journey to the center

Ode to Criticism (II) — Pablo Neruda

I touched my book:
it was
compact,
solid,
arched
like a white ship,
half open
like a new rose,
it was
to my eyes
a mill,
from each page
of my book
sprouted the flower of bread;
I was blinded by my own rays,
I was insufferably
self-satisfied,
my feet left the ground
and I was walking
on clouds,
and then,
comrade criticism,
you brought me down
to earth,
a single word
showed me suddenly
how much I had left undone,
how far I could go
with my strength and tenderness,
sail with the ship of my song.


I came back a more genuine man,
enriched,
I took what I had
and all you have,
all your travels
across the earth,
everything your eyes
had seen;
all the battles
your heart had fought day after day
aligned themselves
beside me,
and as I held high the flour
of my song,
the flower of the bread smelled sweeter.


I say, thank you,
criticism,
bright mover of the world,
pure science,
sign
of speed, oil
for the eternal human wheel,
golden sword,
cornerstone
of the structure.
Criticism, you’re not the bearer
of the thick, foul
drop
of envy,
the personal scythe,
or ambiguous, curled-up
worm
in the bitter coffee bean,
nor are you part of the scheme
of the old sword swallower and his tribe,
nor the treacherous
tail
of the feudal serpent
always twined around its exquisite branch.

Criticism, you are
a helping
hand,
bubble in the level, mark on the steel,
notable pulsation.

With a single life
I will not learn enough.

With the light of other lives,
many lives will live in my song.

my eyes’d have a furious gleam
palpitations to see you on screen
the world’s a bit dimmer
the stars lose their glimmer
when you don’t show up status Green

your words make my ears tingle.
hearing them was familiar,
as if i had returned to a dream
of a second layer.

i remember how your words
feel like snow on my tongue,
curious and fleeting
but gently refreshing.

finally,
words sound like songs again,
distinct palettes
without the fog of passing whims,

Composition,
now that you have arrived:
hello again, how i’ve missed you.

I stopped writing for you; I had no words.
I spun butterfly scales out of my mouth.
They were cotton fluff, nothing I wanted you to read.

be careful,
lest the words you speak run false
and dry the land you’ve sown

So here we are at a turnstile,
hemming and hawing our way through.
I see that look, the glaze of uncertainty,
and I understand – I really do –
it’s just that I’d prefer to get this
over with
(even if it’s wrong)
so let’s continue.

I gave up on romance,
because the love I could give
wasn’t as much as I could promise.
Now, there are things I miss (like the comfort)
and there are things I’d forgo (like the mess).

But on the day I look at another’s eyes, another’s hands,
will what I hope for
live to surpass those stories?

Because I wonder if Snow White
ever ate more apples,
or if she cringed when they were served.
And I wonder if Cinderella
slept before midnight
so nothing disappeared.
Maybe it’s hard to wake up
a hundred years later
because love conquers all (just not anachronism).

And these stories are simply here
reminding me that the root of all is fear.
But somehow, when I take your hand
(and I want to take your hand),
I know I am blind.
And you are blind, so are we
foolish enough
to trust the other to lead?

It’s been so long:
seeing postcards from Prague
or half-stolen Marbles in London
cannot make up for the time you lost
while running away, too busy, too afraid
to think of what you left behind.

It’s been so long: do you still believe?
And do you still watch lanterns floating down the river
when moonlight bends through trees?
I remember running our fingers through
and drawing them out,
drawing each other among the reeds.

Once you were an empty room,
sunlight filtered through linen
that landed softly, the sound of cat paws,
captured on film (overexposed polaroids),
the closest image to Heaven
I’d ever seen.
Once upon a scent,
you were the faintest aura
that drew me out of waiting and into
searching for your world,
a better one.

Now it’s too late, too late,
because you’re gone and don’t want to come back,
ran through the front door and went out the screen.
You rushed into me for minutes,
then left.
The kitchen still smells of it, a
warm oven wafting this sudden summer scent,
chased away by moths and lazy dogs.

I’m still waiting,
hoping that one day you’ll remember
to say something to me.
For did you know? — every
word you said had a life,
every word a butterfly waiting to take flight.

You are still Masterpiece,
moving through time and space,
unbound by history and freed by grace.
Please don’t, don’t ever forget:
you are the most beautiful poem.