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If You Forget Me -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem sent in by Anustup Datta who writes:

Aseem's poem [Poem #1409] reminded me of Joni Mitchell's voice and the way it
sparkles like a dry white wine in a crysal goblet, so I had to go back and
listen to River again after a long time. Coincidentally, I was reading Neruda's
poetry just yesterday, and I came across this gem, which I don't think we have
run -
(Poem #1410) If You Forget Me
 I want you to know
 one thing.

 You know how this is:
 if I look
 at the crystal moon, at the red branch
 of the slow autumn at my window,
 if I touch
 near the fire
 the impalpable ash
 or the wrinkled body of the log,
 everything carries me to you,
 as if everything that exists:
 aromas, light, metals,
 were little boats that sail
 toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

 Well, now,
 if little by little you stop loving me
 I shall stop loving you little by little.

 If suddenly
 you forget me
 do not look for me,
 for I shall already have forgotten you.

 If you think it long and mad,
 the wind of banners
 that passes through my life,
 and you decide
 to leave me at the shore
 of the heart where I have roots,
 remember
 that on that day,
 at that hour,
 I shall lift my arms
 and my roots will set off
 to seek another land.

 But
 if each day,
 each hour,
 you feel that you are destined for me
 with implacable sweetness,
 if each day a flower
 climbs up to your lips to seek me,
 ah my love, ah my own,
 in me all that fire is repeated,
 in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
 my love feeds on your love, beloved,
 and as long as you live it will be in your arms
 without leaving mine.
-- Pablo Neruda
        (translated by Donald S. Walsh)

This is vintage Neruda - with all the passion and fickleness of desire. The
underlying melancholy is beautifully brought out by the conversational style
(a la Mir Taqi Mir) - the conceit could have been metaphysical had it not
been for the pain inherent in every verse. This is love that is hurting,
that has been hurt in the past, and yet is open to being hurt again. There
is surrender (and renunciation), but how different from, for instance,
Juliet's youthful optimism in surrender -

        "Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
        If that thy bent of love be honourable,
        Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
        By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
        Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
        And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay
        And follow thee my lord throughout the world."

            - Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene II.

A really moving poem, the more for being tender and unpretentious. I think
Madonna recites this in the "Il Postino" soundtrack, incidentally.

For those who care about things like the original Spanish, here it is -

        "Si Tu Me Olvidas"
        By Pablo Neruda

        Quiero que sepas
        una cosa.

        Tú sabes cómo es esto:
        si miro
        la luna de cristal, la rama roja
        del lento otoño en mi ventana,
        si toco
        junto al fuego
        la impalpable ceniza
        o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
        todo me lleva a ti,
        como si todo lo que existe:
        aromas, luz, metales,
        fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
        hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.

        Ahora bien,
        si poco a poco dejas de quererme
        dejaré de quererte poco a poco.

        Si de pronto
        me olvidas
        no me busques,
        que ya te habré olvidado.

        Si consideras largo y loco
        el viento de banderas
        que pasa por mi vida
        y te decides
        a dejarme a la orilla
        del corazón en que tengo raíces,
        piensa
        que en esa día,
        a esa hora
        levantaré los brazos
        y saldrán mis raíces
        a buscar otra tierra.

        Pero
        si cada día,
        cada hora,
        sientes que a mí estás destinada
        con dulzura implacable,
        si cada día sube
        una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
        ay amor mío, ay mía,
        en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
        en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
        mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
        y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
        sin salir de los míos.

Regards
Anustup

River -- Joni Mitchell

Guest poem sent in by Aseem
(Poem #1409) River
 It's coming on Christmas
 They're cutting down trees
 They're putting up reindeer
 And singing songs of joy and peace
 Oh I wish I had a river
 I could skate away on
 But it don't snow here
 It stays pretty green
 I'm going to make a lot of money
 Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene
 I wish I had a river
 I could skate away on
 I wish I had a river so long
 I would teach my feet to fly
 Oh I wish I had a river
 I could skate away on
 I made my baby cry

 He tried hard to help me
 You know, he put me at ease
 And he loved me so naughty
 Made me weak in the knees
 Oh I wish I had a river
 I could skate away on
 I'm so hard to handle
 I'm selfish and I'm sad
 Now I've gone and lost the best baby
 That I ever had
 Oh I wish I had a river
 I could skate away on
 I wish I had a river so long
 I would teach my feet to fly
 Oh I wish I had a river
 I made my baby say goodbye

 It's coming on Christmas
 They're cutting down trees
 They're putting up reindeer
 And singing songs of joy and peace
 I wish I had a river
 I could skate away on
-- Joni Mitchell
One of my favourite Christmas songs and one that I'm always haunted by
in this season (i've been wandering around humming it for three days
now). There's something so heartbreaking about the refrain that hearing
it again and again you can feel yourself almost lifted on wings of
sorrow and loneliness and longing. I think it's an incredible example
of how one simple yet beautiful line, repeated again and again can be
more eloquent than all the passionate verse in the world (the only
thing I can compare it to is Neruda: Tonight I can write the saddest
lines). To really appreciate it you need to hear the song of course,
because there's Joni Mitchell's incredible voice to accompany it, but I
think even by themselves the lyrics are brilliant.

So here's hoping that the new year brings us all the rivers we've been
dreaming of.

Merry Christmas,

Aseem

My Mom and Dad -- Bill Watterson

Guest poem sent in by Priyadarshani Sarangi
(Poem #1408) My Mom and Dad
 My mom and my dad are not what they seem.
 Their dull appearance is part of their scheme.
 I know of their plans. I know their techniques.
 My parents are outer space alien freaks!

 They landed on earth in spaceships humongous.
 Posing as grownups, they now walk among us.
 My parents deny this, but I know the truth.
 They're here to enslave me and spoil my youth.

 Early each morning, as the sun rises,
 Mom and dad put on their earthling disguises.
 I knew right away their masks weren't legit.
 Their faces are lined - they sag and don't fit.

 The earth's gravity makes them sluggish and slow.
 They say not to run, wherever I go.
 They live by the clock. They're slaves to routines.
 They work the year 'round. They're almost machines.

 They deny that TV and fried food have much worth.
 They cannot be human. They're not of this earth.
 I cannot escape their alien gaze,
 And they're warping my mind with their alien ways.
 For sinister plots, this one is a gem.
 They're bringing me up to turn me into them!
-- Bill Watterson
           (from "It's a Magical World")

This is one of my personal favorites from the C&H poems. I got the poem from
one of my colleagues at work - there are a surprisingly large number of C&H
fans around me it seems!

I read this following line somewhere: "I tried to get in touch with my inner
child but he isn't allowed to talk to strangers." I have been a strong believer
of alien abductions, metamorphosis of aliens into humans, etc etc since
childhood, and this poem sure would have been inspiring had I read it when I
was 5!!

Regards

Priyadarshi Sarangi

The Man into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball -- Thomas Lux

       
(Poem #1407) The Man into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball
 each day mowed
 and mowed his lawn, his dry quarter-acre,
 the machine slicing a wisp
 from each blade's tip. Dust storms rose
 around the roar, 6 p.m. every day,
 spring, summer, fall. If he could mow
 the snow he would.
 On one side, his neighbors the cows
 turned their backs to him
 and did what they do to the grass.
 Where he worked, I don't know,
 but it set his jaw to: tight.
 His wife a cipher, shoebox tissue,
 a shattered apron. As if
 into her head he drove a wedge of shale.
 Years later, his daughter goes to jail.
 Mow, mow, mow his lawn
 gently down a decade's summers.
 On his other side lived mine and me,
 across a narrow pasture, often fallow --
 a field of fly balls, the best part of childhood
 and baseball. But if a ball crossed his line,
 as one did in 1956,
 and another in 1958,
 it came back coleslaw -- his lawnmower
 ate it up, happy
 to cut something, no matter
 what the manual said
 about foreign objects,
 stones, or sticks.
-- Thomas Lux
From the minute I read the title of today's poem, I knew I was going to
enjoy it. "The Man into whose Yard you Should Not Hit Your Ball" - what
child has not known one? It conjures up an instant image, an entire
personality type summed in one short line.

Nor did the rest of the poem disappoint. Despite a certain (unavoidable)
predictability, I was captivated by the charm of the language, the
almost-stream of conscious narrative tone, and above all, the sheer
observation that sparkled in every line. I think my favourite touch was the
"one did in 1956/ and another in 1958" - the incidents, probably no more
than passing nuisances in the man's life, stamped indelibly across the
narrator's boyhood and looming large in memory.

Nicely wrapped up poem, too - when I read these stream-of-consciousness
poems I always hold my breath a little, wondering if the poet will be up to
the task of supplying an ending that both flows with and definitively closes
the poem. Fortunately, Lux was, and the finished whole stands as a very
satisfying experience.

martin

Biography:
  [broken link] http://www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?prmID=116

A Worker Reads History -- Bertolt Brecht

Guest poem sent in by Jack Bieler
(Poem #1406) A Worker Reads History
 Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
 The books are filled with names of kings.
 Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
 And Babylon, so many times destroyed.
 Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima's houses,
 That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
 In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
 Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
 Is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
 Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song.
 Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
 The night the seas rushed in,
 The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.

 Young Alexander conquered India.
 He alone?
 Caesar beat the Gauls.
 Was there not even a cook in his army?
 Phillip of Spain wept as his fleet
 was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
 Frederick the Greek triumphed in the Seven Years War.
 Who triumphed with him?

 Each page a victory
 At whose expense the victory ball?
 Every ten years a great man,
 Who paid the piper?

 So many particulars.
 So many questions.
-- Bertolt Brecht
           1947

This is another of Brecht's didactic works.  I am afraid Joyce might
consider its art flawed by the heavy-handedness of its message.  However
it has always stuck with me.  Like Shelley's "Ozymandias" [Poem #22], which
examines the fate of glory, this one examines its origins.  Humanity loves
leaders, and records their names as a shorthand for the movements they
stood atop.

Poetically, the repetition of statement and question established a pattern
that leads the reader to question all the historical "facts" we hold dear.
 History is our mythology, and as Zeus the Thunder God is behind all
storms, so Washington defeated the British and Lenin overthrew the Tsar.
The mass of humanity that follows and enables our leaders toils in their
shadows, and vicariously shares in their glory.

Abraham Lincoln said at Gettysburg: "But in a larger sense we can not
dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow this ground. The
brave men, living and dead, who struggled, here, have consecrated it far
above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor
long remember, what we say here, but can never forget what they did here."
 We remember what was said there, by the Great Man, but who remembers the
brave unknowns who fought and died, in just one of so many, many battles?

Jack