The Invisible Man
I laugh,
I smile
at the old poets,
and love all the
poetry they wrote,
all the dew,
moon, diamond, drops
of submerged silver
with which my elder brother
adorned the rose;
but
I smile;
they always say “I,”
at every turn
something happens,
it’s always “I,”
only they or
the dear heart they love
walk through the streets,
only they,
no fishermen pass by,
or booksellers,
no masons pass by,
no one falls
from a scaffolding,
no one suffers,
no one loves,
except my poor brother,
the poet,
everything happens
to him
and to his dear beloved,
no one lives
but him, him alone,
no one weeps from hunger
or from anger
in his poems no one suffers
because he can’t
pay the rent,
in poetry no one
is ever thrown into the street
with all his furniture,
and nothing happens
in the factories,
no, nothing,
umbrellas and goblets are manufactured,
weapons and locomotives,
ores are mined
by scraping hell,
there is a strike,
soldiers come
and fire,
they fire against the people,
which is to say,
against poetry,
but my brother
the poet
was in love,
or was suffering
because all his emotion
is for the sea,
he loves remote ports
for their names,
and he writes about oceans
he doesn’t know,
when life is as full
as an ear of corn with grain
he passes by, never knowing
how to harvest it,
he rides the waves
without ever touching land,
and, occasionally,
he is profoundly moved
and melancholy,
he is too big
to fit inside his skin,
he gets tangled and untangles himself,
he declares he is maudit,
with great difficulty he carries the cross
of darkness,
he believes that he is different from
anyone else in the world,
he eats bread every day
but he’s never seen a
baker
or gone to a meeting
of a baker’s union,
and so my poor brother
is deliberately dark,
he twists and writhes
and finds himself
interesting,
interesting,
that’s the word,
…
—Pablo Neruda
I’ve divided this poem up into at least two parts to post because it is so lengthy. The lines are short, but still, it’s long. This is the first poem in The Selected Odes of Pablo Neruda and I’ve been meditating on it for a few days now. There is some fantastic imagery in the poem, which I think is so important in terms of keeping a contemporary audience interested. I could walk the streets of this poem and that keeps me reading and wanting more. I also love the lines “he believes that he is different from/ anyone else in the world,/ he eats bread every day/ but he’s never seen a/ baker”.
The speaker is saying a lot here about poetry and probably writing in general. Many writers and artists do consider themselves “different” in some way, and whether that’s true or not, it doesn’t matter if you can’t connect with the world. We see this all the time in literature where people write about things and it just doesn’t seem genuine. There’s a lot of controversy surrounding Kathryn Stockett’s novel The Help because many, many believe that her portrayal of the black maids in the South during the 1960s is inaccurate. Schools, community colleges, and even universities are pushing to increase literacy across the country because people just don’t read or, if they do read, they don’t read to challenge themselves or for enjoyment. So, as writers, what is our responsibility here?
The speaker in this poem is pointing out the importance of accuracy in our writing. One can write about sadness and loss all they want, but it’s hard to capture it just right unless we’ve truly felt it. I think the poem is doing two things: It’s pointing out the importance of actually living, of not getting caught up in our art and our creativity so much that we forget to actually experience life.
I also think the poem is saying something about how important it is for common, every day people to understand our art. I’m currently working on a book of poems and I try to write with the complete attitude that any person could pick up my book and find something in there to connect with. My goal is that any person could enjoy the entire collection of poems. My writing is my chance to have my say. I’d like to think that I’ve lived my life with enough compassion and understanding that, no matter how different I see myself or don’t see myself, my writing could impact any person’s life. Now, that doesn’t mean it will. But I at least want to be a poet who says more than “I,” who writes about the baker, the coach, the prostitute, and everyone in between.
Any thoughts?
-S
