Walking Around
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 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.
Pablo Neruda, 1904 - 1973
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 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.
Pablo Neruda, 1904 - 1973
weight, imagery, ("a root in the dark"!!!! WOW!!!!, energetic shifting...dark, deep colors and smells and emotion...sadness, anger, views from conflicted sources...seeing the opposite. The opposite of the world in which I perceive so often to be normal...the other side of happiness and contentment and fulfillment...the world in which a shadow hovers and everything isn't sunshine and rainbows. A world that exists to this man. A world that is his world. I love the use of comparisons between everyday life and his emotion and pain against it. Sometimes I forget what this feels like until I, too, no longer want to be a man and would rather roam the mountains, live as the wild...never viewing buildings and civilized happenings again...
ReplyDeleteThe narrator needs a hug! Among other things, counseling, meditation, maybe more walking around? It really is sad and unfortunate that people get and feel this depressed.
DeleteI found it interesting why he choose the word man instead of human. There seems to be a problem with being the gender of a man too.
I don't like the comparison with the roots. Roots have more of a positive connotation in my opinion. They are the lifeline to nutrients and water. The ground is also safer from predators and the whether. Maybe I'm thinking of my time in the desert too much???
After reading Syvlia Plath's The Bell Jar and seeing a lot of my personal training clients and yoga students, it has been astounding to me how many people claim to experience these very things and choose to live their life on this side of the coin- how instead of the sunlight, they look to the ground...they fall into the depths of what could be a mere passing shadow and as the years go by it gets harder and harder to relate to this feeling...the very people who many teachers claim to need help the most are the exact people I am finding it harder to extend a hand- because they do not reach for one.
DeleteYour comment on roots is awesome. Maybe that's why I loved the line- I just love roots :) LOL.