Neruda addresses the question, ‘what should a poet write about?’
What kind of poetry should be written, of course, is answered in the poem itself, translated by Nathaniel Tarn.
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics ?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?'
So he tells ‘all the news,’ of the Spain to which he has loaned his heart and words. He described the magic and beauty of the Spain of that moment, referring to the geraniums, the leather ocean, the dogs and children. And more:
[metres], litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down to the sea.
He writes of a morning when it all changed:
…one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings -
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
He talks of the people he loved, among them the poet Federico Garcia Lorca: Federico, do you remember / from under the ground / where the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth? And how, he saw, with you and I, 'the blood of Spain tower like a tide,' and how everyone was [drowned] in one wave of pride and knives!
And so to the conclusion:
And you will ask: why doesn’t his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!
There are flowers bursting somewhere on this planet. There are children laughing, harvests being gathered, tables being set, glasses being raised to toast the toast-worthy, and uncontainable hearts pouring out of lovers’ eyes and immediately translated into poetry.
Somewhere in Gaza and the West Bank, meanwhile, a mother is feeding her infant, a child is making castles out of rubble, there’s a song that outshouts the inhumanity’s earth-shattering eruption and the silence of the world. All of it is beautiful and perhaps more tender than the magic of other times.
In dark times, however, poets write about the darkness or should as Bertold Brecht once said. And that poetry is being written as I write. Whereas the mainstream media which includes BBC, the New Yorker, New York Times, Fox News etc embarrasses itself with convolution, falsehoods and scandalous silence on the horrific crimes against humanity perpetrated by the Israeli government and endorsed by the USA, UK and other allies, there are literally millions of people who have raised and are raising the voice of objection in solidarities that are beautiful, magical and poetic.
All. The. Time.
Jews for Peace is one organisation that has consistently and in their thousands come out in protest of the barbarism perpetrated in their name by the Israeli government. People in almost every country have staged massive protests in their towns and cities. In many protests the names of Palestine's children, children robbed from us by Israel with the assistance of the US, UK and European governments, were read aloud.
Here’s a note from a writer, one of the hundreds who signed a petition vehemently condemning the wanton destruction of Gaza and the killing of Palestinian civilians, especially children:
‘South Africa's streets were flooded. People filled Victoria Station in London. Palestinian flags now fly all over the world. We are 75 years too late for so many people. Too late for so much. Our silence for decades, our willingness to use that word "complicated," our "this is the most important election" excuse (a phrase that has lead to us postponing everything from reversing environmental degradation to ending the daily brutality toward our Black brothers and sisters, and certainly to permitting arms manufacturers to rule the world), lead us to this moment. Palestine is not on another planet. It is accessible by air, sea, land. And yet Palestinians are, as we are, being HELD HOSTAGE by Israel through the force of their weapons. The meek might inherit the earth. But they have to be willing to fight for it. This is our fight.’
And if there’s no time to write the poetry of all that is at once magical, terrifying, inhumane, pitiful, courageous, tender and beautiful, we need to ask ourselves if there ever will be time to write about the light of this November in the year 2023 bursting like an orchard in our mouths, moments breaking into delightful patterns in the kaleidoscope of love’s immemorial blush, dreams that uncurl with morning dew and other things that could stand witness but refuse to see the blood in the streets.
['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is the 262nd article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]
