The poem ' I Explain a Few Things' by Pablo Neruda

 I Explain A Few Things
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel?        Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings —
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!

 

 

SUMMERY

The war had a great impact on Pablo Neruda’s writings. His writings were previously very personal, internal, often concerned with the question of existence in the modern, chaotic world. However, his experience in Spain during the Civil War changed his life and consequently his poetry completely. He was much more concerned with social and political justice issues now. Many of his works, including a present poem “From I Explain a Few Things”, were radically influenced by the war. In this poem, the poet explains why his writing has changed and why his poetry no longer talks about his country’s love, nature and sweet dreams. The poem explains how it changed everything one morning; the war morning. Spain was broken during the three years of war.
The poet speaks of several beautiful memories in the poem at first. He talks about his house like it was: life bursting. Geraniums, dogs, children were running, playing and enjoying. He also tells how great it was at that time; the smells, the colours, the thriving public market life. The clock towers of the church, the clocks and the large area of land thickly covered with trees were the characteristic features of his country. The capital represented a busy life and prosperity. But the city was on fire one morning. There was an attack, probably by the fascist regime at that time. Everything became ruins. The people, the animals, the crops, the vegetables, the flowers, the buildings, the towers, the moors, etc. The young hooligans and criminals began to pervert all works of art, public and private property and the beauty of nature in a destructive way. There was blood everywhere on Madrid’s street, the blood of Spain’s children’s blood. Above all, well-known poets such as Federico Lorca and Rafael Albert were murdered.