I Read The News Today, Oh Boy

I'm Explaining A Few Things By Pueblo Neruda

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Rememeber, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remeber
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother~
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzies ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings-
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of the children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous generals:
see my dead house, look at broken Spain:
from every house burning metal flows instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain, Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood in the streets!- END

Congratulations to those who finished the poem! My post was deleted so I just put up a piece by one of my favorite poets, Pueblo Neruda. Here's the trophy to those who finished or zoomed straight to the bottom- "Failure to Launch" was the #1 movie in the country and over 90 people were killed in Iraq. The former was the main headline of the news, the latter was stuffed into "Other News", followed by the day's sports scores. I am patronizing right now but I hope to God you care enough to tell another human being. Peachy Mondays, music tomorrow!