I
Often described and never defined
Pablo was immediate, volatile and serene
We celebrate his contradictions:
a literary mind unrestrained,
yet controlled
A poetic soul transparent,
but elliptical.
No theme escaped his vision,
from spider, to Buddha, to undulating seas
He wrote to the spirit of his humble
Chilean roots,
one eye cast to a realm only he imagined.
Adored by the beggarly,
Esteemed by critics-
the Nobel was almost superfluous.
Mercurial:
Blistering condemnation of Franco-
Unbridled sensual passion
ll
Sunday night ritual in Santiago de Chile:
in a humble home all gather at the kitchen table.
Mama dictates attendance.
A raven-haired teen and her siblings fidget.
At 8pm, static from the tinny-sounding
portable radio.
Without introduction,
the monotone cadence of Pablo's voice erupts
and fills the cramped space:
"Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche"
Years later, Pablo receives the Nobel-
the world justifies Mama's devotion
to this backwater Chilean poet.
Today, her daughter recites Neruda to her son
in her foreign suburban home,
hearing Pablo's voice
as it drones
from a cheap radio
in a small kitchen
forty years
and thousands of miles
past.
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Author Notes
The above-mentioned "raven-haired teen" is my wife, Soledad. The scene described around the kitchen table was a weekly ritual in her home in Santiago, Chile in the 70's.
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