marine madness.

Pale and lashed to my ravenous water,

I cruise in the sour smell of the naked climate,

still dressed in grey and bitter sounds

and a sad crest of abandoned spray.

Hardened by passions, I go mounted on my one wave,

lunar, solar, burning and cold, all at once,

becalmed in the throat of the fortunate isles

that are white and sweet as cool hips.

In the moist night my garment of kisses trembles

charged to insanity with electric currents,

heroically divided into dreams

and intoxicating roses practising on me.

Upstream, in the midst of the outer waves,

your parallel body yields to my arms

like a fish infinitely fastened to my soul,

quick and slow, in the energy under the sky.

Neruda, Pablo. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. W.S. Merwin, trans. New York: Penguin. 1978

"Like a Coin": Neruda and Thoughts about Reading Poetry

Fairly early this morning, I sat down with my battered metal cup of coffee in my usual cafe, intending to think about my Introduction to Literature class and poetry. How to emphasize the best way to approach poetry for the first time, or from a new, renewed perspective, perhaps. How to start, how to enter, how to read and reflect and feel your way into poetry. Often, I emphasize "What's the story?" And, "Who's talking? to whom? where? from what place, physical and emotional?"

That's how I often encourage my students to enter the world of poetry. What's the story?

Some lines from Pablo Neruda, the great Chilean poet, rose up in my mind. A man reflecting on what he's seen, experienced, remembers. A riddle of sorts, though not as puzzling as so many lines out of context, perhaps.

I have seen from my window

the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun

burned like a coin between my hands.

He visto desde mi ventana

la fiesta del poniente en los cerros lejanos.

A veces como una moneda

se encendia un pedazo de sol entre mis manos.

Two lines from the middle of Neruda's "Hemos Perdidio Aun" ("We Have Lost Even") in the translation of W.S. Merwin.

My high school Spanish is long gone, but if I call up my grad school Latin. pick up a dictionary, and keep a good translation at hand, then I can piece my way through some of Neruda's (and Lorca's) work. I like making the effort with the foreign language poems I like best in English. Sometime, I'll have to address my lack of Spanish much more seriously.

(There are too many languages I've let slip--Latin, German, Old English, that Spanish--and so many languages I should have pursued or pursued further--Classical Greek, French, Portuguese, Chinese, Japanese. Oh, I can start or restart any time, any time.)

Here, I wanted to share an image that stays with me from the midst of a worthy poem. A poem about loss, piercing loss from the past. That view from afar, from the window, watching the sunset, "the fiesta of the sunset in the distant mountain tops." Distanced, but not quite detached. Detached would make everything easier. (Or as singer Kathleen Edwards reminds us, "Memory is a terrible thing if you use it right.")

Neruda is a great poet of internal observation, of feeling from afar and in the moment, of passion and the recollection of passion.

Now, the puzzle of that image, that imagery, would mean that we--my students and myself--would need to place that moment, that speaker, in the context of the whole poem. And that would lead us into the poem, first and foremost, and then beyond, to other poems, to the emotions and moments of our own lives.

However, I don't want to start with puzzles, for that only reinforces the distancing so many "new" or "inexperienced" readers feel with poetry. Now, I'll start with something more denotative, more declarative, at least in class (though I'm tempted for the emotional landscape here seems very accessible).

What's the story? Or, to borrow more Neruda from that same poem:

Where were you then?

Who else was there?

Saying what?

P.S. Idle thoughts follow their own path. I meant to write about the "coin" image, the physical appropriateness, the metaphorical richness, the probable meanings. I'll save that for a future entry, perhaps, for work is calling.

P.P.S. Here are the texts for the whole poem, the tenth in the sequence, first in Neruda's original Spanish and then in Merwin's English translation. Enjoy.

Hemos perdido aun este crepusculo.

Nadie nos vio esta tarde con las manos unidas

mientras la noche azul caia sobre el mundo.

He visto desde mi ventana

la fiesta del poniente en los cerros lejanos.

A veces come una moneda

se encendia un pedazo de sol entre mis manos.

Yo te recordaba con el alma apretada

de esa tristeza que tu me conoces.

Entonces, donde estabas?

Entre que genes?

Diciendo que palabras?

Por que se me vendra todo el amor de golpe

cuando me siento triste, y te siento lejana?

Cayo el libro que siempre se toma en el crepusculo,

y como un perro herido rodo a mis pies mi capa.

Siempre, siempre te alejas en las tardes

hacia donde el crepusculo corre borrando estatuas.

X. We Have Lost Even

We have lost even this twilight.

No one saw us this evening hand in hand

while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window

the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun

burned like a coin between my hands.

I remembered you with my soul clenched

in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?

Who else was there?

Saying what?

Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly

when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that is always turned to at twilight

and my cape rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings

towards where the twilight goes erasing statues.