What Pablo Saw In His Final Dream - Una Cancion Por Pablo Neruda
for Jose - 'now he is with the Lamb'
translated from the Spanish of Raul Voz
'The fact is that until I fall asleep,
in some magnetic way I move in
the university of the waves.' - Pablo Neruda
'Power at its best is love seeking justice.' - a radical priest
When love
finally came
two birds
one near
one far
each my eyes
saw
one cawed
one was still
waves below
shook the high
rock from which
my house was wrest
Making my bed,
that grand ship of
many seas, its feminine
sails billowing in
salt winds out of
season, soldiers,
young, false with
righteousness not
their own, blew
in and frightened
the birds away
they did not come close
they were afraid of
their own guns
But not me
fearless I faced
pale young faces
the bullets tore
them more than me
their flesh being
bread still fresh,
oven warm (white
flour smeared upon
their reckless cheeks
crushed too soon
by women's hands
to dutifully bake)
and mine - flesh - mine
of the mountain patch
formed of Woman's hands
far where my Mother
toiled with me safe
upon Her back, my first
keel, the bow upon which
I first learned to kneel
to earth, to sea
I rocked in Her motion
rowing the faithful Earth
the yielding softness of
She to me (shipwrecking
all my my future hardness
eventually) my boy hands
not yet bleeding with pens
and poems
She fed me Her workers'
songs, of earth, songs
of fragrant sweat, bitter
herbs beneath Her feet
of copper and jade,
the little potatoes
yellow and purple ones
flavored stones softened
by Her presence, Her
sure toil, lullabies wooing
endless sky into each
tuber-swell shaping
clouds for Her eyes to
see to shade Her from the
intemperate sun to cool
the hard soles of Her bare
feet, no pesetas, only
songs, for shoes
The rich cords, veins
of the sun and the moon,
conjoined in Her labor,
hardened into the lead
of my first pencil,
the lap of my first page
And conspiring late
within me ran the black ink
of Her relentless tenderness
Never then broken by
threat of oiled guns
shining, the radiant
beauty darkening before
me of a sparkling morning
born of soft woolen waves
shyly attended by youths
too frail, too dispirited
to know what bullets really
mean, their bare feet soft
with obedience, their
leather boots polished,
lined up at the General's
door, another morning's
cruel ablation
Never then by black
boots broken, but broken
only by the poor, my poor,
the mountain patch without
voice or even these
two last birds of
shattered brine
Only I could see
behind frightened
faces beneath their
soldiers' caps
tilted to lure
forgetfulness
and sleep never
to be confessed
that my hands
little birds too
were extended to
them in welcome
my words to them
only seconds to go
(the waves were
counting on their fingers)
fire and smoke fierce in
little round mouths,
perfect circles,
rehearsals, the
barrels opening
theirs to mine
'Lads, aim for the silver
pen, the Pole Star of my
shirt pocket where you may
always kindly find the
Heart'
that one bird
for each their
tearful eyes
was yellow and
the other red
half-closed to
aim well at the
weft of cloth woven
of my Mother's earth
Her relentless tenderness
almost freed
song
of sea
of stone
of my
house
violently
untethered
from noun
and verb
foundered at
last without
pen and ink
done with 'say'
little sheep
of childhood play
the toy
tiny wheels
rolling waves
for feet fade
when love
finally came
two birds
one near
one far
each my eyes
saw
one cawed
one was still
waves below
shook the high
rock from which
my house was wrest
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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