the tortured poet's department (neruda and annie's version)
we both like writing naturely poems about our sadness and are super involved in leftist politics and we don't live in peru so like we're basically the same person
My fingers have rested far too long, typeless on my keys in the aftermath of reading Neruda’s Alturas de Macchu Picchu, fearing that no description can do his poetry or its provocations justice. Yet to distance myself from imperfections is its own weakness, so here I attempt to inscribe all of my thoughts before they collapse into the air of the small cafe in which I write from.
Most poems I’ve read have only left salty tastes in my mouth and never have lingered—a medium so personal to the writer and reader, I’m am no critic, but I’ve always liked poems that resemble the waters, lyrical and flowing, sometimes splashing in bought of water, other times stilling into slow ripples. I've found most of the poems I’ve read thick and intense like spilling blood or light and comical like an abrupt coastal wind. Perhaps this preference stems from the first poems I’ve been exposed to, ones in my mother tongue which can find the softness of earth in only three five words—I find my own lyrics and prose has a watery quality, grounded by earth metaphors and place. My favourite poet thus far must be Sappho, yearning sentiments delicate like the hyacinths she personifies.
Neruda too, now makes his way into my favourites. I admit, his masculinity is foreign to me, but I’m not thrown off by it as often other male writers do. I find that often, the most common characteristics of masculine writing tends to be abrupt, violent, inconsiderate, self-centred, and not that these themes don’t appear, but the quality that seems so obvious to me in his poetry is the worship of the grandeur. Often afraid that I ask for too much, that I perpetuate modernist ideas, I try to appreciate littler, mundane things, a handfull of wild strawberries, a bee fluttering around a flower, a slice of fresh watermelon, that I may have closed myself off to the extent of exhilaration that a giant mountain may provoke. Is Macchu Picchu itself not the epitome of grandeur? Architecture carved from the stones of the land, situated so naturally in the sharpest mountains, perfectly touched by the sun. I tell myself, it is just as univerally human to worship the tiniest ponds and the largest ranges, as well as the desire for miniscule ornaments and lakeside homes.
What then, strikes me about Alturas de Macchu Picchu is how much the Neruda explores what is bigger than himself, past perfectly carved metaphors and personifications of water, blood, gold, mountains, maize, but into explorations of escapism, of death, of guilt, of urbanism. It is nearly astonishing that someone who writes about the lands so lyrically as if his own is but a passing Chilean tourist, he resents the blood and greif in the proletariat worker’s conditions home and romanticizes the live apart from production pre-colonization. Though it is less so a political commentary than an expression of his own suffering admist the Andes—what I love about poetry is that he does not need to really defend himself in such a way, it is clear that he is lost amoung the current society and hopes for better. It is a sentiment that is not exclusive to settlers, just a sensation that may be heightened under certain conditions.
What does suffering have to do with land, I wonder? In the deepest of my sadnesses my notes apps compiled anecdotes of every flower I knew the name of and every landscape I was familiar with, past lovers compared to the forest fires and strange weathers and I’ve always noticed that art stems most beautifully from disconnection, disconnection from our bodies, so perhaps also our homes. I wonder, if there is any artform in the Andes that expresses similar sentiments to Neruda’s, where the poet is so sad he seems to ask the earth to envelope him into a peaceful death. I've noticed that all of the traditional Indigenous music I’ve heard have been chants and prayers and tokens of appreciation, meant to be performed by groups rather than individuals. This isn’t to say that people did not suffer in communities, but I wonder if sadness was expressed in different artforms?
Because I think that I am Neruda’s target audience, not the Incas, even though the poems are situated in their lands. It’s really terrifying then, that I, like him, may have anotehr identity crisis triggered by a beautiful archaeological site, perhaps may start doubting (even more) the civilisation I inhabit, and it just so happens to be Macchu Picchu is the means to my ends of spiritual enlightenment. I still, have no idea why I am in Peru, what it adds to my life that I cannot get anywhere else, just like how Neruda’s poetry can only be praised as a refelction of his soul, rather than a representation of the Andes that should be instead accredited for the Indigenous peoples to represent.
Two more days until Macchu Picchu, and I will reflect again, if either I or Neruda have found a purpose to be here.
Annie
If you ask me directly, I would say quite a bit. When Neruda refers to the builders of Machu Picchu, it seems to me that he is remembering one of my favorite poets, Bertolt Brecht. This is how the poem “Questions of a Worker Who Reads” begins:
"Who built the Thebes of the seven gates?
In the books you will read the names of the kings.
Did the kings lift up the pieces of rock?"
I myself cannot stop thinking about it when I see the ruins of a conquered civilization in the destroyed landscapes.
Hi Annie, I am so happy that you enjoyed reading Neruda! I remember meeting with you back at the Pisac Inn and how you were beaming at the thought of Neruda and how their poetry has resonated so strongly with you. I now understand that part of your appreciation is due in part to the focus on the metaphors and observation of the seemingly mundane facets of life that we often take for granted. Thank you for sharing your candid thoughts and feelings, it has prompted me to slow down and think about the simple pleasures of life more intentionally.