A gorgeous (and gorgeously illustrated) selection of Neruda’s poetry, drawn from throughout his life, including work from his very first publication (Fair Aromos On The Fields Of Loncoche, 1923) and the unfinished work recovered after he had died (The Chilean Woods, 1973).
The organising principle of these poems is trees, the Chilean forests, and the southern land they belong too. The advantage of such a focused selection like this is that it gives a sense of how Neruda’s approach changed through his life, and the many ways he approached the same themes. So there is the surrealism of Entering The Wood (1935) and the poems from Neruda’s most ambitious work, Canto General (1950), which feel somewhat dislocated without their context. Quite a number of the poems here, taken from the 1964 collection Memorial de Isla Negra evoke Neruda’s sense of displacement from southern Chile where he was born, his longing and his memories of an idyllic childhood.
Interestingly, the most poignant demonstrations of this feeling for me do not come from Neruda’s poems about living trees, but from those where the trees have been cut down. Across three stunning poems he makes timber a vessel of memory and time. In Letter For Them To Send Me Timber (one of the most wonderful titles in the collection), Neruda tells of how the perfume of wood ‘will be building my house.’ Later in Ode To timber, he caresses the wood: ‘if I touch you/you answer’. And in Sawn-down Logs Upon A Truck On A Road In Chile he sees the violent history of southern Chile, as well as creating this exquisite image of noon: ‘Midday is a blue clock/static, round, pierced/by the slow/flight of a black bird’. Another highlight is Botany from Canto General, a delightfully strange field guide to the flora of Chile.
The translation is generally good, and does its best to recreate the breaks of Neruda’s free verse. There are minor annoyances: you might come away thinking Chile’s woods are full of larches, hazels, and oaks, but these literal translations of alerce, avellano and roble hide the fact that these trees are utterly unique to Chile, totally unlike their northern namesakes. Another bother is that none of poems name when or which collection they are from.
The collection ends with a note of difference, an ode to a desert cactus, in whose stoicism and ugliness Neruda finds a rallying point for the downtrodden everywhere. Neruda’s poetry sometimes dipped towards propaganda, and there may be elements of that here with his ‘red ray’ bursting forth. But there is also something enduringly hopeful about the concluding line: ‘Spring shall not forget us.’