Walking Around

Poem by Pablo Neruda, published as part of "Residencia en la tierra 2". Translated by myself, as other translations found are mostly copyrighted. Notes on translation follow the poem.

Walking Around
English translation by MikeyK

It so happens that I am tired of being human.
It so happens that I go into tailorshops and movie theatres
wilted, impervious, like a felt swan
floating over a sea of origin and ash.

The smell of barbershops makes me cry my heart out.
I just want a rest from wool stones,
From establishments and gardens,
from wares, from spectacles, from escalators.

It happens that I tire of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens that I am tired of being human.

Even so, it would be delicious
to frighten a notary with a cut lily
or kill a nun with a blow to the ear.
It would be beautiful to go through the streets with a green knife
and yell until I froze to death.

I don't want to go on being a root in the darkness,
wavering, stretched out, shivering from sleep,
downward, in the wet tripe of the earth,
absorbed and thinking, eating each day.

I don't want all these misfortunes for myself,
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone underground, as a warehouse of corpses,
terrified, sorry for myself.

That's why Monday stings like gasoline,
when it sees me coming with my jail face,
and howls in its path like a blown tire,
and with steps of hot blood goes into the night.

And it leads me towards certain corners, to certain humid houses,
to hospitals where the bones come out the window,
to certain cobblers' that smell of vinegar,
to streets as frightening as cracks.

There are sulfur-colored birds and horrible entrails
hanging from the doors of houses that I hate,
there are forgetten dentures in a coffee pot,
there are mirrors
which should have cried from shame and shock,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and poison, and navels.

I stroll along with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
I go on, passing offices and orthopedic shops,
and patios with clothes hung from a wire:
underwear, towels and shirts that cry
slow dirty tears.

Walking Around
Original Text

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerias y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.

El olor de las peluquerias me hace llorar a gritos.
Solo quiero un descanso de piedras de lana,
solo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderias, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.

Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.

Sin embargo seria delicioso
asustar a un notario con lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con golpe de oreja.
Seria bello ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frio.

No quiero seguir siendo raiz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra,
absorbido y pensando, comiendo cada dia.

No quiero para mi tantas desgracias,
No quiero continuar de raiz y de tumba,
de subterraneo solo, de bodega con muertos,
aterido, muriendome de pena.

Por eso el dia lunes arde como el petroleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de carcel,
y aulla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.

Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas humedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterias con olor vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.

Hay pajaros de color azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de verguenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.

Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzando oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lagrimas sucias.

Most other translations I've seen translate the poem's first line as "It happens that I am tired of being a man." In the original Spanish, however, what the persona is tired of is "ser hombre", not "ser un hombre". This would only translate to "being a man" if "man" were to refer to Man, as in human, but I chose human to avoid the ambiguity. Feel free to message me if you disagree. I hope I was able to do this, one of my favourite Neruda poems, justice in translation, though of course nothing compares to the original.

Original text:
"Pablo Neruda". Universidad de Chile (http://www.uchile.cl/neruda/), accessed 01/04/03.

I am not Pablo Neruda

Walking Around – Pablo Neruda – an Anthology

 

It happens that I tire of being man.

It happens that I enter tailorshops and moviehouses

Shriveled up, impenetrable, like a swan made of felt

Navigating a water of origin and ash.

 

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.

I want only rest of stones or of wool,

I want only to see no more establishments nor gardens,

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

 

It happens that I tire of my feet and my nails

and my hair and my shadow.

It happens that I tire of being man.

 

Nevertheless, it would be delicious

to scare a notary with a cut lily

or give death to a nun with a blow to the ear.

It would be beautiful

to go through the streets with a green knife

shouting ‘till death of cold.

 

I do not want to go on being a root in the darkness,

hesitant, extended, shivering with dreams,

downward, in the wet tripe of the earth,

absorbing and thinking, consuming every day.

 

I do not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes.

I do not want to continue as root and as tomb,

as lone tunnel, as cellar with the dead,

stiff with cold, making me die with sadness.

 

That’s why Monday blazes like oil

when it sees me coming with my jail-face,

howling in its path like a blown tire,

and with steps of hot blood goes into the night.

 

And it pushes me to certain corners, to certain damp houses,

to hospitals where bones fly out the window,

to certain cobblers’ that smell of vinegar,

to streets, startling as cracks.

 

There are sulfur-coloured birds and horrible intestines

hanging from the doors of houses that I hate,

there are false teeth, forgotten in a coffeepot,

there are mirrors

that should have cried of shame and fear,

there are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.

 

I stroll along with calm, with eyes, with shoes,

with fury, with indifference,

I go on, crossing offices and orthopedic shops,

and patios with clotheslines hanging:

underwear, towels, and shirts that cry

slow and dirty tears.

 

Works Referenced

K., Michael. "Walking Around (Thing)@Everything2.com" Everything2. 04 Jan. 2003. 17 Apr. 2006 .

Neruda, Pablo. "Walking Around." Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda. Ed. Nathaniel Tarn. London: The Chaucer P, 1970. 104+.

---. "Pablo Neruda - `Walking Around'" Plagiarist Poetry Sites. Trans. Robert Bly. 21 Nov. 2001. 17 Apr. 2006 .

---. "Walking Around." Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda. Trans. W.S. Merwin. Ed. Nathanial Tarn. London: The Chaucer P, 1970. 105+.