Wednesday 19 August 2009

Neruda's windows

Pablo Neurda, the great Chilean poet, the great writer of global literature... Neruda a poet... Hell no! I also thought that, how innocent was I?, but now that I saw where he lived I know he was not a poet, neither a writer. He was probably a hand, a huge hand, a human pen that wrote endlessly. Now that I saw, felt, smelled, listened, tasted the windows where he lived I know Neruda was not a poet but a translator, a mere and simple scrivener of that immense sea, of the colors that pile up in the hills shaped as houses, of the smell of fresh fish and maybe warm bread, of the blue sky and the birds that fly around, of the people who walk hidden in the steep streets of this paradisiacal valley that embraces the sea, of the boats that undulate on it, of the mountains that contemplate it from a distance. He was a vehicle, a medium, a being through whom words drained to the paper, those words that entered through his eyes, through his nose, through each pore of his skin, through each wave of the restless billowy sea splashing strongly against the rocks, through each sunset he admired from his static boat in his black Isla, through each shell he collected, through his mouth, thought everywhere. Neruda could even be lazy if he wanted, as he woke up every day inside a painting painted by divine beings, not having to do anything, as the whole world entered through his bed in a heartbeat, in the form of a readymade poem. A hand he was! Pablo Neruda a poet... Neruda was not a poet, he was a poem, the poem of the windows in which he lived...













Valparaiso/Isla Negra, Chile, June 2009

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