Remember me on this computer. Enter the email address you signed up with and we'll email you a reset link. Need an account? Click here to sign up. Download Free DOC. Download Free PDF. Pablo Neruda's poem 'Walking Around'.
Jason Wilson. A short summary of this paper. It was published in Madrid in in his 2 volumed Residencia en la tierra. He is jailed by his humanity, trapped in the monotony of his routine. In lines , the poet is saying that this routine, this rut, has pushed him into corners of his mind where he does not want to be. The character in the poem seems to be literally, physically going to different parts of the town as part of the daily routine, to places that are dark and make him unhappy.
It gets him to thinking about hell and doom. There is very bad energy coming from the houses. Bad things happened there, walking around 50 bad people lived here. The imagery of these lines is hellish and dark.
The speaker feels incredibly strong about his place in the system, as is abundantly apparent in this poem. He speaks of bones coming out of windows, of intensities hanging on doors, dentures in the coffee pot, and the mirrors weeping from shame and fright over what they have seen. He feels tainted by the people and their icky energy, and their body parts just everywhere.
Lines offer a description of the poet just walking around in his town. The speaker is depressed by the world and continues to attempt a rise above it. He sees all the fodder of this humanity and internally his mental battle rages, but he is wearing his happy face and to look at him you would never know it. The ever-recurring conflicts present throughout this piece was man vs.
The speaker feels suppressed by the control his government reigns over him and fears he will not be able to rise up from his unrecognized redundant job. The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold. And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.
Used with permission of Robert Bly. Furrowed motherland, I swear that in your ashes you will be born like a flower of eternal water I swear that from your mouth of thirst will come to the air the petals of bread, the spilt inaugurated flower. Cursed, cursed, cursed be those who with an ax and serpent came to your earthly arena, cursed those who waited for this day to open the door of the dwelling to the moor and the bandit: What have you achieved?
Bring, bring the lamp, see the soaked earth, see the blackened little bone eaten by the flames, the garment of murdered Spain. National Poetry Month. Materials for Teachers Teach This Poem. Poems for Kids. Poetry for Teens. Lesson Plans.
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