Ars Poetica
Ars PoeticaPablo Neruda (trans. Stephen Kessler)Between shadow and space, between harnesses and virgins,endowed with singular heart and fatal dreams,impetuously pale, withered in the foreheadand in mourning like and angry widower every day of my life,5oh, for every drink of invisible water I swallow drowsilyand with every sound I take in, trembling,I feel the same missing thirst and the same cold fever,an ear being born, and indirect anguish,as if thieves were arriving, or ghosts,10 and inside a long, deep, hollow shell,like a humiliated waiter, like a bell gone a bit hoarse,like an old mirror, like the smell of an empty housewhere the guests come back at night hopelessly drunk,and there’s and odor of clothes thrown on the floor, and an absence of flowers15 – or maybe somehow a little less melancholic –but the truth is, suddenly, the wind lashing my chest,the infinitely dense nights dropped into my bedroom,the noise of a day burning with sacrificedemand what there is in me of prophetic, with melancholy20 and there’s a banging of objects that call without being answered,and restless motion, and a muddled name.From:The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems (Ed. Mark Eisner)1
Arte PoeticaPablo NerudaEntre sombra y espacio, entre guarniciones y doncellas,dotado de corazón singular y sueños funestos,precipitadamente pálido, marchito en la frentey con luto de viudo furioso por cada día de vida,5ay, para cada agua invisible que bebo soñolientamentey de todo sonido que acojo temblando,tengo la misma sed ausente y la misma fiebre fríaun oído que nace, una angustia indirecta,como si llegaran ladrones o fantasmas,10 y en una cáscara de extensión fija y profunda,como un camarero humillado, como una campana un poco ronca,como un espejo viejo, como un olor de casa solaen la que los huéspedes entran de noche perdidamente ebrios,y hay un olor de ropa tirada al suelo, y una ausencia de flores15 –posiblemente de otro modo aún menos melancólico–pero, la verdad, de pronto, el viento que azota mi pecho,las noches de substancia infinita caídas en mi dormitorio,el ruido de un día que arde con sacrificiome piden lo profético que hay en mí, con melancolía20 y un golpe de objetos que llaman sin ser respondidoshay, y un movimiento sin tregua, y un nombre confuso.2
Dawn’s DebilityPablo Neruda (trans. Donald D. Walsh)The day of the luckless, the pale day peersout15 There is nothing precipitous, or gay, or proudin form,with a chill and piercing smell, with itsforces gray,everything appears, taking shape withobvious poverty,without rattles, the dawn oozing everywhere;the light of the earth comes from its eyelidsit is a shipwreck in a void, with asurrounding of tears.not like the stroke of a bell but rather liketears:the texture of the day, its feeble canvas,5Because the moist, silent shadow departedfrom so many places,20 serves as a bandage for the patients, serves tomake signsfrom so many vain caviling, so many earthlyplacesin a farewell, behind the absence:it is the color that wants only to replace,where it must have occupied even the designof the roots,to cover, swallow, conquer, make distances.from so many sharp and self-defendingshapes.I am alone among rickety substances,25 the rain falls upon me and it seems like me,I weep amid invasion, among confusion,like me with its madness, alone in the deadworld,10 among the swelling taste, lending and earto the pure circulation, to the increase,rejected as it falls, and without persistentshape.making the pathless way for what arrives,what comes forth dressed in chains andcarnations,I dream, enduring my mortal remains.From:The Poetry of Pablo Neruda (Ed. Ilan Stavans)3
Débil del albaPablo NerudaEl día de los desventurados, el día pálidoasoma15 Nada hay de precipitado ni de alegre, ni deforma orgullosa,con un desgarrador olor frío, con sus fuerzasen gris,todo aparece haciéndose con evidentepobreza,sin cascabeles, goteando el alba por todaspartes:la luz de la tierra sale de sus párpadosno como la campanada, sino más bien comolas lágrimas:es un naufragio en el vacío, con un alrededorde llanto.5el tejido del día, su lienzo débil,20 sirve para una venda de enfermos, sirve parahacer señasPorque se fue de tantos sitios la sombrahúmeda, callada,en una despedida, detrás de la ausencia:de tantas cavilaciones en vano, de tantosparajes terrestreses el color que sólo quiere reemplazar,cubrir, tragar, vencer, hacer distancias.en donde debió ocupar hasta el designio delas raíces,Estoy solo entre materias desvencijadas,de tanta forma aguda que se defendía.25 la lluvia cae sobre mí, y se me parece,se me parece con su desvarío, solitaria en elmundo muerto,Yo lloro en medio de lo invadido, entre loconfuso,rechazada al caer, y sin forma obstinada.10 entre el sabor creciente, poniendo el oídoen la pura circulación, en el aumento,cediendo sin rumbo el paso a lo que arriba,a lo que surge vestido de cadenas y claveles,yo sueño, sobrellevando mis vestigiosmorales.4
To Fidel CastroPablo Neruda (Trans. Miguel Algarín)5Fidel, Fidel, the people are gratefulextract the copper from Chuquicamata,for words in action and deeds that sing,men hidden in busesthat is why I bring from farin populations of pure nostalgia,a cup of my country’s wine:women of the fields and workshops,it is the blood of a subterranean people30 children who cried away their childhoods:that from the shadows reaches your throat,this is the cup, take it, Fidel.they are miners who have lived for centuriesIt is full of so much hopeextracting fire from the frozen land.that upon drinking you will know your victoryThey go beneath the sea for coalis like the aged wine of my country10 but on returning they are like ghosts:35 made not by one man but by many menthey grew accustomed to eternal night,and not by one grape but by many plants:the working-day light was robbed from them,it is not one drop but many rivers:nevertheless here is the cupnot one captain but many battles.of so much suffering and distances:And they support you because you represent15 the happiness of imprisoned men40 the collective honor of our long struggle,possessed by darkness and illusionsand if Cuba were to fall we would all fall,who from the inside of mines perceiveand we would come to lift her,the arrival of spring and its fragrancesand if she blooms with flowersbecause they know that Man is strugglingshe will flourish with our won nectar.20 to reach the amplest clarity.45 And if they dare touch Cuba’sAnd Cuba is seen by the Southern miners,forehead, by your hands liberated,the lonely sons of la pampa,they will find people’s fists,the shepherds of cold in Patagonia,we will take out our buried weapons:the fathers of tin and silver,blood and pride will come to rescue,25 the ones who marry cordilleras50 to defend our beloved Cuba.From:The Poetry of Pablo Neruda (Ed. Ilan Stavans)5
I Explain a Few ThingsPablo Neruda (trans. Galway Kinnel)You will ask: But where are the lilacs?do you remember my house with balconiesAnd the metaphysics covered with poppies?where the June light drowned the flowers in yourmouth?And the rain that often struckBrother, brother!his words, filling them25 Everything5with holes and birds?was loud voices, salt of goods,crowds of pulsating bread,I am going to tell you what’s happening to me.marketplaces in my barrio of Arguelles with itsstatueI lived in a barriolike a pale inkwell set down among the hake:of Madrid, with bells,30 oil flowed into spoons,with clocks, with trees.a deep throbbingof feet and hands filled the streets,10 From there you could seemeters, liters, the hardthe parched face of Castileedges of life,like an ocean of leather.35My house was calledheaps of fish,geometry of roofs under a cold sun in whichthe house of flowers, because from everywherethe weathervane grew tired,15 geraniums burst: it wasdelirious fine ivory of potatoes,a beautiful house,tomatoes, more tomatoes, all the way to the sea.with dogs and children.Raul, do you remember?40 And one morning all was burningDo you remember, Rafael?20and one morning bonfiresFederico, do you remembersprang out of the earthunder the ground,devouring humans,6
and from then on fire,comes Spain45 gunpowder from then on,from every dead child comes a rifle with eyes,and from then on blood.from every crime bullets are born70 that one day will find out in youBandidos with planes and Moors,the site of the heart.bandidos with rings and duchesses,You will ask: why doesn’t his poetrybandidos with black friars signing the cross50 coming down from the sky to kill children,Speak to us of dreams, of leavesand in the streets the blood of the childrenof the great volcanoes of his native land?ran simply, like children’s blood.75 Come and see the blood in the streets,Jackals the jackal would despise,come and seestones the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,the blood in the streets,55 vipers the vipers would abominate.come and see the bloodin the streets!Facing you I have seen the bloodof Spain rise upto drown you in a single waveof pride and knives.60 Treacherous,generals:look at my dead house,look at Spain broken:from every house burning metal comes outFrom:The Poetry of Pablo Neruda (Ed. Ilan Stavans)65 instead of flowers,but from every crater of Spain7
Explico Algunas CosasPablo NerudaPREGUNTARÉIS: Y dónde están las lilas?te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en dondeY la metafísica cubierta de amapolas?la luz de junio ahogaba flores en tu boca?Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeabaHermano, hermano!sus palabras llenándolas525 Todode agujeros y pájaros?eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías,aglomeraciones de pan palpitante,Os voy a contar todo lo que me pasa.mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatuacomo un tintero pálido entre las merluzas:Yo vivía en un barrio30 el aceite llegaba a las cucharas,de Madrid, con campanas,un profundo latidocon relojes, con árboles.de pies y manos llenaba las calles,metros, litros, esencia10 Desde allí se veíaaguda de la vida,el rostro seco de Castilla35como un océano de cuero.pescados hacinados,contextura de techos con sol frío en el cualMi casa era llamadala flecha se fatiga,la casa de las flores, porque por todas partesdelirante marfil fino de las patatas,15 estallaban geranios: eratomates repetidos hasta el mar.una bella casacon perros y chiquillos.40 Y una mañana todo estaba ardiendoRaúl, te acuerdas?y una mañana las hoguerasTe acuerdas, Rafael?20salían de la tierraFederico, te acuerdasdevorando seres,21 debajo de la tierra,y desde entonces fuego,8
45 pólvora desde entonces,mirad mi casa muerta,y desde entonces sangre.mirad España rota:Bandidos con aviones y con moros,pero de cada casa muerta sale metal ardiendobandidos con sortijas y duquesas,65 en vez de flores,bandidos con frailes negros bendiciendopero de cada hueco de España50 venían por el cielo a matar niños,sale España,y por las calles la sangre de los niñospero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos,corría simplemente, como sangre de niños.pero de cada crimen nacen balas70 que os hallarán un día el sitioChacales que el chacal rechazaría,del corazón.piedras que el cardo seco mordería escupiendo,55 víboras que las víboras odiaran!Preguntaréis por qué su poesíano nos habla del sueño, de las hojas,Frente a vosotros he visto la sangrede los grandes volcanes de su país natal?de España levantarsepara ahogaros en una sola ola75 Venid a ver la sangre por las calles,de orgullo y de cuchillos!venid a verla sangre por las calles,60 Generalesvenid a ver la sangretraidores:por las calles!9
Ode to a Pair of SocksPablo Neruda (trans. Mark Strand)Maru Mota brought meby a golden braid,a pair525 two giant blackbirds,of sockstwo cannons:that she knitted with hermy feetshepherdess hands,were honoredtwo socks softin this wayas rabbits.30 by theseI put my feetheavenlyinto themsocks.10 as intoThey weretwoso beautifulcases35 that for the first timeknittedmy feet seemed to mewith threads ofunacceptable15 twilightlike two decrepit firemen, firemenand sheeps wool.unworthy40 of that embroideredWild socks,fire,my feet wereof those shiningtwo woolsocks.20 fish,two big sharksAnywayof ultramarine45 I resistedcrossedthe sharp temptation10
to save themwith regret,the way schoolboysI stretched outkeep70 my feet50 lightning bugs,and put onthe way scholarsthecollectlovelyrare books,socksI resisted75 and then55 the mad impulsemy shoes.to put themin a goldenAnd this iscagethe moral of my ode:and each daybeauty is twice60 to feed them birdseed80 beautifuland the meat of a rosy melon.and goodness is doublyLike explorersgoodin the forestwhenwho give up the finestit concerns two wool65 young deer85 socksto the roasting spitin winter.and eat itFrom:The Poetry of Pablo Neruda (Ed. Ilan Stavans)11
Ode to the DictionaryPablo Neruda (trans. Margaret Sayers Peden)51015Ode to the Dictionaryit had served me as a chairBack like an ox, beast ofand a pillow,burden, orderlyit rebelled and planting its feetthick book:firmly in my doorway,as a youth35expanded, shook its leavesI ignored you,and nests,wrapped in my smugness,and spread its foliage:I though I knew it all,it wasand as puffed up as aa tree,melancholy toad40a natural,I proclaimed: “I receivebountifulmy wordsapple blossom, apple orchard, apple tree,in a loud, clear voiceand wordsdirectly from Mt. Sinai.glittered in its infinite branches,I shall convert45opaque or sonorous,forms to alchemy.fertile in the fronds of language,I am the Magus”charged with truth and sound.The Great Magus said nothing.IturnThe Dictionary,2050old and heavy in its scruffypagesleather jacketcaporal,sat in silence,capote,its resources unrevealedwhat a marvel55But one day,25to pronounce these plosiveafter I’d used itsyllables,and abused it,and further on,aftercapsuleI’d called itunfilled, awaiting ambrosia or oil60useless, an anachronistic camel,30itsand others,capsicum, caption, capture,when for months, without protestcomparison, capricorn,12
65wordsthat suddenly seemsas slippery as smooth grapes,as delicious and smooth on the tonguewords exploding in the light100 as an almondlike dormant seeds waitingor tender as a fig.in the vaults of vocabulary,Dictionary, let one handalive again, and giving life:of your thousand hands, oneonce again the heart distills them.of your thousand emeralds,707580859095Dictionary, you are not a105 atomb, sepulcher, grave,singletumulus, mausoleum,dropbut guard and keeper,of your virginal springs,hidden fire,one graingroves of rubies,110 fromliving eternityyourof essence,magnanimous granaries,depository of language.fallHow wonderfulat the perfect momentto read in your columns115 upon my lips,ancestralonto the tip of my pen,words,into my inkwell.the severe andFrom the depths of yourlong-forgottendense and reverberating junglemaxim,120 grant me,daughter of Spain,at the moment it is needed,petrifieda single birdsong, the luxuryas a plow blade,of one bee,as limited in useone splinteras an antiquated tool,125 of your ancient wood perfumedbut preservedby an eternity of jasmine,in the precise beauty andoneimmutability of a medallion.syllable,Or anotherone tremor, one sound,word130 one seed:we find hidingI am of the earth and with words I sing.between the lines13From:The Poetry of Pablo Neruda (Ed. Ilan Stavans)
Only DeathPablo Neruda (trans. Donald D. Walsh)There are lone cemeteries,25tombs filled with soundless bones,she comes to knock with a stoneless and fingerlessring,the heart passing through a tunneldark, dark, dark;5like a shipwreck we die inward,she comes to shout without mouth, withouttongue, without throat.like smothering in our hearts,Yet her steps soundlike slowly falling from our skin down toour soul.and her dress sounds, silent, like a tree.30There are corpses,there is death in the bones,of violets accustomed to the earth,like a pure sound,because the face of death is green,like a bark without a dog,and the gaze of death is green,coming from certain bells, from certain tombs,35growing in the dampness like teardrops orraindrops.15with the sharp dampness of a violet leafand its dark color of exasperated winter.But death also goes through the world dressed as abroom,I see alone at times,coffins with sailsshe licks the ground looking for corpses,weighing anchor with pale corpses, withdead-tressed women,death is in the broom,40with bakers white as angels,it is death’s tongue looking for dead bodies,it is death’s needle looking for thread.with pensive girls married to notaries,20I know little, I am not well acquainted, I canscarcely see,but I think that her song has the color of moistviolets,there are feet of sticky, cold gravestone,10like a shoe without a foot, like a suit withouta man,coffins going up the vertical river of the dead,Death is in the cots:the dark purple river,in the slow mattresses, in the black blanketsupstream, with the sails swollen by the sound ofdeath,she lives stretched out, and she suddenly blows:45swollen by the silent sound of death.she blows a dark sound that puffs out sheets,and there are beds sailing to a portTo resonance comes deathand there are beds waiting, dressed as an admiral.14From:The Poetry of Pablo Neruda (Ed. Ilan Stavans)
Sólo la MuertePablo NerudaHAY cementerios solos,25tumbas llenas de huesos sin sonido,hombre,el corazón pasando un túnelllega a golpear con un anillo sin piedra y sinoscuro, oscuro, oscuro,5como un zapato sin pie, como un traje sindedo,como un naufragio hacia adentro nos morimos,llega a gritar sin boca, sin lengua, sin garganta.como ahogarnos en el corazón,Sin embargo sus pasos suenancomo irnos cayendo desde la piel al alma.y su vestido suena, callado, como un árbol.Hay cadáveres,hay pies de pegajosa losa fría,1030hay la muerte en los huesos,pero creo que su canto tiene color de violetashúmedas,como un sonido puro,como un ladrido sin perro,de violetas acostumbradas a la tierrasaliendo de ciertas campanas, de ciertas tumbas,porque la cara de la muerte es verde,creciendo en la humedad como el llanto o lay la mirada de la muerte es verde,lluvia.1535con la aguda humedad de una hoja de violetay su grave color de invierno exasperado.Yo veo, solo, a veces,ataúdes a velaPero la muerte va también por el mundo vestidazarpar con difuntos pálidos, con mujeres detrenzasmuertas,deescoba,lame el suelo buscando difuntos,con panaderos blancos como ángeles,la muerte está en la escoba,con niñas pensativas casadas con notarios,20Yo no sé, yo conozco poco, yo apenas veo,40ataúdes subiendo el río vertical de los muertos,es la lengua de la muerte buscando muertos,es la aguja de la muerte buscando hilo.el río morado,hacia arriba, con las velas hinchadas por elsonidode la muerte,La muerte está en los catres:en los colchones lentos, en las frazadas negrasvive tendida, y de repente sopla:hinchadas por el sonido silencioso de la muerte.45sopla un sonido oscuro que hincha sábanas,y hay camas navegando a un puertoA lo sonoro llega la muerteen donde está esperando, vestida de almirante.15
So That You Will Hear MePara Que Tu Me OigasPablo Neruda (trans. W.S.Merwin)Pablo NerudaSo that you will hear memis palabrasmy wordsse adegazan a vecessometimes grow thincomo las huellas de las gaviotas en las playas.para que tu me oigasas the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.Collar, cascabel ebrioNecklace, drunken bellpara tus manos suaves como las uvas.for your hands smooth as grapes.Y las miro lejanas mis palabras.And I watch my words from a long way off.Más que mías son tuyas.They are more yours than mine.Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.They climb on my old suffering like ivy.Ellas trepan así por las parredes húmedas.It climbs the same way on damp walls.Eres tú la culpable de este juego sangriento.You are to blame for this cruel sport.Ellas están huyendo de mi guarida oscurca.They are fleeing from my dark lair.Todo lo llenas tú, todo lo llenas.You fill everything, you fill everything.Antes que tú poblaron la soledad que ocupas,Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,y están acostumbradas más que tú a mi tristeza.and t
impetuously pale, withered in the forehead and in mourning like and angry widower every day of my life, 5 oh, for every drink of invisible water I swallow drowsily and with every sound I take in, trembling, I feel the same missing thirst and the same cold fever, an ear being born, and indirect anguish, as if thieves were arriving, or ghosts,
RY2973 CEN/ARS URA3 SRB10 35 pSZH ctk1D::HIS3 52 pJYC1513 CEN/ARS URA3 CTK1 33 pRP1-101 CEN/ARS LEU2 rpb1D101 (11 wild-type heptapeptide repeats) 44 pRP112 CEN/ARS URA3 RPB1 44 pRP114 CEN/ARS LEU2 RPB1 44 pY1WT(10) CEN/ARS LEU2 rpb1 (10 wild-type repeats) C-terminal HA tag 55 pY1A2(8)WT(7) CEN/ARS LEU2 rpb1 (8 S2A, 7 wild-type
of Atlas Poetica at editor@AtlasPoetica.org. We welcome innovative uses of our resources for tanka education. Atlas Poetica Keibooks P O Box 516 Perryville, MD 21903 AtlasPoetica.org Editorial Biographies M. Kei is the editor of Atlas Poetica and was the editor-in-chief of Take Five : Best Contemporary Tanka.
D. Carter Ars Poetica, Romanticism and English education English Teaching: Practice and Critique 49 “real language of men [sic]”, hitherto regarded as unfit for the elevated matter of poetry, could be harnessed to realise his visio
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porque lo dejan sin sangre. Como el vilano a la luz, el corazón siempre arde. Como el vilano al viento, el corazón nunca cae. ¡Poesía, no me hiciste! ¡Soy más que tu verso grande! ¡El río se va a la mar, y yo me quedo acordándome! (p 43) En los romances de Arequipa fluye la vena poética de Martín Adán
