Stephen Dobyns, in his forward to this edition, tells of what occurred at a poetry event in Venezuela, sometime in the ‘60’s. After Chilean poet Pablo Stephen Dobyns, in his forward to this edition, tells of what occurred at a poetry event in Venezuela, sometime in the ‘60’s. After Chilean poet Pablo Neruda concluded his prepared reading, he opened himself up to requests. The first request, from a member of this audience of six hundred, was for poem #20 from this book (“Tonight I could write the saddest lines”). When Neruda apologized, saying he had neglected to bring that particular poem, “four hundred people stood up and recited the poem to him.”
For a man like me from the United States, such a story sounds almost fantastic, but then it is hard for a citizen of the good ol’ USA to imagine what its like to live in a country with such a passion for beautiful verse. But then, Spanish speakers do love their poetry, and this little book is one of the most popular of all time. Since Neruda published it in 1924 (when he was nineteen!), it has sold over 20 million copies.
This book is justly famous for its eroticism, but it should be praised for the richness of its natural images too. The images of trees, streams, and animals of all kinds never seem forced or automatic, but rather seem to be part of an ancient and effortless vocabulary, as if either Nature herself had written these passionate lines, or she were the lover to be praised.
This translation by W.S. Merwin—a distinquished poet in his own right—is the best known English version. It is simple, eloquent, and natural—as any good translation of this book must be.
I love “Tonight I could write the saddest lines,” but I won’t reproduce it here. It is rather long, and, besides, it is the best known poem from the book. Instead, I’ll share with you two of its shorter poems that I like almost as much:
III: AH VASTNESS OF PINES
Ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking slow play of lights, solitary bell, twilight falling in your eyes, toy doll, earth-shell, in whom the earth sings!
In you the rivers sing and my soul flees in them as you desire, and you send it where you will. Aim my road on your bow of hope and in a frenzy I will free my flock of arrows
On all sides I see your waist of fog, and your silence hunts down my afflicted hours; my kisses anchor, and my moist desire nests In you with your arms of transparent stone.
Ah your mysterious voice that love tolls and darkens in the resonant and dying evening! Thus in deep hours have I seen, over the fields, the ears of wheat tolling in the mouth of the wind.
X: WE HAVE LOST EVEN
We have lost even this twilight No one saw us this evening hand in hand whiole 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 my suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that is always turned 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.
The Poem of the Cid, the first great work of Spanish literature, tells the story of the 11th century military leader Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, his unjust The Poem of the Cid, the first great work of Spanish literature, tells the story of the 11th century military leader Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, his unjust exile, his rehabilitation through military conquest and tribute, and his search for justice following the humiliation and abuse of his two daughters at the hands of their husbands.
I wanted to like this better than I did. After all, it is the first known production of a great nation, the heroic expression of a people, and I had prepared myself to love it and embrace as I do The Iliad, Beowulf, and The Song of Roland.
Perhaps the fault is with the translation. I chose Paul Blackburn because I have always admired his plain colloquial language and his spare imagery, and I like the fact that he produced a translation to be read aloud. But although there was dignity and poignancy here, there was no real majesty or epic darkness. Later, I picked up the W.S. Merwin for comparison. I found more dignity and more poignancy in Merwin’s verse, but less joy, less narrative purity. And the majesty and epic darkness eluded me here as well.
I came to see The Poem of the Cid not so much as an epic, but as a series of something akin to three very long ballads, similar to the “Robin Hood Cycle” of English tradition: the first ballad is about the Cid’s exile and early victories, the second about his conquests and rehabilitation, the third about his search for justice and the restoration of honor.
One I got used to The Poem not being an epic—at least according to my definition—I began to see that it possessed compensatory virtues. Since it dispenses with the supernatural machinery usually found in the epic, it concentrates instead on a realistic portrait of the time, an innocent delight in battle strategy, the bravery of warfare, the magnificence of treasure won on the field, the clear imperatives of honor.
I recommend it. No, it’s not Homer. But it has down-to-earth enthusiasm and a narrative purity all its own....more