Walking Around by Pablo Neruda
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
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
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 that 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
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
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
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
What I really imagine was someone was walking around. At first, I was not good on identifying what really Pablo Neruda wanted to portray in his work. But there are some things that I did not understand.
*Why did Pablo Neruda have to write it on a surrealist perspective?
*Why was everything seemed to be vague?
*Why write that seems not so understandable with the common mind of the people?
However, it took time for me to realize that reason.
THINK! THINK! AND THINK!
There’s a difference between something common to something unique. Something common can make you see something but something unique can make you do three things, See the picture, Dig around the picture , and Make a map
*See the picture
Seeing is not just plainly seeing. Seeing is more than “what do I see”. Seeing is “How do I feel when I say this word? “, “What happens to my body language and/or mouth shape when I say the words?”, “Which words are stressed?”. Seeing is beyond what you can imagine. It lets you create your world and connect with the world of the writer
*Dig around the picture
This is the harder part. Dig around the picture is connecting the pieces. Seeing is the content based part of the written output. If that is seeing, digging is more of the seeing plus the context, form, and technique based questions. “When did the writer write the material?” “What was the inspiration behind every line and image?” “What is the reason behind the line spacing of the poem?” Digging is making a world of connections. It lets you create a sense of a “YOU and ME IN THE WORLD” in the poem
*Make a map
If you get through seeing and digging, this one will be easy. Making a map just simply means Seeing + Digging + The whole world of the author. Now this one is a problem, the way you see something in the poem might not be the way the author sees or writes it. That is why you have to study the words, structure, word-associations, and music of the poem