This is the 22nd of 42 posts about the poems that carried me along the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Aug-Sep 2016. On this (the 22nd day), I walked 37km from Sahagun to Mansilla de las Mulas.
Today, horizontal rain. Streets blowing dust into my eyes. My summer clothes not warm enough by far. All I could think of was the final lines of Inversnaid - after weeks of stale heat, I was delighted for the fresh wildness.
Spent much of my long walking reading poems out loud, singing to myself, and listening to the clearing skies. Gone were the tight hips and knees - I walked, and I walked and I walked.
This poem. I included it because of its title. A friend recommended Neruda, and 'Walking Around' seemed apt. That evening, an Irishman in his seventies (he walked 40km every day!) agreed to select the daily reading, and picked this. He asked if he could read it to himself and I, unaware of its content, agreed. Afterwards, he looked at me sternly, 'it is not really my cup of tea'.
I feel more receptive to it - the tough moments in a life ask to be voiced too.
Day 22 - Walking Around – Pablo Neruda
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Today, horizontal rain. Streets blowing dust into my eyes. My summer clothes not warm enough by far. All I could think of was the final lines of Inversnaid - after weeks of stale heat, I was delighted for the fresh wildness.
Spent much of my long walking reading poems out loud, singing to myself, and listening to the clearing skies. Gone were the tight hips and knees - I walked, and I walked and I walked.
This poem. I included it because of its title. A friend recommended Neruda, and 'Walking Around' seemed apt. That evening, an Irishman in his seventies (he walked 40km every day!) agreed to select the daily reading, and picked this. He asked if he could read it to himself and I, unaware of its content, agreed. Afterwards, he looked at me sternly, 'it is not really my cup of tea'.
I feel more receptive to it - the tough moments in a life ask to be voiced too.
Day 22 - Walking Around – Pablo Neruda
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Translated by Robert Bly
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Translated by Robert Bly
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