Read Sublime Blue: Selected Early Odes by Pablo Neruda for Free Online

about street corners
    and blind alleys, you bards
    of warehouses and prairies—
    if we could understand
    the waters
    perhaps the waters
    would speak like you,
    if stones could declare their sorrow
    or silence
    they would speak, brothers,
    with your voices.
    But what a multitude
    you are, like the roots.
    From the ancient heart
    of a people
    you are born
    and it’s from there you
    come by your voices.
    Yours is the hierarchy
    of the quiet pitcher of white clay
    unseen in the corners,
    which suddenly sings out
    when it overflows
    and it is so simple,
    its song,
    only earth and water.
    And just so I wish
    my poems to sing,
    to carry
    earth and water,
    fertilidad y canto,
    a todo el mundo.
    Por eso,
    poetas
    de mi pueblo,
    saludo
    la antigua luz que sale
    de la tierra.
    El eterno
    hilo en que se juntaron
    pueblo
    y
    poesía,
    nunca
    se cortó
    este profundo
    hilo de piedra,
    viene
    desde tan lejos
    como
    la memoria
    del hombre.
    Vio
    con los ojos ciegos
    de los vates
    nacer la tumultuosa
    primavera,
    la sociedad humana,
    el primer beso,
    y en la guerra
    cantó sobre la sangre,
    allí estaba mi hermano
    barba roja,
    cabeza ensangrentada
    y ojos ciegos,
    con su lira,
    fecundity and song,
    to the whole world.
    That is why,
    poets
    of my people,
    I salute
    the ancient light flowing
    from the earth.
    The eternal thread
    by which people
    and
    poetry
    are joined,
    it was never
    cut,
    this profound
    thread of stone,
    come
    from as far
    as the
    memory
    of man.
    It has witnessed with
    the blind eyes
    of poets
    the birth of
    tumultuous
    spring, human society,
    the first kiss;
    in war
    it sang over the blood,
    and there, then, was my brother,
    beard red,
    head bloodied
    and eyes blind;
    with his lyre
    allí estaba
    cantando
    entre los muertos,
    Homero
    se llamaba
    o Pastor Pérez,
    o Reinaldo Donoso.
    Sus endechas
    eran allí y ahora
    un vuelo blanco,
    una paloma,
    eran la paz, la rama
    del árbol del aceite,
    y la continuidad de la hermosura.
    Más tarde
    los absorbió la calle,
    la campiña,
    los encontré cantando
    entre las reses,
    en la celebración
    del desafío,
    relatando las penas
    de los pobres,
    llevando las noticias
    de las inundaciones,
    detallando las ruinas
    del incendio
    o la noche nefanda
    de los asesinatos.
    Ellos,
    los poetas
    de mi pueblo,
    errantes,
    pobres entre los pobres,
    sostuvieron
    sobre sus canciones
    he was there
    singing
    among the dead,
    Homer
    was his name
    or Pastor Pérez
    or Reinaldo Donoso.
    His dirges
    were there and now
    came the white flight
    of a dove,
    bearing
    in the olive twig
    peace and the continuity
    of beauty. Later,
    reabsorbed among streets
    and open fields,
    I met them singing
    among the cattle
    in a celebration
    of defiance,
    telling the trials
    of the poor,
    carrying news
    of floods,
    detailing ravages
    of fires,
    the unspeakable darkness
    of assassinations.
    These, the poets
    of my people,
    wandering
    poor among the poor,
    maintained
    a smile
    throughout their songs,
    la sonrisa,
    criticaron con sorna
    a los explotadores,
    contaron la miseria
    del minero
    y el destino implacable
    del soldado.
    Ellos,
    los poetas
    del pueblo,
    con guitarra harapienta
    y ojos conocedores
    de la vida,
    sostuvieron
    en su canto
    una rosa
    y la mostraron en los callejones
    para que se supiera
    que la vida
    no será siempre triste.
    Payadores, poetas
    humildemente altivos,
    a través
    de la historia
    y sus reveses,
    a través
    de la paz y de la guerra,
    de la noche y la aurora,
    sois vosotros
    los depositarios,
    los tejedores
    de la poesía,
    y ahora
    aquí en mi patria
    está el tesoro,
    el cristal de Castilla,
    ironically judging
    exploiters,
    relating the misery
    of the miner
    and the relentless
    fate of the soldier.
    These,
    the poets
    of my people,
    guitars battered
    and eyes skilled
    at discerning
    what survives,
    kept a rose
    in their song
    and paraded it
    through the alleys
    so that it would be known
    that life
    will not always be sad.
    Guitarist and