The hardest poem to translate in this book is the smallest poem.
I'm going to read it, too.
But I have to tell you why it was so hard, first.
And it's because he uses in it a vernacular that
was used for only about 10 years in Chile, from like 1945
to 1955.
And so none of my friends--
my Chilean friends-- had any idea what was going on.
And even, like, older poets my age-- really old poets--
like, Raúl Zurita, I asked him and he said, well, you know,
Neruda is just being crazy Neruda.
So it's a poem--
a love poem to his wife's ear-- to Matilda's ears.
She had nice ears.
[LAUGHTER]
But it gets really weird.
So it starts out, he's talking about her ear.
And then he goes, he says--
Yo no hablo de la pequeña oreja, más amada,
hecha tal vez de nácar amasado con harina de rosa--
So it's like ear, ear, ear, lover's ear.
And then he says, I'm not talking about that little ear,
most love--
most loved, made of most loved of nacre--
the nacreous layer inside shells--
nacre, that shiny stuff, mixed with rose flower, and kneaded.
And it's, like, what?
What's going on?
Like, he's cooking up his wife's ear.
[LAUGHTER]
But then, finally, someone's grandmother
revealed that, for this little while, near the seashore,
abalone was called [SPANISH],, the little ears of the sea,
abalone.
Hence this translation.
"Marvelous ear, double butterfly, hear your praise.
I'm not thinking of abalone, little ears
of the sea, most prized, perhaps,
of nature's gift, kneaded with rose flower.
No, I want to revere your ear."
[LAUGHTER]