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Celebrate Pablo Neruda's 100th anniversary

Pablo Neruda, political poet, wrote compellingly about the struggles of the Chilean people against oppression, poverty and the dictators (Pinochet, etc.) who disappeared, tortured and killed thousands of their own people. His spirit of resistance lives on in his poems.
The celebration will be held at Portland State University park blocks today, Sunday 11th, from 3 to 6 PM. Performers include hip hop artists Turiya Autry and Mike Crenshaw, poets Wat Curtis, Kanaan Kanaan, Isabella Prado and others. Also music by Marie Damaris Silva of PCUN, Rubber Neck and others. Also a documentary about Neruda. There is open mike, so come and read your own poetry and whatever moves you. The event is free and all are welcome.
What Hypocracy 11.Jul.2004 15:01

WS wsppdx@yahoo.com

You forgot to mention that Neruda wrote many loving poems to Stalin. So killing by Pinochet was wrong, but Stalin was OK? What a bunch of hypocrites.

Also remmeber that Neruda was the person in charge of issueing visas to Chile while leftists were evacuating Marseilles after the Nazi/Vichy take over of France. Neruda, Stalin's little helper, allowed many good anti-Stalinst militants, poets and workers to go to the Concentration camps by denying them visas.

It would be better to let his poetry die a quick death, left to the gnawing criticism of mice. Personally, I would piss on his grave.

Scum, but... 12.Jul.2004 09:44

Devil's Adv.

Yes, Neruda was a scum and a Stalinist like many others from that era, but I have serious reservations about letting his "poetry die a quick death" since that would include his marvelous Twenty Poems of Love and a Song of Despair, which I enjoyed. I mean, what about the part of Neruda that wasn't a scum? Are we supposed to erase that too?


I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.


Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

OK OK 12.Jul.2004 09:52


How about we comprimise Devils Adov? We make the poems by anonymous. Honor the poems not the man.

Fixed Unforgiving Intolerance? 14.Jul.2004 19:26


It appears that "WS" believes that no person has the ability to change (which would dictate that we all remain infantile), and "WS" appears to lack the tolerance or compassion to forgive any person who may have changed. Further, the censorship of literature attributable to those of diverse perspectives reflects NAZI/Stalin tactics which "WS" condems. So who is the real hipocrite here? I hope "WS" can find reform in his/her own life, so they may gain the ability to see that in others, rather than project their own fixed unforgiving intolerance.