Explico Algunas Cosas

On November 9th, my thoughts turned to Lorca and la generación del ´27. I remembered this poem by Pablo Neruda, written in response to Lorca's death in the early days of the Franco regime. I'm not satisfied with the translations I can find, so I set about doing my own, in the hope that more people will read these poems.

And so began my new project. Over the next months, I will post translations of some of the political poetry I read as an undergrad, and hope that it gets more readership.

I begin with Explico Algunas Cosas, by Pablo Neruda.

Explico algunas cosas Preguntaréis: Y dónde están las lilas? Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas? Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba sus palabras llenándolas de agujeros y pájaros? Os voy a contar todo lo que me pasa. Yo vivía en un barrio de Madrid, con campanas, con relojes, con árboles. Desde allí se veía el rostro seco de Castilla como un océano de cuero.                                   Mi casa era llamada la casa de las flores, porque por todas partes estallaban geranios: era una bella casa con perros y chiquillos.                                      Raúl, te acuerdas? Te acuerdas, Rafael?                       Federico, te acuerdas debajo de la tierra, te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en donde la luz de junio ahogaba flores en tu boca?                                    Hermano, hermano! Todo eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías, aglomeraciones de pan palpitante, mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatua como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas: el aceite llegaba a las cucharas, un profundo latido de pies y manos llenaba las calles, metros, litros, esencia aguda de la vida,                         pescados hacinados, contextura de techos con sol frío en el cual la flecha se fatiga, delirante marfil fino de las patatas, tomates repetidos hasta el mar. Y una mañana todo estaba ardiendo y una mañana las hogueras salían de la tierra devorando seres, y desde entonces fuego, pólvora desde entonces, y desde entonces sangre. Bandidos con aviones y con moros, bandidos con sortijas y duquesas, bandidos con frailes negros bendiciendo venían por el cielo a matar niños, y por las calles la sangre de los niños corría simplemente, como sangre de niños. Chacales que el chacal rechazaría, piedras que el cardo seco mordería escupiendo, víboras que las víboras odiaran! Frente a vosotros he visto la sangre de España levantarse para ahogaros en una sola ola de orgullo y de cuchillos! Generales traidores: mirad mi casa muerta, mirad España rota: pero de cada casa muerta sale metal ardiendo en vez de flores, pero de cada hueco de España sale España, pero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos, pero de cada crimen nacen balas que os hallarán un día el sitio del corazón. Preguntaréis por qué su poesía no nos habla del sueño, de las hojas, de los grandes volcanes de su país natal? Venid a ver la sangre por las calles, venid a ver la sangre por las calles, venid a ver la sangre por las calles!

I Explain a Few Things You will ask me: Where are the lilies? And the metaphysics covered in poppies? And the rain that intermittently slapped its words filling them with needles and birds? I’m going to tell you what is happening with me. I lived in a neighbourhood of Madrid, with bells, with clocks, with trees. From there you could see the dry face of Castilla like an ocean of leather                                   My house was called the house of flowers, because all over it were geraniums: it was a beautiful house With dogs and children.                         Raúl, do you remember? Do you remember, Rafael?              Federico, do you remember under the earth, do you remember my house with the balconies where the light of June would drown your mouth in flowers?                                         Brother, Brother! Everything was loud voices, salt of bought goods, palpating masses of bread, markets of my neighbourhood of Argüelles with its statue like a pale inkwell between the hakes oil ran into spoons, a deep throbbing of feet and hands filled the streets, metres, litres, high-pitched essence of life,                      fish piled up, the texture of roofs with cold sun in which the weather vane wearies, the delirious fine marble of potatoes, tomatoes repeated out to the sea. And one morning everything was burning and one morning the bonfires sprouted from the earth devouring beings, and since then fire, dust since then, and since then blood. Bandits with planes and moors, bandits with grenade rings and duchesses, bandits with black friars offering benedictions came from the sky to murder children, and in the streets the blood of the children ran simply, like blood of children. Jackals that the jackal would spurn, stones that the dry thistle would spit to bite on, vipers that vipers would hate! In front of you I have seen the blood of Spain rise up to drown you in a single wave of pride and knives! Traitorous generals: gaze upon my dead house, gaze upon broken Spain: Each dead house grows burning metal instead of flowers, Each dead child becomes a gun with eyes, each crime gives birth to bullets that will one day find you the site of your heart. You will ask why does your poetry not speak to us of dreaming, of leaves, of the grand volcanoes of your home country?  Come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets, come and see the blood in the streets!