Spain in Our Hearts Read online

  Also by Pablo Neruda from New Directions

  THE CAPTAIN’S VERSES

  RESIDENCE ON EARTH

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE:

  “My Book on Spain” by Pablo Neruda

  ESPAÑA EN EL CORAZON

  SPAIN IN OUR HEARTS

  Invocación / Invocation

  Bombardeo / Bombardment

  Maldición / Curse

  España pobre por culpa de los ricos / Spain Poor Through the Fault of the Rich

  La tradición / Tradition

  Madrid (1936) / Madrid (1936)

  Explico algunas cosas / I Explain a Few Things

  Canto a las madres de los milicianos muertos / Song for the Mothers of Slain Militiamen

  Cómo era España / What Spain Was Like

  Llegada a Madrid de La Brigada Internacional / Arrival in Madrid of the International Brigade

  Batalla del río Jarama / Battle of the Jarama River

  Almería / Almería

  Tierras ofendidas / Offended Lands

  Sanjurjo en los infiernos / Sanjurjo in Hell

  Mola en los infiernos / Mola in Hell

  El general Franco en los infiernos / General Franco in Hell

  Canto sobre unas ruinas / Song about Some Ruins

  La victoria de las armas del pueblo / The Victory of the Arms of the People

  Los gremios en el frente / The Unions at the Front

  Triunfo / Triumph

  Paisaje después de una batalla / Landscape After a Battle

  Antitanquistas / Antitankers

  Madrid (1937) / Madrid (1937)

  Oda solar al Ejército del Pueblo / Solar Ode to the Army of the People

  PREFACE:

  “My Book on Spain” by Pablo Neruda

  Time passed. We were beginning to lose the war. The poets sided with the Spanish people: Federico had been murdered in Granada. Miguel Hernández had been transformed from a goatherd into a fighting word. In soldier’s uniform, he read his poems on the front lines. Manuel Altolaguirre kept his printing presses going. He set one up on the eastern front, near Gerona, in an old monastery. My book España en el corazón was printed there in a unique way. I believe few books, in the extraordinary history of so many books, have had such a curious birth and fate.

  The soldiers at the front learned to set type. But there was no paper. They found an old mill and decided to make it there. A strange mixture was concocted, between one falling bomb and the next, in the middle of the fighting. They threw everything they could get their hands on into the mill, from an enemy flag to a Moorish soldier’s bloodstained tunic. And in spite of the unusual materials used and the total inexperience of its manufacturers, the paper turned out to be very beautiful. The few copies of that book still in existence produce astonishment at its typography and at its mysteriously manufactured pages. Years later I saw a copy in the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C., displayed in a showcase as one of the rarest books of our time.

  My book had just been printed and bound when the Republic’s defeat was suddenly upon us. Hundreds of thousands of refugees glutted the roads leading out of Spain. It was the exodus, the most painful event in the history of that country.

  Among those lines of people going into exile were the survivors of the eastern front, and with them Manuel Altolaguirre and the soldiers who had made the paper and printed España en el corazón. My book was the pride of these men who had worked to bring out my poetry in the face of death. I learned that many carried copies of the book in their sacks, instead of their own food and clothing. With those sacks over their shoulders, they set out on the long march to France.

  The endless column walking to exile was bombed hundreds of times. Soldiers fell and the books were spilled on the highway. Others continued their interminable flight. On the other side of the border, the Spaniards who reached exile met with brutal treatment. The last copies of this impassioned book that was born and perished in the midst of fierce fighting were immolated in a bonfire.

  Miguel Hernández sought refuge in the Chilean Embassy, which during the war had granted asylum to four thousand Franco followers. Carlos Morla Lynch, the ambassador, claimed to be his friend but denied the great poet his protection. A few days after, he was arrested and thrown into prison. He died of tuberculosis in jail three years later. The nightingale could not survive in captivity.

  My consular duties had come to an end. Because I had taken part in the defense of the Spanish Republic, the Chilean government decided to remove me from my post.

  from Neruda’s Memoirs (1974), translated by Hardie St. Martin

  INVOCACIÓN

  Para empezar, para sobre la rosa

  pura y partida, para sobre el origen

  de cielo y aire y tierra, la voluntad de un canto

  con explosiones, el deseo

  de un canto inmenso, de un metal que recoja

  guerra y desnuda sangre.

  España, cristal de copa, no diadema,

  sí machacada piedra, combatida temura

  de trigo, cuero y animal ardiendo.

  Mañana, hoy, por tus pasos

  un silencio, un asombro de esperanzas

  como un aire mayor: una luz, una luna,

  luna gastada, luna de mano en mano,

  de campana en campana!

  Madre natal, puño

  de avena endurecida,

  planeta

  seco y sangriento de los héroes!

  Quién? por caminos, quién,

  quién, quién? en sombra, en sangre, quién?

  en destello, quién,

  INVOCATION

  To begin, pause over the pure

  and cleft rose, pause over the source

  of sky and air and earth, the will of a song

  with explosions, the desire

  of an immense song, of a metal that will gather

  war and naked blood.

  Spain, water glass, not diadem,

  but yes crushed stone, militant tenderness

  of wheat, hide and burning animal.

  Tomorrow, today, in your steps

  a silence, an astonishment of hopes

  like a major air: a light, a moon,

  a worn-out moon, a moon from hand to hand,

  from bell to bell!

  Natal mother, fist

  of hardened oats,

  dry

  and bloody planet of heroes!

  Who? by roads, who,

  who, who? in shadows, in blood, who?

  in a flash, who,

  BOMBARDEO

  quién? Cae

  ceniza cae,

  hierro

  y piedra y muerte y llanto y llamas,

  quién, quién, madre mía, quién, adónde?

  BOMBARDMENT

  who? Ashes

  fall, fall,

  iron

  and stone and death and weeping and flames,

  who, who, mother, who, where?

  MALDICIÓN

  Patria surcada, juro que en tus cenizas

  nacerás comoflor de agua perpetua,

  juro que de tu boca de sed saldran al aire

  los pétalos del pan, la derramada

  espiga inaugurada. Malditos sean,

  malditos, malditos los que con hacha y serpiente

  llegaron a tu arena terrenal, malditos los

  que esperaron este día para abrir la puerta

  de la mansión al moro y al bandido:

  Qué habéis logrado? Traed, traed la lámpara,

  ved el suelo empapado, ved el huesito negro

  comido por las llamas, la vestidura

  de España fusilada.

  CURSE

  Furrowed motherland, I swear that in your ashes

  you will be born like a
flower of eternal water,

  I swear that from your mouth of thirst will come to the air

  the petals of bread, the spilt

  inaugurated flower. Cursed,

  cursed, cursed be those who with ax and serpent

  came to your earthly arena, cursed those

  who waited for this day to open the door

  of the dwelling to the Moor and the bandit:

  What have you achieved? Bring, bring the lamp,

  see the soaked earth, see the blackened little bone

  eaten by the flames, the garment

  of murdered Spain.

  ESPAÑA POBRE POR CULPA DE LOS RICOS

  Malditos los que un día

  no miraron, malditos ciegos malditos,

  los que no adelantaron a la solemne patria

  el pan sino las lágrimas, malditos

  uniformes manchados y sotanas

  de agrios, hediondos perros de cueva y sepultura.

  La pobreza era por España

  como caballos llenos de humo,

  como piedras caídas del

  manantial de la desventura,

  tierras cereales sin

  abrir, bodegas secretas

  de azul y estaño, ovarios, puertas, arcos

  cerrados, profundidades

  que querían parir, todo estaba guardado

  por triangulares guardias con escopeta,

  por curas de color de triste rata,

  por lacayos del rey de inmenso culo.

  España dura, país manzanar y pino,

  te prohibian tus vagos señores:

  A no sembrar, a no parir las minas,

  a no montar las vacas, al ensimismamiento

  de las tumbas, a visitar cada año

  el monumento de Cristóbal el marinero, a relinchar

  discursos con macacos venidos de América,

  iguales en “posición social” y podredumbre.

  No levantéis escuelas, no hagáis crujir la cáscara

  terrestre con arados, no llenéis los graneros

  de abundancia trigal: rezad, bestias, rezad,

  que un dios de culo inmenso como el culo del rey

  os espera: “Allí tomaréis sopa, hermanos míos.”

  SPAIN POOR THROUGH THE FAULT OF THE RICH

  Cursed be those who one day

  did not look, cursed cursed blind,

  those who offered the solemn fatherland

  not bread but tears, cursed

  sullied uniforms and cassocks

  of sour, stinking dogs of cave and grave.

  Poverty was throughout Spain

  like horses filled with smoke,

  like stones fallen from the

  spring of misfortune,

  grainlands still

  unopened, secret storehouses

  of blue and tin, ovaries, doors, closed

  arches, depths

  that tried to give birth, all was guarded

  by triangular guards with guns,

  by sad-rat-colored priests,

  by lackeys of the huge-rumped king.

  Tough Spain, land of apple orchards and pines,

  your idle lords ordered you:

  Do not sow the land, do not give birth to mines,

  do not breed cows, but contemplate

  the tombs, visit each year

  the monument of Columbus the sailor, neigh

  speeches with monkeys come from America,

  equal in “social position” and in putrefaction.

  Do not build schools, do not break open earth’s

  crust with plows, do not fill the granaries

  with abundance of wheat: pray, beasts, pray,

  for a god with a rump as huge as the king’s rump

  awaits you: “There you will have soup, my brethren.”

  LA TRADICIÓN

  En las noches de España, por los viejos jardines

  la tradición, llena de mocos muertos,

  chorreando pus y peste se paseaba

  con una cola en bruma, fantasmal y fantástica,

  vestida de asma y huecos levitones sangrientos,

  y su rostro de ojos profundos detenidos

  eran verdes babosas comiendo tumba,

  y su boca sin muelas mordía cada noche

  la espiga sin nacer, el mineral secreto,

  y pasaba con su corona de cardos verdes

  sembrando vagos huesos de difunto y puñales.

  TRADITION

  In the nights of Spain, through the old gardens,

  tradition, covered with dead snot,

  spouting pus and pestilence, strolled

  with its tail in the fog, ghostly and fantastic,

  dressed in asthma and bloody hollow frock coats,

  and its face with sunken staring eyes

  was green slugs eating graves,

  and its toothless mouth each night bit

  the unborn flower, the secret mineral,

  and it passed with its crown of green thistles

  sowing vague deadmen’s bones and daggers.

  MADRID (1936)

  Madrid sola y solemne, julio te sorprendió con tu alegría

  de panal pobre: clara era tu calle,

  claro era tu sueño.

  Un hipo negro

  de generates, una ola

  de sotanas rabiosas

  rompió entre tus rodillas

  sus cenegales aguas, sus ríos de gargajo.

  Con los ojos heridos todavía de sueño,

  con escopeta y piedras, Madrid, recién herida,

  te defendiste. Corrías

  por las calles

  dejando estelas de tu santa sangre,

  reuniendo y llamando con una voz de océano,

  con un rostro cambiado para siempre

  por la luz de la sangre, como una vengadora

  montaña, como una silbante

  estrella de cuchillos.

  Cuando en los tenebrosos cuarteles, cuando en las sacristías

  de la traición entró tu espada ardiendo,

  no hubo sino silencio de amanecer, no hubo

  sino tu paso de banderas,

  y una honorable gota de sangre en tu sonrisa.

  MADRID (1936)

  Madrid, alone and solemn, July surprised you with your joy

  of humble honeycomb: bright was your street,

  bright was your dream.

  A black vomit

  of generals, a wave

  of rabid cassocks

  poured between your knees

  their swampy waters, their rivers of spittle.

  With eyes still wounded by sleep,

  with guns and stones, Madrid newly wounded

  you defended yourself. You ran

  though the streets

  leaving trails of your holy blood

  rallying and calling with an oceanic voice,

  with a face changed forever

  by the light of blood, like an avenging

  mountain, like a whistling

  star of knives.

  When into the dark barracks, when into the sacristies

  of treason your burning sword entered

  there was only silence of dawn, there was

  only your passage of flags,

  and an honorable drop of blood in your smile.

  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 viváa en un barrio

  de Madrid, con campanas,

  con reloies. 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

  era grandes voces, sal de mercaderías,

  aglomeraciones de pan palpitante,

  mercados de mi barrio de Arguelles con su estatua

  como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas:

  el aceite llegaba a las cuchatas,

  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 firailes 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 corazon.

  Preguntaréis por qué su poesía