Neruda's Birthday

To strangers asking about my age, I sometimes share this trivia: 2 sublime events marked the year 1971 - my birth and Pablo Neruda being rewarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Seriously, Neruda made me understand that being a poet is not about wordcraft or making poems but a way to live - something started in my soul/fever or forgotten wings/and I made my own way/deciphering that fire. (Poetry) He armed me with the strongest excuse why I cannot write one decent poem despite my purest intention. With foolish pride, I declared to anyone who cared to listen that I may not be a poet in the literal sense of the term but I strive to be a poet by the way I interact with life. Can you hear this, Pablo?

In the beginning, I took him quite literally. I saw poetry everywhere - of cable wires hanging next to telephone wires I can glimpse from the front-window, of my mother's duster hanging beside my old shorts in the clothesline, of snobbish cats sitting repose in our backyard. Yes, there is poetry and there is poetry. And anyone who is nourished by poetry will surely relate to this joyous invitation Neruda extends generously because - I, infinitesimal being/drunk with the great starry void/likeness, image of mystery/felt myself a pure partof the abyss/I wheeled with the stars /my heart broke loose on the wind. Oh what freedom, what joy!

Today, in 1904, this beautiful human being to whom I owe a part of my freedom and joy was born. Picking a favorite among his obra is more difficult than an Algebra equation but in his honor, let me post "I Like for you to be Still." I am not sure I understand this poem in the context by which it has to be understood but I like the word "melancholy". So there.

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy

I like for you to be still
And you seem far away
It sounds as though you are lamenting
A butterfly cooing like a dove
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not reach you
Let me come to be still in your silence
And let me talk to you with your silence
That is bright as a lamp
Simple, as a ring
You are like the night
With its stillness and constellations
Your silence is that of a star
As remote and candid

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would’ve died
One word then,
One smile is enough
And I’m happy;
Happy that it’s not true