Ezra Pound, "LXXXI," The Cantos: To have gathered from the air a live traditionor from a fine old eye the unconquered flameThis is not vanity. Here error is all in the not done,all in the diffidence that faltered . . .
Neruda, 1949 speech at the Continental Peace Congress in Mexico City: "When Fadeyev said that if hyenas could handle the pen or the typewriter they would write like the poet T.S. Eliot or the novelist Jean-Paul Sartre, I think he was insulting the animal kingdom..."
Derek Walcott, "For Pablo Neruda:"I am not walking on sand,but I feel I am walking on sand,the poem is accompanying me on the sand,We remember not man but his metaphor.Fungus lacing the rock,on the ribs, mould. Mossfeathering the mute roarof the staved-in throat,the prose of somebody somebodysaid, grounded, like un coche ensable,probably in Ulysses, Stephen walkingover the brittle currag shells,what loops of the imaginationand your voice growing hoarserthat the chafed Pacific, your voicefalling soundless as snow onthe petrified Andes, the snow,a million small feathers fromthe tilting rudderless condors,emissary in a black suit whowalks among eagles, hand whosefive knuckled peninsulasbar the breaking ocean . . .all of us are netted to a rockin an old word, in a new word,brotherhood, word which arreststhe crests of the longrunning oceanin a flash to snow-blowing sierras,the round fish mouths of the children,the word, cantan.
Miguel Angel Asturias, "Neruda Alive:"forever, giving the worldhis seagulls over the ocean-foam.
Ishmael Reed, "Poem Delivered Before Assembly Of Colored People Held At Glide Memorial Church, Oct. 4, 1973 And Called To Protest Recent Events In The Sovereign Republic of Chile:"In the winter of 1966 Pablo NerudaLifted 195 lbs of ragged scrawlsThat wanted to be a poet and putMe in the picture where we stoodLaughing like school chumsNo little man ever lifted me like thatPablo Neruda was a big manIt is impossible for me to believe thatCancer could waste himHe was filled with barrel-chested poetryFrom stocky head to feet andHad no need for mortal organsThe cancer wasn't inside of Pablo NerudaCancer won't go near poetryThe cancer was inside ITTThe Cancer God with theNose of President WaterbuggerThe tight-Baptist lips of John Foster DullesAnd the fleshy Q Ball head ofMelvin LairdDick Tracy's last victimThe Cancer God with the bodyOf the rat-sucking Indian Plague FleaAll creepy transparent and hunched upStalks the South American copperCountry with its pet anacondaIt breathes and hollars likeAll the Japanese sci fi monstersRolled into one: HogzillaIts excrescency supply the PortugueseWith napalmThe Cancer God is a bully who mooches upRational gentle and humanistic menBut when it picked a fight with the poetIt got all the cobalt-blue words it could useAnd reels about holding in its insidesDo something about my wounded motherSays President WaterbuggerShambling across the San Clemente beachWhose sand is skulls grindedDo something about my wounded motherSays the slobbering tacky thingPausing long enough from his hobbyRipping-off the eggs of the worldTheir albumen ozzing down his AmericanFlag lapel, his bareassed elephantGyrating its dung-wingsGive her all of South America if she wants itAnd if she makes a messGet somebody to clean it upSomebody dumbA colonel who holds his inaugural addressUpside down and sportsMix matched socksAnd if they can't stomach theirNew leaders' uglysucker FrenchAngel faces then cover them up withA uniform or hid its Most DisgustingIn a tankCover it up like they want to coverMe up those pitiful eyes gazing fromThe palm tree freeway of the Dead WarPresident Waterbugger your crimesWill not leave officeNo imperial plastic surgeon canRemove them from your faceThey enter the bedroom of yourHacienda at night and rob youOf your sleepThey call out your namePresident WaterbuggerNext to you Hitler resemblesA kindergarten aideWho only wanted to raise some geeseAnd cried when listening toDietrich Ficher-DieskauEverything you put your paws onBecomes all crummy and yukkyIn New Jersey the mob cries for JumboburgersIn Florida the old people are stealing Vitamin EPresident Waterbugger only your crimesWant to be near you nowYour daughters have moved out of townYour wife refuses to hold your handOn the elevatorInexplicably, Lincoln's pictureJust fell from the wallNext time you kill a poetYou'd better read his poems firstOr they will rise up and surround youLike 1945 fire cannons a few miles fromBerlinAnd History will find no trace ofYour ashes in the bunker of your hell
Neruda: "Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo."
Nathaniel Tarn, “At Gloucester, Mass., After Foreign Travel; For P.N.”At Gloucester, Mass., after foreign travel,Labor Day miststhe lovely breath of one more summer dying outthe seaswelled contrapuntally as we swamand a smell of old furniture came up from the water into the dusting sunlightAs if all the woods that had gone down into the sea surfaced to farewell summerthe boats crossed and crisscrossed over the drowned and the great feast of workcrimson with lobster shells, stubbed toes and girls’ bandannas set round the pink of nipplesin loose red shirts / O flag of love over America the damned!We went down to the seaall the poets togetherand gave ourselves up to the waters in various positions of loss:I realized that I have never dived into water and within five minutesafter giving myself completely to the wave I did about ten thingsnever done in my life beforesuch as: throwing my body like a javelin into the wavesspreading myself like a banner on the swellsomersaulting in the deepholding the sand’s things in my hands and all the fear was goneWe had spent the whole day looking for loons and grassesold Dogtown had risen for us from the groundand Olsen’s floor and windowboards full of dateshad defied the policy on National Monuments –white building slats among the red stripes the stars of my Union Jackexclusive to the night: and she seen rightlyhad no need to be touched she seen rightlybecame a thousand faces one after another seen rightlythere was no face the world could take on which was not her face and a golden aurared with cheap scents raved round her hair. Oh the hands that went outthe bodies that moved out towards her on our belief Labor-Day, Gloucester, Mass.,oh the copulations that took place towards her on the arrow of sight drawing no flesh at allout of its sheathing! The America he dreamed never existed, cause of lost causes – but dreamed it with the throat of need the passionate thirst of a tramp sweat on his whiskers. And she in whose hands lies my life brings her creased eyes to townbrings her body like a bannershe said she could not useadvertising ships, and land, and whispers among hutments,and “today,” she said, “today,”“tears of blood coming out of the groundat what has become of this Republic which was to be the laughter of the world!”If it be true / that this polityhas killed Allende for instance / has killed Nerudaif it be true that Spain is being repeated – billed to this polity – then the devices of the world of icethe hanging in the maws of the old windmill the great Giver devised shall be but as childsplay to what awaitsour shabby emperor in his greasy feathers encore une fois l’refrainSwallow on the airmackerel in the skymackerel in the waterswallows on the sea stitching silver to silverin the heart’s water: I am so glad to be home! I have laid up in a world of wordsfor the immortal gods of this Republicthat all the 50 stars might sing in unison together! Our moods of loveas they will seize and shake us all our liveswood rising from the sea, trees soaring on first shores – the Adam-hut, its ghost I am so glad to be home!