Pablo Neruda

We've skipped our "poet of the week" feature for a while, since (due to glitches in Blogger's software) new posts aren't registering as usual. But after listening to a radio program on poetry and music, we realized we'd been very remiss - 2004 is Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's centennial, and we've neglected to post anything by him.

Without further ado, here's an untitled poem he wrote late in life, translated by William O'Daly.

My name was Reyes, Catrileo,
Arellano, Rodríguez, I have forgotten
my true names.
I was born with a surname
of old oaks, of saplings,
of hissing wood.
I was deposited
among rotting leaves:
this newborn sank down
in the defeat and in the birth
of forests that were falling
and poor houses that had recently been weeping.
I was not born but rather they founded me:
all at once they gave me every name,
every family's name:
I was called thicket, then plum tree,
larch and then wheat,
that is why I am so much and so little,
so wealthy and so destitute,
because I come from below,
from the earth.


From The Sea and the Bells, Pablo Neruda, Copper Canyon Press, 1988. This poem was originally published by Fundación Pablo Neruda, 1973.

Other places:

The Academy of American Poets' Pablo Neruda page has a good bio., bibiliograpy, and many links.

Poet of the week - Dana Gioia

The Country Wife
Dana Gioia

She makes her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
Following their voices on the breeze,
She makes her way. Through the dark trees
The distant stars are all she sees.
They cannot light the way she's gone.
She makes her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.

The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
She cannot see the winds that break
The night reflected on the lake
But knows they motion for her sake.
These are the choices they have brought her:
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.


from Daily Horoscope, Graywolf Press, © 1986 Dana Gioia

Poet of the week - Nuno Júdice

Recipe for Making the Colour Blue
Nuno Júdice

If you wish to make the colour blue
take a piece of sky and put it in a pot
large enough to place on the flame of the horizon.
Stir into the blue a pinch of early morning red
until it dissolves. Pour everything
into a brass bowl that has been well washed
to eliminate all of the afternoon’s impurities.
Finally, sift in a few smidgens of gold from the sand
of midday until the colour adheres to the bottom of the bowl.
To prevent the colours from separating with time,
drop a charred peach pit into the liquid.
It will disintegrate, leaving no telltale
sign, not even – from the black ash – an ochre trace
on the golden surface. You may then raise the colour
to eye level and compare it with genuine blue.
The two colours will look so alike
that you cannot distinguish one from the other.
This was how I did it – I, Abraham ben Judah Ibn Haim,
illuminator from the town of Loulé. And I left the recipe
for whoever, one day, would imitate the sky.

© Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith

We found this piece on Poetry International Web, one of the best poetry resources we've come across in a long time.