“Neruda” by Jacqueline Marcus from issue 295.2

neruda image


When the moon was just beginning to rise—
he could smell the sea from a considerable distance,

a scene from the Mediterranean. Neruda,

lighting a smoke, the men
rolling their nets like their fathers before them.

I don’t know what he brought back on that cold December morning:

a ball of string, a cup of grass,
a flower blowing across the graves
when he was forced to leave his house
in the middle of the night,
rain soaking his shirt,
peasants slashing a path through the mountains.

Whatever it was—he meant to keep them:

scraps of paper,
poems—stashed in his boots.

—Jacqueline Marcus

Not long ago, after Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez died, I wrote a piece for Truthout.org titled, If Democratic Leader Hugo Chávez was a Dictator, as U.S. Media Claims, Why Do Millions of People Love Him?   Continue reading