Pablo Neruda “The Publishing of Pablo’s Passionate Poems”

1. Pablo Neruda“The Publishing of Pablo’s Passionate Poems” Emma Boushie Nisha Chandra

2. “It was astounding!” –Traci Welch About Pablo • Original name: NeftalÍRicardo Reyes Basoalto • July 12, 1904 : Born in Parral, Chile • Mother worked as a teacher • Father worked as a railway employee • Was discouraged by his father • 1917 : Became a constant contributor to the local paper • September 23, 1973 : Died of cancer

3. “I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took the voice from the rain, and like the timber, it stepped itself into the forests.” -Pablo Neruda

4. “No living poet is as famous today as Pablo Neruda was in his lifetime.” –Daniel Chouinard Career • Always accepted jobs in the writing field • 10 years old : began writing poems • 1927-35 : one job that was not writing • Became a diplomat with no pay • University of Chile: Studied French and got an education • 1923-24 : published first books • 1971 : awarded Nobel Prize for Literature

5. “He's the best poet for me.” -Grass Padrique Style • Choppy syntax • Writes narratives, odes, and sonnets • Forces his opinions through poetry • Obsessive love, politics, historical epics, autobiographies • Originally written in Spanish and later translated to English

6. “I love Pablo Neruda! 1. Shakespeare 2. the people who wrote the Bible 3. Neruda” -Jimi Doyle Critics • “considered unpublishable”, “highly controversial because of its explicitly sexual nature” • Too erotic for literature • Connotative word choice • Writes about love and politics • “Neruda took this established mode of comparison and raised it to a cosmic level” -Rene de Costa

7. “The greatest of all. Who beats Neruda? Maya? Just close but not to Neruda's level. He's my inspiration-my idol!” –Kelvin Karani Our Opinions Agree Disagree Though there are some extremes in his writing, it is still amazing writing and should not be punished for the connotation behind it • Style all about his love and the history occurring around him • Uses such detail to convey his theme and mood • Uses nature to his advantage

8. A Dog Has Died My dog has died. I buried him in the garden next to a rusted old machine. Some day I'll join him right there, but now he's gone with his shaggy coat, his bad manners and his cold nose, and I, the materialist, who never believed in any promised heaven in the sky for any human being, I believe in a heaven I'll never enter. Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdomwhere my dog waits for my arrival waving his fan-like tail in friendship. Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth, of having lost a companion who was never servile. His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine withholding its authority, was the friendship of a star, aloof, with no more intimacy than was called for, with no exaggerations: he never climbed all over my clothes filling me full of his hair or his mange, he never rubbed up against my knee like other dogs obsessed with sex. No, my dog used to gaze at me, paying me the attention I need, the attention required to make a vain person like me understand that, being a dog, he was wasting time, but, with those eyes so much purer than mine, he'd keep on gazing at me with a look that reserved for me alone all his sweet and shaggy life, always near me, never troubling me, and asking nothing. Ai, how many times have I envied his tail as we walked together on the shores of the sea in the lonely winter of Isla Negrawhere the wintering birds filled the sky and my hairy dog was jumping about full of the voltage of the sea's movement: my wandering dog, sniffing away with his golden tail held high, face to face with the ocean's spray. Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit. There are no good-byes for my dog who has died, and we don't now and never did lie to each other. So now he's gone and I buried him, and that's all there is to it.

9. I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair Don't go far off, not even for a dayDon't go far off, not even for a day, Because I don't know how to say it - a day is longAnd I will be waiting for you, as inAn empty station when the trains are Parked off somewhere else, asleep. Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then The little drops of anguish will all run together, The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift Into me, choking my lost heart. Oh, may your silhouette never dissolveOn the beach, may your eyelids never flutterInto the empty distance. Don't LEAVE me for A second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll Have gone so far I'll wander mazilyOver all the earth, asking, will you Come back? Will you leave me here, dying?