One of the things Neruda does so well
is moving from between the beloved, and the landscape,
and Chile.
They merge into each other in that poem,
And in a way that Alison would appreciate and--
so I'll start.
This is-- OK--
this is a poem that's obviously influenced by Whitman.
When Neruda is born, there's already a translation--
a partial translation-- of Whitman's Leaves of Grass.
And José Martí was the one who really promoted Whitman
at first, in Latin America.
He heard Whitman, Martí, give a talk on Lincoln,
and later wrote in 1887, an homage to Whitman that Neruda
knew.
And the most influential translation of Whitman's Leaves
of Grass was published in 1912, when Neruda was 8.
By the time he writes this poem, there's
a complete translation of Leaves of Grass.
I looked at Nerdua's private library, which was a thrill.
And there were at least 20 copies--
different variations-- of Whitman's books there.
"Don't be vain, someone had scrawled on my wall.
I don't recognize the script, or hand, of whoever
left that line in the kitchen.
No one I invited, clearly.
He came in from the roof.
So who am I supposed to answer?
The wind.
Listen to me wind--
for many years, the vainest have tossed in my face
their own empty vanities.
That is, they show me the door I open at night,
the book I write, the bed that waits to receive me,
the house I build.
That is, maliciously they make signs
with their fingers entwined, their viny fingers,
and all their self-love they dump in my face.
They call me the things they are.
They bark at me their secrets.
Maybe I'm vain.
I'm also vain.
Not about my poetry, I don't think.
Well, let's take a look.
All my life it's coursed through my body,
like my own blood, which I decode onto this paper.
Sometimes I have work to do.
They call me and I don't come.
I'm given to write lines I don't read.
I'm given to sing for someone who one day I'll
never even meet.
It's true-- I get letters that tell me,
your words brought back my love, they saved my life,
they reached me in prison.
[LAUGHS]
And I think that this circulating blood,
invisible blood inside me, runs through other veins from now
on.
But as soon as it leaves me, I've forgotten my poetry.
There's no serious vanity in my forgetting, or in my creating.
Nor in my shoes, in my ancient beat-up shoes,
bearing my vagrant feet.
Every five years I get myself a new suit my.
Wilted ties don't exactly gloat.
Now, if at some time when my people are in danger,
I check to see if our flag is still flying,
I race up the bell towers, forgetting my poetry--
the froth spitting wave-- forgetting
the flower on the road.
I've done nothing more than others.
Maybe less than anyone."