Chile

A friend of mine was in Chile earlier this year, and while there he went to a bar that is in what I believe used to be Pablo Neruda’s house. While he was there he admired a stuffed penguin they had behind the bar. Completely unrelated to the Independence Day Project I’ve had a few opportunities to work with penguins, so I was excited—though also sad, since it was stuffed—to hear about this penguin. Now, along with the Atacama Desert, it’s going to be one of the first things that always comes to mind when I think of Chile. The Atacama Desert? Why yes. I’m in love with deserts, and after the deserts (or dry valleys) of Antarctica, the Atacama is the driest desert on earth. I’m not the only one impressed—NASA uses the desert to test instruments for future Mars missions.

But this is not just about penguins and the Atacama. It’s about Chilean independence, though the date is a little strange. In 1808 the Spanish throne was usurped by Napoleon’s brother (as in Bonaparte) and this was not a popular move in Chile. On 18 September 1810 Chileans formed a national junta in Ferdinand’s name (the heir of the deposed king) and proclaimed Chile a self-governing republic in the Spanish monarchy. Soon the autonomy thing caught on, and full independence followed in 1818.

The twentieth century wasn’t very kind to Chile—prior to Pinochet’s rule there were still military coups and unstable governments. Which isn’t at all to say the whole century was a mess—there were long periods when democracy worked. The dark cloud we now remember is Pinochet, whose regime engaged in serious human rights abuses. Tens of thousands were tortured, and around 30,000 fled the country. There were thousands killed.

I know that you’re waiting for a poem by Neruda, but I decided to go with another poet—I used Neruda for Easter Island not long ago, and every so often I like to switch it up, so to speak. So today’s poem is by Nicanor Parra, and comes from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry.


The Pilgrim

Your attention, ladies and gentleman, your attention for one
      moment:
Turn your heads for a second to this part of the republic.
Forget for one night your personal affairs,
Pleasure and pain can wait at the door:
There’s a voice from this part of the republic.
Your attention, ladies and gentlemen! You attention for one
      moment!
A soul that has been bottled up for years
In a sort of sexual and intellectual abyss,
Nourishing itself most inadequately through the nose,
Desires to be heard.
I’d like to find out some things,
I need a little light, the garden’s covered with flies,
My mental state’s a disaster,
I work things out in my particular way,
As I say these things I see bicycle leaning against a wall,
I see a bridge
And a car disappearing between the buildings.

You comb your hair, that’s true, you walk in the gardens,
Under your skins you have other skins,
You have a seventh sense
Which lets you in and out automatically.
But I’m a child calling to its mother from behind rocks,
I’m a pilgrim who makes stones jump as high as his nose,
A tree crying out to be covered with leaves.

—Nicanor Parra
from The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
translated from the Spanish by W. S. Merwin