Skip to main content

Walking Around

by Pablo Neruda

It so happens that I am tired of being a man.
It so happens that I go into the tailor shops and the movies
all shriveled up, impenetrable, like a felt swan
navigating on a water of origin and ash.

The smell of barber shops makes me cry out loud.
I only want a rest of stones or of wool,
I only want to see no more buildings or gardens,
or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.

It so happens that I am tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens that I am tired of being a man.

Still it would be delicious
to scare a notary public with a cut lily
or kill a nun with a blow to the head.
It would be nice
to roam the streets with a green knife
screaming until I freeze to death.

I do not want to go on being a root in the dark,
hesitating, stretched out, shivering in my sleep,
deep down, in the wet gut of the earth,
soaking and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so many misfortunes.
I don't want to keep on being a root and a tomb,
dying of sadness, a lonely tunnel,
a cellar with terrifying corpses.

That's why Monday burns like oil
when it sees me arrive with my prisoner's face,
and it howls in passing like a wounded wheel,
and its footsteps towards nightfall are filled with hot blood.

And it shoves me along to certain corners, to certain damp houses,
to hospitals where the bones hang out the windows,
to certain cobblers' shops smelling of vinegar,
to streets horrendous like cervices.

There are sulfur-colored birds and horrible intestines
hanging on the doors of the houses I hate,
there are sets of false teeth forgotten in a coffee-pot,
there are mirrors
which should have wept with shame and horror,
there are umbrellas all over the place, and poisons, and belly buttons.

I walk along with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
I pass, I cross offices and surgical supplies stores
and courtyards where clothes hang on lines:
underwear, towels and shirts that weep
slow dirty tears.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

No Rest for the Damned

I stare at the blinking cursor in front of me and wonder what’s next. I let myself get swallowed up by the monotony of office life: wake up, eat, travel, work, sleep; I try to revel in its off-white walls and the cacophony of voices that course through my head like nails scratching a blackboard. Funny, that word – blackboard – like my mood, black and bored, or better yet, like me – a black board. But the human tendency for self-preservation drives me to find things to fill the void; sometimes with fleeting trifles I try in vain to attach meanings to, or sometimes with things intangible and profound, like hope, or faith. But it seems that there is no rest for the dammed. Damned by the reminders of past mistakes, damned by the hollow tedium of today, and damned by the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Or it could be that I’m really just bitter, as someone pointed out not so long ago. Not a bad conclusion, really, with me allowing myself to be consumed by memories of failure, or by the bana...
7 comments
Read more

Scattered thoughts on relationships

We all know relationships are hard. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that we all have at least a vague idea that real relationships are more than just kisses and walks in the park, or candlelit dinners and holding hands while watching a movie. Nevertheless, it is not unheard off, that two people who previously thought that their promises would hold suddenly drift apart and discover that all that remains between them are broken pledges, old hurts, and that good old “sorry”. They ask themselves whether they could have done something to prevent it, they ask themselves where along the road did they lose it, they ask themselves what went wrong and who’s to blame. But at this point whether or not these questions are answered is of little consequence—the damage has been done, and the whole house of cards has long since fallen down. I guess it’s just as simple as saying that people who are always there are also the ones who are the easiest to take for granted. They’re low maintenanc...
4 comments
Read more

Vignette: Still Life

She had always looked good in pictures. He had come across a collection of them stowed away in a square tin box he had put on top of the closet, years ago. She was smiling in this one, a black and white he had taken and developed himself. He remembered putting in the film on the projector and counting from one thousand one to one thousand fifteen for the image to burn into the paper. He would then wash it in chemicals and watch the picture slowly materialize. The picture would go to a tray and taken outside, where he would wait for it to dry. She had kissed him when he presented it to her, thanking him for making her look cute. Another black and white. This time she was putting food down on a mat they had set for a picnic. She had looked so perfect then – lover, friend, and future wife. He remembered fingering the ring in his pocket, nervous and ill-at-ease. When she asked him what was wrong, he went to one knee then and there, and asked if she could be his wife. She had laughed and hu...
5 comments
Read more