old news

the letters of my name are printed in an aged ink on yesterdays paper, they smell like sweat dried with a heavy heat. the touch of your fingers over my bones break into brittle pieces. they fall into the wells left by others' caresses before you, those and how they fell. its a timeless story, with interchangeable pronouns. it reeks like the wretched scent of hot vomit lined with a double of whiskey on a thursday afternoon, in the bathroom stall with someone pissing somewhere not private and near you. like you'd give a fuck and honestly could use a glass of water to wash it down. where's my face playing under your closed eye lids? can you distinguish it and draw my features like your own staring right at you from reflective surfaces, trace them with elementary mediums, pointed fingers on a floating canvas. traces of nothing. we aren't really artists, not yet, how could we possibly claim to know and interpret what it is to be alive? we're dead. holding hands with the reaper himself as we walk day by day, feigning an agenda to survive. we wouldn't know of anything better to do for ourselves. we're just old news. interchangeable you's and i's.

it's hypocritical how you lack taking this situation literal you live off a manipulation type-federal built on the elimination of the minimal driven through tribulation of the criminal minds leaving indentations on the political dime foundations rather analytical fueled by observations of the critical eye opening donations of a truth that's no lie one that as i say i swear my life by as it'll cleanse the mind of every lie stained onto us with permanent dye prisoners we try to escape this state of an imprisoned life. 

no dictionary or anything like that i typed in a "freestyle" type nature. it's dorky and lame but it's my first real attempt in a while.

crossouts

from an article written by cesar milan

and a dog food add.

For a friend.

desiree ingram

we were born brown

several shades different,

yes.

but we were born 

the same.

though your skin is slightly more

cocoa butter

than mine,

we are both

still silk & smooth

under a finger's touch.

the same that strokes your hair

you burn

to make straight

as i mutilate mine

to curl.

we use the same means

to temporarily

destroy ourselves.

               (similar ways)

like me

you speak

with a spanish tongue

like he

and she

you are the same

though to them, you

do  not  look

that way

          - the same.

you are.

you roll them rr's like

your cumbia hips,

mixed

with ancient africana

wonder

it booms in your blood like

crimson thunder

under the sun

i rub oil on my body &

lay beneath Huitzilopochtli's rays

for an entire day until

[ding ding ding]

done!

we are one

we are the same

the same shade of beautiful brown

                   

                        of beautiful brown

the same.

.

i apologize for sending you
the news how i did,
in a box
with your name
harshly scribbled on it,
separating our things.

we were fools to think it would work
we were fools to play grown up

i implore you to consider why
and how
and when
these occurrences defined
our mortal sins.
yours in lacking respect for me
and mine in lacking love for
my body.

we are both corrupt.

title?

i must admit, lately
i’ve become quite
fancied
with an idea of
your spit
swishing in my mouth.
your tongue laced
in remuline.

oh god.

it seems like candy to me.
i think about it &
find myself
sucking
on my tongue
pretending its you.

my eyes turn to sex
crazed slits trapped
in fantasy & 
the line it wears
between reality.


i open my mouth like i want it
i close my eyes like i need it
i use fingertips to feel it
and confirm my existence.
my primal need to feel.

yeah...this is totally about what the impression leads to. i need to revise definitely but i dont know how. . . 

consciousness.

c o n s c i o u s n e s s to ponder on what this entails: thought on what words this brings in meaning, connotes through definition - is to actively be conscious the state of being awake and aware of one’s surroundings be aware of what it is to think on what this means, open those two beady looking gaps in front of your face interrupting your forehead from a nice chat and cup of tea with your nose and cheeks, and be awake in a state of your surroundings, aware the awareness or perception of something by a person maybe instead, close your eyes and just feel the soft wisps of air cut through blades of the ceiling fan, the thud clamp clash bing of the other single living in a single lifestyle duplex cooking dinner for one    that smells good enough to invite someone else to eat    wonder wonder why they are alone, yet no not really, thin walls and vents, transparent are the only things separating all us ones the fact of awareness by the mind of itself and the world engage in it ponder on your place sitting in an old chair handed to you by a friend for taking care of her that one night she got so fucked up she starting talking to god, then place perspective as to why that little chair matters and how the wood was once a soul, not like the souls we defined with white robes and crowns of piety with this awesome guy in a beard leading us, no not that type. but rather a piece of the whole, just as we all are     what does that mean? how do we live day by day completely dependent on a strangers face?

here’s news to you:    we are all. 

subjectively experience how aware you can be in your ability to experience feelings, awake in your sense of selfhood and executively stream your consciousness to guide the systems of your mind.

I wrote this a while ago. The bolded words are different definitions i found of the word consciousness, integrated into what i was venting about i assume. i dont know what this is...some sort of prose, but i'm not sure what.

Inspired

“Everyday you play with the light of the universe.”

You coaxed Saturn. He gave you his rings.

You melted them around your arm, singed 

flesh perfuming the room.

If you should feel famished

the moon melts, to spoon

feed you until your belly swells.

At night, I extend my arms up 

toward the midnight quilt

rocking us to sleep. Wishing
to feel your rough skin
sanding my own smooth.

Your skin smells of Mars

crushed granadas, tasting red:

A culinary confection yielded by Marte.

If you grow parched,

the stars lactate.

Their nectar is sweeter

than any on Earth.

They deem you worthy

of their flavors 

and so, you

inspire me to strive

to be the taste that lingers

on your tongue

long after 

I have left your bed.

Show me the worth of your crisp breath,

cutting through the universe.

First line taken from Pablo Neruda's poem 13 (20 love & a song..). everything else is me :)

bonnie&clyde

Outside, the thrashing sky began to drown the sun in bitter beauty. Jane felt an intense tugging deep inside her belly sitting next to Serge in his dank-smelling 98' Honda Accord. She looked at him - his head cocked at the oddest angle as he striked a match with an awkward, twitchy flick of the wrist. A cloud of thick smoke curved upward in S shapes, slowly, like dancing cobras brought to life by the hoarse, slick voice of this dangerously seductive man of hers. 

"Hey beau," Serge pulled out from under the driver's seat a 44 Magnum, "Remember why I'm giving this to you.” He looked nervous taking another drag from the joint he rolled after packing the kit of tools he used often on jobs like these. The dimming light from the setting sun struck the bloodshot in his eyes and made them look strange, the sort of strange you stayed away from at the park, the strange that looked at girls and taped women's privates in public restrooms. The strange that watched you when you swore you were alone. 

"Yeah babe, got it." Jane grabbed the gun and placed it on her lap, the dead weight felt cold against her thighs as Mr. Twitchy Hands jammed the keys in the ignition and started the car.

The desert felt endless, a river of sand that fucking Christ couldn’t walk across without eventually sinking. Jane looked down at the weapon resting on her lap. She lightly fiddled with the safety. Don't fuck this up, Jane. The moon watched her, big bloodless eye stared. She felt it judge her, a huge naked eyeball in the sky refusing to blink staring right at her. It knew. You can’t hide anything from the moon. It sat in the sky knowing that they were going to break into someones home and take everything for all it's worth. Trade it for cash. Money that would be lost as soon as Serge got his hands on it. Don't be a little bitch, Jane. Between the booze and the drugs and the gambling, Serge always found some way to loose the money. Jane's nerves grumbled inside her gut and nausea began to fester clawing it's way up her throat. 

"Babe" … groan…. "pull over." A salty liquid began to ooze uncontrollibly up her throat and a sour-tingling sensation occurred, symmetrically, on either side of her jaw.

Jane didn't wait for Serge to completely stop the car to vomit. A putrid stench filled her nostrils as the heat from the bottom of the running car hit her half digested stomach contents. 

Jane spat bile from her mouth as blinding light cut through the darkness and the sound of an old truck parking echoed in the night. A towering robust man made his way out of a vintage creme colored Chevy. 

"You well, miss?" He asked cocking an eyebrow up at the sick on the street. 

He reminded her of a Titan, strong with an air of integrity trapped in a bubble around him. Jane felt the heat from the engine spread across her cheeks. She couldn’t get her gut to stop wrenching long enough to answer.

 "He with you?" The stranger asked looking in the direction of the scrawny figure smoking what looked like a cigarette. Jane glanced at Serge eyeing the man's pricey paint job and big ticket rims through the rear view mirror, wicked grin stretched across his face and nodded. The nerves in her belly were moving about wildly as the gears in Serge's swindling skull began to move, stimulated by the sight of such spoils. Jane retched. The Titan took a mere three immense strides before he was next to Jane patting her back with his large hand. "It's ok miss, just let it out, it'll make you feel better." Heat radiated from his body like magic. The way his kind touch tingled and his sweet, dark voice sounded - it was nothing she's known in her world before.

A faint click and the automatic hum of the passenger window rolling down interrupted the soft moment between this kind stranger and Jane. "Yo beau, you alright? Come on, get in the car, we have shit to do." Serge, grew slightly insecure and slightly more inpatient by the Titan's kindheartedness. Come on Jane, stop. Don't mess this up. The Titans big blue eyes gleamed at her as Jane retreated into the cloudy Accord, the stench of puke lingering in the air. 

"Shit beau. You really know how to make a mess of yourself. We'll have to pull over somewhere and get you cleaned up." Mr. Twitchy Hands was having a fit, shaking white knuckled and tight on the wheel. Jane was grateful, she could tell Serge was desperate enough for a fix, and she too could use a little something to sand away the bumps of nerves growing on her skin.

Jane closed her eyes and rested her slightly damp forehead against the frost bitten window. She imagined herself growing further away from the fact that she was on her way to some pretty neighborhood with white picket fences to steal something that may really matter to someone else. The two pulled into the parking lot of a run down bar. "Be right back." 

As Jane opened the door, the hot scent of men and booze offended her nostrils. In a room just under a pink wooden sign reading 'Broads', Jane began to rinse her face and swish water in her vomit flavored mouth. Two slutty looking girls slam giggling into the restroom, one with a scarlet colored mane and the other a brunette with Monroe’s mole. The drunk Monroe wannabe stalked Jane as she wiped her face with a harsh brown paper towel. 

"You look lossst, girl." The tipsy Mole slurred. 

"No I'm good." Jane replied, trying to keep to herself. 

"Hmm." The Mole scooted toward Jane. 

"Naw, girl. You are…so lost. It's a little sad!" A hyena holler followed the drunken insult followed by the splat of naked ass landing on a hard floor. Jane smiled wryly at the girl too buzzed out of her mind to stand straight. That's what you get bitch. Jane tossed the crumbled towels in an overflowing trashcan and opened the door. 

"You find yo'self ok?! Nothin' sadder than a lost gal." Jane slammed the door, cheeks hot with the smell of men and booze.

The sight of Serge's white-lipped smile angered his girlfriend as she climbed into the car.  

“Let's have a little fun beau." Serge blindly pulled out of the parking lot. 

Jane figured Serge didn't quite care if he slammed into anyone. After all the car he'd slam into wouldn't be his, she knew for a fact the one he was driving wasn't either. 'Tickah tickah tickah' The right hand blinker made Jane smile, mmhmm fun. Only half an hour from the town where she lived in, was a little blue adobe house with black curtains and a red Ford pickup. Inside this house were little scales and baggies full of green, white and best of all dark, sticky brown. Suddenly, Jane's heart began to skip and she leaned over and kissed Serge's scruffy cheek, hard. The couple blissfully pulled into the hacienda painted like the afternoon sky.

"Yo, I'm outside… I got thirty on me man, cool? Great! I'll be here." There was nothing like the way Serge looked when he was about to score. Its almost like Christmas, snow fills his eyes his cheeks get rosy, Sr. Fucking Nicholas. Nothing like the way his face freezes when feinding for a fix. It lacks life, the stillness of fresh snow after the blizzard, when you know it’s still not safe to go out yet. A short stumpy chola opens the door to their Honda. 

"Hey, thirty right?" Jane's heart thumped at the sight of the small chunk of nirvana. 

"Yeah, who the hell are you? Where's Rick?" Serge asked, shifting his eyes back towards the house and to the girl again. 

"Don't mind who I am. Rick sent me, that's all you need to know." Stumpy didn't look like she took much shit from people. 

"What I need to know," Serge muttered fanning himself with four fives and a ten "is the name of the bitch selling me my shit." What was first a gaze suddenly festered into a glare on the face of the stump. 

"Look, Culo. I got this shit" she said holding the little bit of sweetness in between her thumb and pointer, squeezing it. "You may talk to your chick like that but fuck no if you think you can pull this shit off with me!" Stumpy shoved her open palm into the back of the drivers seat with enough force to bob Serge's head forward towards the steering wheel. 

"Shit, alright. Here, my bad" Defeated, he extended a twitchy hand with crumbled bills and exchanged them for the little lump of happiness. Jane was wide-eyed and amazed as the stumpy girl left, head high into the darkness.

The old Honda chugged its way through the highway as Serge tossed the small bag and a black torn leather pouch. Jane unzipped the pouch and took out a thin glass tube with black electrical tape wrapped tightly around the middle. She readied the piece, rolling the sticky tar between her thumb and pointer into a tight ball then carefully pushed the ball into the end of a glass pipe about the size of a straw and handed it to Serge. He grabbed the tiny tube with twitchy hands and placed it between his lips, pursing them while striking another match twitch twitch twitch holding it to the end of the tube. Mr. Twitchy Hands extended his hand, steady as a rock as he passed the pipe to Jane. Jane sucked in the sweet smoke numbing her lungs instantly. The highway lights sparkled like the twinkling of holiday lamps strung over picture perfect homes. Each minute a light flashed by; forty flashes flew by behind clouds of sensuous smoke.

“Gotta take a leak.” Serge pulls over to a park. Mr. Twitchy Hands began to unzip his pants and a small dog appeared from under a wooden picnic table and began to growl. Jane winced as she watched her boyfriend whiz on the pooch. The animal, infuriated, charged at the ankles of the man who urinated on him. "Little fuck!" Serge kicked the dog's face in and a striking 'crack' echoed deep within Jane's throat. Poor thing. "Heh heh." Serge grabbed the miniature corpse by one of it's legs and flung it into the darkness. Hot tears begin surface on Jane's face as she sees a little figure holding anothers hand approach her boyfriend. 

"Hey man," the big figure spoke, "have you seen a little dog anywhere around here?" Jane's eyes flashed at her lover. 

"Did you lose your dog? Oh no, that's horrible." Serge leaned forward matching the little one's height.  "Oh I'm sure you'll find your puppy, I wish I could help look but my girlfriend and I have a long trip ahead of us." Serge flashed a sympathetic smile. 

"If you see him when you're driving will you bring him back please mister?" The innocence of the child's voice made Jane feel unworthy of hearing it. 

"Sure thing princess." As Serge waved goodbye and made his way into the car, Jane couldn't help but want to spit.

The emptiness of the highway soon dwindled into a variety of buildings and roads with fancy streetlights. Jane closed her eyes and counted the last ten minutes of their trip second by second fumbling the heavy gun from right hand to left. The sound of the 'crack' of the small dogs neck and the sweetness of the little girls voice rung in her ears. Serge pulled over a few blocks from their ending point. He reached over to the backseat and grabbed a duffle bag. Jane was disgusted by the look of excitement on his face. Don't fuck this up, Jane. The gun in her hands tugged and the 'crack' of the puppy's neck sounded once more. 

"Alright I'll be back in a few. Don't let go of that gun alright, and keep the car running." Serge opened and slammed the door, twitchy hands grabbed onto the black bag. The gun pulled once more as Jane remembered the little body holding hand of the big figure searching for her poor little pet. Don't fuck this up, Jane.

The click of the automatic lock slapped Jane's ear drums as she opened the car door, clinging to the magnum. A blur of streetlights spun Jane's head as the crack crack crack banged inside her skull. Mr. Twitchy Hands turned back, looking confused. The image of the limp body of the puppy lingered. Jane blinked and aimed the magnum at Serge and with one swift motion pulled the trigger.

Conversations (buelo-te amo)

Conversations

There’s always conversation going on about death.

The widow gardens.

She sprouts mint and sage, raises mums and peonies

variably.

They perfume the porch; and they distract you

while she weeps over and over, reaching

for you. How can she feel close,

when all those years she slept one room over

as if the hallway could heal.

No wonder you left in the manner you did,

afraid to be alone, the widow

like the 13 steps it took to walk to your room.

end.

I feel stuck. It seems strange to me that I can be so sure that I am desperately in love but at the same time feel like my bones will break if they try to move away from her. Everyday, as sure as the clouds come out when it rains, I’m there waiting for her outside the dance room my hand itching to hold hers and my eyes itching to check out her ass. I appreciate how lazy she get’s after practice and her insistence to stay in those spandex shrines to the godliness of her rear. If my love were dependent only on aesthetics we’d be fine, because surely Mia is just as beautiful as she was the very first day I saw her, tucked so small in a crowded hallway. But I feel stuck, so I owe it to myself to go over and talk to her, I just don’t know what I can get myself to say. I have to admit when she looks at me with those eyes, so big and brown and round and gorgeous, I fall in love with her again, if just for a moment. And it tugs at me in ways that don’t want to hurt her.

But I have to hurt her, if there is any way of me really ever being happy and, I think, that’s what she wants for me. Either way, I’m hating the how long these street lights take to turn red and cursing my eight year old self for never sticking to that plan to invent a super fast hover craft. I just want to get this over with and as if my piece of shit car decided that this night should get worse, it starts to over heat, a trail of dirty white smoke puffing after me until I pull into her driveway. I make sure to dim my lights so whoever is inside wont know I’m here yet, I still need to figure out what to say, how do people know what to say when doing shit like this? I wish I had a script, I wish I lived in a french film with tons of nudity but even better, some form of closure at the end. I know I’m not getting that tonight and I can’t help but feel like this is me, Jake, walking into a storm that’s been waiting to be released for months already, and I have to admit I’m fucking terrified of it and worse making my Mia cry. 

Mia is waiting in her room, lit by a lamp she had received as a gift for her fifteenth birthday. She has this unsettling feeling in her gut, wretching as if she had been riding on a rollercoaster over and over again. Somehow, Mia can’t help but know what was about to happen, though in many ways, her finger couldn’t place itself on exactly what it was. 

“Mija” Mia’s dad said, knocking on her door. 

Mia really isn’t in the mood for this. She wants to be left alone in her room with her oil pastels and long sheets of canvas. She wants to hold her paint brush firmly in her hands and trace the anxiety away, fill it in with shades of that unsettling flavor rising up her throat. She wants to spit it out and paint with it, but Jake was waiting in the living room, her dad said, and he looked like he really didn’t want to wait. Mia rolled her eyes, somehow it seemed like Jake never waited while that was all Mia ever did. She waited, for him to make up his mind and decide if he’s angry or scared or bored or completely enamored with her. As Mia reached her hand to prop herself up she felt the flames starting to rise, the calm before the chaos. She was ready to feed the flames, she just wanted to get this over with now. 

It’s really nerve wracking when you have to wait at the door of your girlfriends house. Its especially nerve wracking when you have to wait at the door of your girlfriends house right before breaking up with her. Your feet plant on the ground, cemented to the floor with fear and there’s nothing you want more than to run, but you already pushed the doorbell and don’t want to risk your girlfriend catch you running like a coward to your car, (this thought just took you twenty seconds to get through and you sure someone was just about to open the door, so it’s prolly too late to run anyway). 

This is where I am at right now, the door part, stepping through the grand wooden frame into the warm living room, with walls layered in shades of latte. Nico opened the door. He’s a nice man, not as awesome as my own dad but he’s the type of father you have when you need to be cared for in ways that require you to heal. Like Mia and everything she’s been through losing her mom and all. Shit, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Maybe, I can pretend I came just to visit, paint a smile on my face and kiss her. I still like kissing her, pressing my body against her and feeling those ballerina muscles tighten around me, wherever she can. All I have to do is ask Mia to show me how much she loves me, and she’ll roll her eyes, complain that she waited for me to call while pulling off her jeans and prying off her panties. I really could do that. I really want to do that. 

“Hey you.” Mia spoke from behind me. I can smell the colors smeared onto her hands before I turn to see her gripping the living room sofa, streaking its forest green color with bright medly of pastels. She tousles my hair and this annoys me, lately the crude cut hairdo she gave me looked stupid to me, like a curly rooster nesting on my head and I hated it. I hated Mia and how she practiced her beauty school shit on me, and how she paints pictures for me and tucks them in my locker. I hate that she bakes me cakes from scratch on my birthday and wants to hear me practice my guitar. I hate that she is so incredible and Im just some guy that can’t get myself to pass Algebra 2 and Chemistry. I hate that she does my homework to help me pass Algebra 2 and Chemistry because she thinks it’s stupid to drop out of high school. Mia’s hand rested at the nape of my neck, her fingers pressing against how tight I imagine it feels, and she slowly grazes my skin. I hate how amazing she is and I make sure to keep my back toward her.

“Mia, we need to talk.”  

So, this is my attempt at writing 1st POV and 3rd close together with one narration. I'm also attempting to keep it in the present tense. oh geez, 1st POV and present tense are the exact opposite of what i'm used to writing but it's the only way we get better at it right? it attempt to do we can't yet do? well here goes, i might add more i dunno, originally the father was part of this narrative too but i dont want it to get too "busy". Cheers!

neruda

Love for Another vs. Love of Everyday Things

An analysis and comparison of Pablo Neruda’s rhetorical approach

toward his works in Twenty Love Poems and A Song of Despair and Odes to Common Things

When first introduced to Pablo Neruda’s work in class this semester, I found myself suddenly in love with the impression his words left. The spell of Neruda’s choice of words has won him world wide fame as well as the respect of poets from, and long after, his time. Pablo Neruda’s celebrity is accredited to the publishing of a series of different types of writings as well as work he conducted as an influential political figure. Neruda’s love for his country and light/dark description has made him notorious in the literary world. Neruda’s efforts resulted in a Noble Prize in Literature in the year 1971. His unconventional reference to the woman’s form and variable imagery throughout his work has deemed him worthy of replication and multiple translations.

The volume Twenty Love Poems and A Song of Despair was the first of his written works that won him fame. Publishing it at the early age of 20 in 1924, Pablo Neruda declared his place in the literary world as one of a talented artist. This collection of poetry captures the poet’s youthful inclinations towards love, highlighting sexual explicitness through intertwining it with images from his native land, Chile. Neruda not only associates the woman’s body with nature, he glorifies the females form in comparison to the natural world of Chile, accrediting the woman as an indubitable agency of mother nature.

The poems within the collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair differ from Neruda’s other works in that they lack the scholarly, political voice that is predominantly displayed in his later pieces. The beauty of analysing Neruda’s work is that the audience can identify at which point in the poet’s life he had written it, through the discovering of the context of the poems themselves. Canto General, for example, is a poem in which Neruda discusses highly politically themed content that mirrors his involvement in political movements. He opens discussions on ideas as simple as food being a birthright for everyone rather than an item sold for labor as well as exposes his ideologies toward his own political stance.

Pablo Neruda’s Odes to Common Things is exemplary of Neruda’s attempt to connect to the common. The poems differ from the rest of his work because of it’s use of short simple language, forming odes to everyday things ranging from socks to an artichoke. The odes, written as a means to stray from the highly political and identify with the ordinary, in no way lack Neruda’s passion, but rather redefine how love can be expressed and the object in which it is expressed toward.

It is my intent to analyze  Pablo Neruda’s rhetorical attempt between his initial work Twenty Love Poems and A Song of Despair and later works found within his Odes to Common Things using cluster analysis, a method of criticism developed by rhetor Kenneth Burke.  Through the identification of key terms that appear either frequently or intensely within the artifact, I will discover clusters that may not have been conscious to Neruda when he wrote the poems. This finding will in turn unveil Pablo Neruda’s worldview at the time of each publication toward the referenced material and lend his audience with a wider understanding of the origins of his poems. For the purpose of this criticism, I will choose three poems from each collection, each representing different subject matter, and conduct clusters for each poem based on that content.

Twenty Love Poems and A Song of Despair

Tonight I can Write, I Like for You to be Still, Everyday You Play

The “I”s and “You”s

When looking at the poems I Like for You to be Still, and Everyday You Play, two terms appear frequently, those two terms are “I” and “you.” The two terms are important within each poem, not only because of the amount of times they appear within the work, but also as a means of placing importance upon the relationship between the speaker and their other. When looking at the amount of times the speaker makes reference to themselves in comparison to the other, the audience can grasp a better understanding of Neruda’s conception towards the relationship between the two, himself identifying with the speaker.

In the love poem Everyday You Play, the speaker makes reference to the “you” a total number of twenty six times from the beginning of the poem until it’s end. This amount is only six more than the twenty times the speaker refers to himself. These references are scattered throughout the poem and hold no concentration within specific areas, which would lead to the assumption that throughout the process of writing the piece, the lover’s affair was kept well within Neruda’s thoughts. Aside from being scattered throughout, the amount of the “I”s and “you”s used being so high within the piece indicates a means of excessive thought towards both. This would hint that Neruda’s view towards the “you” is a fixated one, that emanates how the speaker feels towards the object of his address: He is so in love with her, that even on a subconscious level, Neruda finds this individual more important than he.

Even though the number of “you”s within the poem unveil this mindset, the amount of “I”s  unmasks aspects of the poet that follow narcissism. Due to the fact that Neruda almost makes as much reference to “I” as he does to “you” in the poem shows how, although the other is important to the speaker, he/she is not winning by much. This mentality displays a narcissism that Neruda was notorious for sometimes having and such a personality is unintentionally confirmed by the poet.

The situation between the “I” and “you” in the poem I Like for You to Be Still is different than the poem that was previously mentioned. This poem differs from the other even though, as in Everyday You Play, the “you” is referred to the most. It is different because the speaker of the poem makes twenty one references to the you in I Like for You to Be Still and only twelve towards himself. The idea that Neruda has used so little references to the speaker lends light on how the poet sees the situation between the two lovers. Although the speaker is still very much in love with the “you,” indicated through his excessive references to her, in this poem, he feels the need to place less importance on himself. This theory would be easier to accept if the audience were to consider the foreshadowing of the failed relationship, indicted by the song of despair within the title of the collection of works. With this consideration in mind, one may conclude that perhaps the speaker has a lower opinion of himself because of the emotional toll the relationship has taken on him, or that, aware that their time is soon ending, the poet carries a desire to celebrate his love as fully as he can before he can do so no longer. In I Like for You to be Still, an analysis of the use of “I” and “you” shows it’s audience how Neruda’s expression of the relationship is one that does not involve the speaker as much as in Everyday You Play, but still lovingly places the “you” in high regard.

“You” vs. “Her”

In the song of lovers lament, Tonight I Can Write, Pablo Neruda takes an interesting turn with his word choice to display the relationship between the two lovers. The presence of the “I” is still notable and referenced a total number of twenty nine times during the poem. As mentioned previously, this would confirm that the writer has placed himself in an higher elevated state of confidence than was shown in I Like for You to Be Still. Being that this poem was one written at the end of the relationship, such an attribute would imply that the speaker has undergone some sort of change during the relationship that has regained his sense of self-admiration. This change could be deducted as either an over compensation of reference to self to aid in the speaker’s confirmation of his worth or a declaration that the speaker has regained his ego, previously crushed by his ex-lover.
What makes Neruda’s use of rhetoric in this poem interesting is the change of reference from “you” to “her” he uses when writing the song of despair Tonight I Can Write. I find this small change reveals so much about the poet’s idea towards the other, now that the relationship is over. The change from “you”, which indicates that the speaker addressing that person specifically, to “her,” referring simply to a female person, sucks away the intimacy shown in previous poems. This shift in use of words aids the audience in revealing how the speaker no longer places the other above himself. Neruda instead, creates a sense of separation through the use of a simple proposition, making the lovers strangers to one another. This sense of strange confirms for the reader that the speaker identifies with the relationship ending and has accepted letting the other go.
The use of the “I” and “you/her” within the three poems, and how frequently they were used, are a subconscious indicator of the way in which Neruda himself viewed a love affair. Although the poet carefully deliberated on which words to use in his poetry, he could not have fully been aware and in full control of the terms he used and how often he did so. It is elements like these that allow audiences to peer into the subconscious of the rhetor and identify their outlook on the situation of the material.

Odes to Common Things

Ode to the Artichoke, Ode to the Dog, Ode to a Pair of Socks

The terms clustered around the image of the dog in Neruda’s Ode to the Dog reveal fascinating ideas Neruda displays about the animal. In the poem the terms clustered around the dog image are separated into question and action words. The words that are under the question category include: question, question marks, inquiring flames, asks, why, wandering, and asks questions. These terms all in someway connected to the idea of question, being clustered around the image of the dog show the audience that Neruda most likely has an unsure relationship with the animal. Although he goes out of his way to glorify the dog and appreciate the animal, he may on some level be unsure of them. Another theory of the dog is that Neruda sees the animal, though beautiful, as a stupid one. The dog is portrayed as one that is unknowing in the eyes of the speaker, this portrayal indicates that Neruda does not see the dog as an animal that is intellectual and aware with the ways of the world, but one that is still worthy of appreciation.
When looking at the action terms surrounding the word “dog”, the audience will notice that these words, for the majority of the poem, are used in direct connection to images of the natural world. These pairings are as follows: dashes/countryside, roam/open countryside, jostling clover, chases/bees, leaps/water, pees/rock, dog/dew, and wagging its dew-wet tail. Although dogs were animals that were kept indoors as pets, Neruda glorifies the animal within a natural environment and creates a feeling where the dog is comfortable in his natural surroundings. This pairing of images surrounding the action terms indicates to Neruda’s audience that the writer considers the dog a creature that is best appreciated in a natural environment where the animal can interact with a world where he belongs. The natural images of Chile (as well as the reference to the country in the poem) confirm Neruda’s love for his country as well, and how the appreciation for the images are embedded within the poet.
The word choice used in Ode to the Artichoke is a selection that integrates ideas of war with the natural purpose of the vegetable, which is to be picked, bought and consumed. Neruda integrates these two categories of ideas throughout the poem in direct reference to the artichoke as he narrates the life of it. To the reader, the poem appears to be an entertaining image system that curiously describes the life of the vegetable from it’s beginning in the market to it’s end in the kitchen of a woman named Maria. The terms that are separated into ideas of war include: warrior suit, war, proud, marched, soldiers, warlike, officers, formation, drill sergeant’s scream, and armored. The terms that are in relation to the purpose of the vegetable as a food are: sweet, market, vegetables, egg, buys, sticks in her bag, drops it in pot, delicious flavor, devour, dough, and green heart. These terms are intertwined throughout the poem to directly describe the artichoke and it’s interaction with the world in which it exists in. The images depict a vegetable that accepts it’s fate, and dies with a sort of honor. This image system combined with images of war reveal how Neruda, although writing the odes to appeal to the common, still has strong subconscious ties with political ideas. This insight on Neruda’s political thoughts go a step further when combines with the artichokes acceptance of the fate in which he dies. These two combined together indicate that Neruda has opinions that involve those who are destined to be something, should accept that fate. This opinion was most often heavily influenced by Neruda’s affection towards Marixism. Neruda through his depiction of war images and the artichoke, reveals ideas that make the audience assume the poet had strong opinions in favor of the acceptance of one’s purpose in life, without question.
In Ode to a Pair of Socks two terms appear frequently: socks and feet. At the beginning of the poem, Neruda establishes that the socks were a gift from a woman, Maru Mori, and because he does so, rhetorically, the symbol of the sock should be in connection to the referenced woman. The foot that the rhetor is referring to the speaker’s foot, which for the sake of this criticism, will be argued as who Neruda identifies with. The terms that are clustered around the sock include: pair, soft, rabbit fur, little boxes, threads of sunset and sheepskin, outrageous, gangly, navy-blue, impaled, golden thread, giant blackbirds, cannons, heavenly, beautiful, incandescent, jungle explorers, gorgeous, wool, and good. These terms contain both good and awkward images in relation to the socks which shows Neruda’s feelings toward the woman. The poet sees the woman on a positive note, but still cannot ignore how awkward and odd she comes off. By associating such descriptive words with the gift she makes for him, Neruda exposes how his opinion of the individual bleeds into the way the speaker describes the socks.
The terms that cluster around the image of the speaker’s feet are: thrust, fish, sharks, honored, unlovable, crusty old firemen and unworthy. The speaker relates his feet as unworthy of the socks made for him by this woman. The words surrounding the speakers feet, describing them on such a note demonstrate to the reader that Neruda does not have strong opinions towards himself in relation to this woman, he most likely feels unworthy of her kind act. The concluding stanza would confirm this theory because it discusses how one should be grateful of the goodness of warm socks in the dead of winter. This feeling combined with the theory mentioned earlier strengthen the evidence toward the argument that Neruda felt ungrateful, and unworthy of the person/object on his mind during the writing of the poem.
Pablo Neruda reveals to his audiences variable opinions and worldviews within his poetry. The love poems and song of despair are conversations regarding two lovers and go not go further than their relationship infused with Chilean references. The odes are a lot more complex and communicate on ideas that concern an adult mindset which is indicative of how much the writer has matured since the publication of his first collection of works. The love poems do not focus on more than the naive connotations of love, they display a mentality of the poet that he may not have wanted to portray. As Neruda grew and his experiences led him to gain insight and opinion, so did the content of the rhetoric of the poems. The poet uses an approach that combines all his passions and stimulates discussion that involve more than a narcissistic notion of love. Neruda shows candidly through his selection of word choice in his poetry exactly where he stands in the world surrounding him, what ideas never escape the man and personal inclinations as to who he is.

Works Cited

A., Karen, and Robert Trapp. Contemporary perspectives on rhetoric. 3rd edition. Long Grove, IL: Waveland Pr Inc, 2002. 187-232. Print. - Used to gather background information on Kenneth Burke’s Rhetorical Theory.

Bogen, Don. "Selected Odes of Pable Neruda." The Nation 254.3 (27 Jan. 1992): 95.
Rpt. in Literature of Developing Nations for Students: Presenting Analysis, Context,
and Criticism on Literature of Developing Nations. Ed. Elizabeth Bellalouna, Michael
L. LaBlanc, and Ira Mark Milne. Vol. 2. Detroit: Gale Group, 2000. Literature
Resource Center. Web. 4 Apr. 2011. - I used this source as a research aid in gathering overall background information on Neruda as well as whatever rhetorical methods he could have attempted.

Foss, Sonya. Rhetorical Criticism. Fourth ed. Long Grove Illinois: Waveland Press, 2009. 209-266. Print. - Used to gather background information on Kenneth Burke’s Rhetorical Theory and how to apply it.

Natella, Arthur A. "Ode to an Artichoke." Literary Reference Center. Literary Reference Center, Jan. 2002. Web. Feb.-Mar. 2011. <ttp://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=lfh&AN=103331POE18950051000231&site=lrc-live>. - I used this source as a research aid in gathering overall background information on Neruda as well as whatever rhetorical methods he could have attempted within the specific Ode to the Artichoke.

"Pablo Neruda." Poetry Foundation. Poetry Foundation. Web. 3 Apr. 2011. <http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/pablo-neruda>. - Used to gather biographical information on the poet, his works and other useful elements.

The Poetry of Pablo Neruda, edited and with an introduction by Ilan Stavans, Farrar, Straus (New York, NY), 2003. Used to gather biographical information on the poet, his works and other useful elements.