Reading Veinte poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada reminded me of my first love. Like the 2o year old Chilean poet, I too was filled with youthful ardour, romantic sentiment and desire to be a creative artist. Unlike the 2o year old Chilean poet, the muses ignored me entirely. Attempting to express my love in verse, I composed a shockingly bad sonnet, filled with impressive words whose meanings I only dimly understood and cliched metaphors which horrify me when I think of them now. Its one virtue was that it strictly conformed to Shakespearean (or was it Spencerian?) formal conventions, but only after much excruciating effort. Years later, I found my love poem ripped and crumpled at the bottom of a box in my (then former) lover's closet. Had I any talent, I would have been better to follow Neruda's example of simple language (Este es un puerto./ Aqui te amo.) and clear metaphors (eres como una nube). Here sea, twilight and solitude inspire verses of a love at once erotic (Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava), obsessive (eres mia...estas presa), unsure of itself (Amame...No me abandones) and most keenly felt in absence (Me gustas cuando callas poerque estas como ausente).
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Niall, I think you judge yourself harshly about your writings from years ago. When I look back at things I wrote 20 years ago, I wonder 'what was I thinking' when I wrote that? And yet, in that moment the passion, the emotions were real and I expressed them in the best way I could. My blog talks about how powerful words are and those words are potent when we write them. They don't always have staying power and maybe its only for the moment. The point is that you did write and write from your heart. You were being true to yourself. Perhaps that is what Neruda was doing. Being true to his feelings at that time in his life. And maybe nothing else matters.
Post a Comment