Homage to Pablo Neruda

"Ya no es posible, a veces, ganar sino cayendo"
Pablo Neruda (Alianza 1947)

This evening Melbourne Filmoteca presented an Homage to Pablo Neruda at ACMI (Australian Centre for the Moving Image) at Federation Square.

However, two hours of poetry recitals were sufficient for my poor delicate, ultra-sensitive soul & I left early - my body & soul tormented by the passion & the pain!

One of the most outstanding performances of the evening was the Institute of Pataphysical Studies’ interpretation of the following Neruda poems: “Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche”, “Oda al Tomate”, and “La Palabra”. The latter which concluded with a scene of blood being syringed from the inner arm of the orator, transferring same blood to a wine glass and same blood being consumed by same orator!

However, the most moving & emotional part of the evening was Ramon Cuelho’s recital of his poem “Here I am, Pablo”, quoted below in English. If anyone is able to direct me to the original Spanish version, I would be most appreciative if I could be advised of the location:

Ramon Cuelho: Here I Am Pablo
A homage to Pablo Neruda on the day of his death from my cell in 'Liberty' jail, Uruguay.

Here I am, Pablo,
adolescent,
here I am and I salute you
without baptismal font, without gods
inappropriate to my class
working and transparent.
Here I am, Pablo,
and I salute you
in the name
of those that couldn't
even meet you
to drink the sap
of stone everlasting,
continental and heroic,
universal and clear.
I don't have to sing my verses
to your ancient skeleton
of luminous bones
‘neath the surly night.
I don't have to sing
my verses.
I want to offer my imaginary wine
to the written word, to the blood,
to the earthly and human substance,
to your legacy of stone on stone
social compromise of the humble.
Left long ago in the century
the country school and horseback
that carried me to your Cancion Desesperada
and to that Crepusculario
without covers, yellowed, bought
at a market for ten cents.
There we introduced ourselves;
you were Pablo
and I a little bud of a poet
without baptismal font,
without gods,
with my rough shoes
on the map of America.
And we were two and hundreds
and thousands from the Araucania
and the Amazon,
from the Pampa and the Plata,
from Managua and Santiago
that walked through green tunnels
along ancient paths,
in circles of light and the agony
of our continent;
snowy Leuconoe
that you loved without season or properties.
That you simply loved.
For the blood of Ebro,
the Spring in Prague,
the rain of Temuco
and the dream of Isla Negra
your song was ever
of difficult centuries, of love
and goblins,
of mothers and flags and hope.
Here I am Pablo, standing straight
in the middle of my cell,
growing with your word, your poems,
and that crazy ballad, earth-sourced, mineral
and proletarian that you used to sing.
I won't let the tear
become the spring of a sad
state of anguish, of pain,
of silence.
You don't deserve that.
It will leave through the window
and break the bars when night returns
Entrada a la Madera, Matilde Amor
or your Poema Veinte,
it matters not which,
it matters that we sing.