“Walking Around” by Pablo Neruda

Translated from Spanish by John Felstiner

 

 

It so happens I’m tired of being a man.

It happens I go into tailor shops and movies

shriveled up, impervious, like a felt-stuffed swan

steering through waters of origin and ash.

The smell of barbershops makes me break out sobbing.

All I want is the quiet of stones or wool,

all I want is to see no stores or gardens,

or merchandise or eyeglasses or elevators.

It happens I’m sick of my feet and fingernails

and my hair and my shadow.

It so happens I’m tired of being a man.

Still it would be a treat

to panic a notary with a cut lily

or do in a nun with one smack of an ear.

It would be sweet

to run through the streets with a green knife

screaming till I died of cold.

I just can’t go on as a root in the dark,

swaying, stretching, shivering with sleep,

downward in the sodden guts of the earth,

musing and steeping, every day eating.

I don’t want so much misery for me.

I can’t go on being root and tomb,

lonely cellar, warehouse of frozen

stiffs, croaking from grief.

That’s why Monday flares up like petrol

when it sees me coming with my jailhouse mug,

and howls like a wounded wheel as it rides by,

making hot bloody tracks toward night.

And shoves me to certain corners, certain dank houses,

hospitals with bones sailing out the window,

to certain shoe stores reeking of vinegar,

streets as frightful as gullies.

There are sulfur-tinged birds and hideous intestines

hanging from the doors of houses I hate,

there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

here are mirrors

that must have wept for shame and horror,

umbrellas everywhere, poisons, and navels.

I’m walking around with calm, eyes, shoes,

rage and forgetfulness,

I walk along, skirting offices and orthopedic shops,

and backyards with clothing hung from a wire:

underpants, towels, and shirts that weep

slow dirty tears.

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