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Vals

Yo toco el odio como pecho diurno,
yo sin cesar, de ropa en ropa vengo
durmiendo lejos.

No soy, no sirvo, no conozco a nadie,
no tengo armas de mar ni de madera,
no vivo en esta casa.

De noche y agua está mi boca llena.
La duradera luna determina
lo que no tengo.

Lo que tengo está en medio de las olas.
Un rayo de agua, un día para mí:
un fondo férreo.

No hay contramar, no hay escudo, no hay traje,
no hay especial solución insondable,
ni párpado vicioso.

Vivo de pronto y otras veces sigo.
Toco de pronto un rostro y me asesina.
No tengo tiempo.

No me busquéis entonces descorriendo
el habitual hilo salvaje o la
sangrienta enredadera.

No me llaméis: mi ocupación es ésa.
No preguntéis mi nombre ni mi estado.
Dejadme en medio de mi propia luna,
en mi terreno herido.


*****



Waltz

I touch hatred like a covered breast;
I without stopping go from garment to garment,
sleeping at a distance.

I am not, I'm of no use, I do not know
anyone; I have no weapons of ocean or wood,
I do not live in this house.

My mouth is full of night and water.
The abiding moon determines
what I do not have.

What I have is in the midst of the waves,
a ray of water, a day for myself,
an iron depth.

There is no cross-tide, there is no shield, no costume,
there is no special solution too deep to be sounded,
no vicious eyelid.

I live suddenly and other times I follow.
I touch a face suddenly and it murders me.
I have no time.

Do not look for me when drawing
the usual wild thread or the
bleeding net.

Do not call me: that is my occupation.
Do not ask my name or my condition.
Leave me in the middle of my own moon
in my wounded ground.



Imagine, if you will:
You are a postman in a small town.

Your pay is pittance and you only get to deliver mail to one house, so you wouldn't get tipped very much either. It's just you, your bicycle and some stranger's mail.
But what if that stranger were the perfect stranger? What if you were stuck with this seemingly insignificant menial job but soon find yourself blessed with the honor of delivering mail to the man who wrote the poem above?

Something so simple as delivering mail could be the start of a connection. The very thing that can allow you to pass through the grand crevices of such an entrancing mind. Musings shared with you exclusively. Inklings of ideas that turn your pathetic salary into a mere shadow of a thought. The world was left overwhelmed, overjoyed, intimidated and welcomed all at the same time by this man. And you are his postman.

Pablo Neruda is the Chilean poet who wrote "Waltz". Mario Ruopollo is the lucky fictional postman who gets to meet and befriend this grand poet.

For anyone who's ever dreamt of dinner with Dickinson, Sunday brunch with Steinbeck, afternoon tea with Tolstoy...
I highly recommend the movie "Il Postino".