I was introduced to my first second language in seventh grade, at a particularly progressive time in a particularly progressive school district in Minnesota, where our monoglot heritage — an assortment of Northern European languages cast off, to be replaced by a new, common identity — had begun to feel uncomfortably small against the backdrop of a the rapidly expanding world. Since my parents and older siblings had already studied German, I of course chose Spanish, one year, two (Estaba Susana en casa? Sí, estaba, para la gran parte de mil novecientos setenta-y-seis, en la cocina…) before a change in district, a change of heart. Later, there would be German in High School and at University, then accelerated French, a dash of Greek, a dose of Indonesian, a dousing of Portuguese… but that first ear-opening and tongue-thrilling experience, that was the seed from which all the other flowers bloomed.
Maybe tasting those sounds in my mouth so young kept them sweet through later years. As an upperclassman I wandered the used bookstores of the East Bank (of the Mississippi River), and in one of those wanderings found a few simple volumes from the 60s, 70s and 80s press — Robert Bly’s publishing house. I am immensely grateful to his introduction to work of Neruda, Jiménez, Lorca and Vallejo; they fell like stones in my hands (warm with the sun of Iberia and Chile, worn with wars and other pleasures and strife) and felt so familiar: family I had never met. Another homecoming!
The other day I found myself, wandering through a local bookstore — yes, happily they still exist, if barely, or rarely — with my lover and my daughter, both of whom love the printed word. So many good companions in the same location, some that can be easily embraced, others whose embraces are just whispers. Since I live in a town famous for a writers’ retreat, this bookstore is better stocked and better read, perhaps, than many others. My good fortune.
I found myself, in the corner with the poets; and in the corner of the poets I found Neruda. I chose a volume translated by Mitchell, a little more faithful to the originals than Bly, beautifully printed and bound, at a quarter the price of the original, and many times the value I suppose, and took him home with me. There were echoes of my youthful ear, yes, but I was stunned into laughter by phrases and lines that delight older eyes, and a less volcanic heart.
Map Me Out by Kelly Meyer @ deviantart.com
from Extravagaria, 1958
| Demasiados nombres | Too Many Names |
| Se enreda el lunes con el martes y la semana con el año: no se puede cortar el tiempo con sus tijeras fatigadas, y todos los nombres del día los borra el agua de la noche. |
Monday is tangled with Tuesday and the week with the year: one can’t cut time with your worn scissors, all of the names of the day are washed away by the waters of night. |
| Nadie puede llamarse Pedro, ninguna es Rosa ni María, todos somos polvo o arena, todos somos lluvia en la lluvia. Me han hablado de Venezuelas, de Paraguayes y de Chiles, no sé de lo que están hablando: conozco la piel de la tierra y sé que no tiene apellido. |
No one can call himself Pedro, no one is Rosa, no one Maria, we are all of us dust or sand, all of us rain in the rain. They tell me of Venezuelas, of Paraguays and of Chiles, I don’t know what they’re talking about: I recognize the skin of the earth and know that it has no name. |
| Cuando viví con las raíces me gustaron más que las flores y cuando hablé con una piedra sonaba como una campana. |
When I lived with roots they pleased me more than flowers and when I spoke with a stone it rang like a bell. |
| Es tan larga la primavera que dura todo el invierno: el tiempo perdió los zapatos: un año tiene cuatro siglos. |
Spring is so long that it lasts all winter: time has lost its shoes: one year is four centuries. |
| Cuando duermo todos las noches, cómo me llamo o no me llamo? Y cuando despierto quién soy si no era yo cuando dormía? |
When I sleep every night what do I call myself (or not)? And when I wake, who am I if I was not me when I slept? |
| Esto quiere decir que apenas desembarcamos en la vida, que venimos recién naciendo, que no nos llenemos la boca con tantos nombres inseguros, con tantas etiquetas tristes, con tantas letras rimbombantes, con tanto tuyo y tanto mío, con tanta firma en los papeles. |
That’s all to say we merely disembark into this life, and we arrive new-borning, so let’s not stuff our mouths with so many uncertain names, with so many sad formalities, with so many bombastic letters, with so much yours and so much mine, with so much signing on so many lines. |
| Yo pienso confundir las cosas, unirlas y recién-nacerlas, entreverarlas, desvestirlas, hasta que la luz del mundo tenga la unidad del océano, una integridad generosa, una fragrancia crepitante. |
I would have us muddle things, fuse them and rebirth them, recombine them, strip them down, until the world’s light is singular as the ocean, a generous integrity, a crackling scent. |
| Pablo Neruda | tr. Mark Schultz |
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