| Prescript: I'm looking for someone to go 50/50 with me and move to either Ecuador, Costa Rica, Belize, Guatemala, or Mexico where we can make a very low income go much further with a lower cost, and higher standard, of living (than living in the States on such a low income). This includes an only income of Social Security Disability (SSDI) and/or Retirement benefits. The Social Security Administration most definitely DOES allow SSDI and/or Retirement benefits, but not Supplemental Security Income (SSI) benefits, to be sent to recipients in most other countries! There are many books about moving and living abroad available at the public library and/or at Amazon.com . Naturally, I realize we would probably have to spend some time getting to know eachother, and finding out if we're compatible, before moving abroad together. We could even have our own separate "spaces" by choosing to rent or purchase a house or apartment with separate quarters, and still save considerable money in monthly costs compared to living in the States on the same income. If you might be interested, want to ask me some questions, and/or want to discuss it, please e-mail me at the address below.
CONTENTS OF THIS PAGE (Click on the link to go to that part of the page):
Selected Poems Of Pablo Neruda (A Great Book by the Nobel Prize Winning Chilean Poet)
"Ars Poetica"
"Poets Celestial"
"Cristobal Miranda"
"The Poet"
"Diver"
"Poet Grown Old"
Extravagaria (Another Book of Wonderful Poems by Pablo Neruda)
"Parthenogenesis"
"We Are Many"
THE FOLLOWING POEMS OF THE GREAT NOBEL PRIZE WINNING POET, PABLO NERUDA, WERE ADDED TO THE SITE ON 11-4-01:
Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda [(The Chilean Poet) 1904-1973; Copyright (c) 1961 by Grove Press, Inc.; Copyright (c) 1961 by Ben Belitt, Editor and Translator.]
"Those who shun the 'bad taste' of things will fall on their face(s) in the snow." [Id., "Toward An Impure Poetry" (Preface written by Pablo Neruda), page 40.]
"ARS POETICA"
"Between dark and the void, between virgins and garrisons, with my singular heart and my mournful conceits for my portion, my forehead despoiled, overtaken by pallors, a grief-maddened widower bereft of a lifetime; for every invisible drop that I taste in a stupor, alas, for each intonation I concentrate, shuddering, I keep the identical thirst of an absence, the identical chill of a fever; sounds, coming to be; a devious anguish as of thieves, and chimeras approaching; so, in the shell of extension, profound and unaltering, demeaned as a kitchen-drudge, like a bell sounding hoarsely, like a tarnishing mirror, or the smell of a house's abandonment where the guests stagger homeward, blind drunk, in the night, and the reek of their clothes rises out of the floor, an absence of flowers ---could it be differently put, a little less ruefully, possibly?--- All the truth blurted out: wind strikes at my breast like a blow, the ineffable body of night, fallen into my bedroom, the roar of a morning ablaze with some sacrifice, that begs my prophetical utterance, mournfully; an impact of objects that call and encounter no answer, unrest without respite, an anomalous name." [Id., Residence on Earth (Grouping/Chapter), Series 1 {1925-1931} (Subgrouping/Subchapter), page 57.]
"POETS CELESTIAL"
"What has it come to, you Gideans, Rilkeans, intellect-mongers, obscurantists, false existential witch doctors, surrealist butterflies ablaze on the carrion, you up-to-the-minute continental cadavers, green grubs in the cheeses of Capital---what did you do in the kingdoms of agony, in sight of a nameless humanity and their vexed acquiescence, heads drowned in the offal, the harrowed quintessence of life trampled under?
"Flight and escape: nothing more. You peddled the rinds of the midden-heap, probed for a heaven of hair, pusillanimous plants, fingernail parings: 'pure beauty,' 'sorcery'--- all that wretched device of the fainthearted averting their gazes, looking askance, disengaging their delicate eyeballs, to root in a platter of rinsings and garbage flung down to you there by the lordlings, blind to the agony that works in the stone, disclaiming all quarrels, undefended: blinder by far than the funeral wreath in the rain of the graveyard, that falls on the motionless compost of flowers, on the mounds." [Id., General Song (1950), page 143.]
"CRISTOBAL MIRANDA (Stevedore, Tocopilla)"
"I knew you in the big bay boats, Cristobal, on a day when the niter came down to the sea's edge, in November's scalding investiture. I remember some ravished serenity, the summits of metal and the unmoving water; and a man wetted down in his sweat, moving a cargo of snow, whose trade is with boats. For nitrate moved with the snow, shed on the harrowing shoulders, blind in the boatholds, and falling: for the stevedores, the heroes of morning, bitten with acids, death's imminent timeservers, taking the prodigal niter, unshaken. Cristobal: this keepsake's for you--- a shoveler's fellowship, hearts tumid with strain; the unascending eagles into whose breathing the acids and homicide gases have entered: for all good men brought down in the street, who wheel toward the broken cross of their pampa. Cristobal: no more of that now. This paper commends you to all, all mariners, men blackened with boats in the bay. My eyes go with yours in this stint, my force in the heft of your shovel, in a desert's substance---standing near to you, loading the blood and the snow and unloading it." [Id., Id. (Id.), page 171.]
"THE POET"
"That time when I moved among happenings in the midst of my mournful devotions; that time when I cherished a leaflet of quartz, at gaze in a lifetime's vocation. I ranged in the markets of avarice where goodness is bought for a price, breathed the insensate miasmas of envy, the inhuman contention of masks and existences. I endured in the bog-dweller's element; the lily that breaks on the water in a sudden disturbance of bubbles and blossoms, devoured me. Whatever the foot sought, the spirit deflected, or sheered toward the fang of the pit. So my poems took being, in travail retrieved from the thorn, like a penance, wrenched by a seizure of hands, out of solitude; or they parted for burial their secretest flower in immodesty's garden. Estranged to myself, like (a) shadow on water, that moves through a corridor's fathoms, I sped through the exile of each man's existence, this way and that, and so, to habitual loathing; for I saw that their being was this: to stifle one half of existence's fullness like fish in an alien limit of ocean. And there, in immensity's mire, I encountered death; Death grazing the barriers, Death opening roadways and doorways." [Id., Id. (Id.), page 177.]
"DIVER"
"The rubber man rose from the sea.
"Seated, he seemed like a globular king of the waters, a bulbous and secretive cuttlefish, the truncated device of invisible algae.
"From their boats, in mid-ocean, the fishermen sink in their rags blue with the night of the ocean: around them arise the great fish of phosphor, a voltage of fire, they go under: around them, the sea urchins tumble, piling the silt with the splintering spite of their hackles.
"The underseas man thrashes the breadth of his legs; languidly reels in the horror of fish gut: gulls slash the limitless air with their hurrying scissors; the diver toils through the sand like a drunkard, swarthy and comatose, locked into his clothing, cetacean, half-earthen, half-ocean, going nowhere, inept in the rubbery bulk of his feet.
"He goes on to his birth-throes. The ocean gives way like a womb to this innocent: he floats sullen and strengthless and barbarous, like the newly born.
"Time after time he takes hold of the water, the sand, and is born again. Submerging each day to the hold of the pitiless current, Pacific and Chilean cold, the diver must practice his birth again, make himself monstrous and tentative, displace himself fearfully, grow wise in his slothful mobility, like an underseas moon. Even his thinking must merge with the water: he harvests inimical fruits, stalactites, treasures, in the pit of solitude drenched with the wash of those graveyards--- as others would turn up a cauliflower, he comes up to the light--- black air in a bubble--- to Mercedes, Clara, Rosaura. It is painful to walk like a man again, to think as a man thinks, to eat again. All is beginning again for the bulking, ambiguous man staggering still in the dark of two different abysses.
This I know--- do I not?--- as I know my existence: all things I have seen and considered. The way of the diver is hazardous? The vocation is infinite." [Id., Elemental Odes (1954-1957), Third Book of Odes. (1957), pages 227-233.]
"POET GROWN OLD"
"He gave me his hand like an old tree that lengthens the fork of its branches, leafless and fruitless. His hand that unbound, while it wrote, the fiber and weave of a destiny, now rayed with the hairline striations: the days and the months and the years. Time scribbled its drouth in his face, wayward and meager, as if to dispose all the lines and the signs of his birth, until, little by little, the air would erect what it saw and establish it there.
"Long lines where the depths were, compendious chapters for the years of his face, querulous symbols, and equivocal fables, asterisks--- whatever the sirens forgot in an old isolation of spirit, or dropped from the sky and the stars, was scored in his face. Olden and bardic, his pen never fixed on the obdurate page the river that spills through our life or the anonymous god that attended his verses.
[Continued below.]
Continued below:
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| THE FOLLOWING ARE A CONTINUATION OF EXCERPTS OF POEMS BY PABLO NERUDA, WHICH WERE ADDED TO THE SITE ON 11-5-01:
Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda [(The Chilean Poet) 1904-1973; Copyright (c) 1961 by Grove Press, Inc.; Copyright (c) 1961 by Ben Belitt, Editor and Translator.] [Continued.]
"POET GROWN OLD" [Continued from above.]
"Now on his cheekbones the whole of the mystery charted its algebra in cold revelations: the little, unvarying slights of the underprized, cut hard on the page of his forehead; and starved as the beak of the wandering cormorant, journeys and waters had shored on the dearth of his nose their bluest calligraphy.
"Two chips of intractable flint, two watery agates: only that. His eyes lived embattled; only there could I summon the blaze in the cinder, a rose in the hands of the poet.
"Now his clothing outnumbered him, he lived in the void of his clothes, like a house. All the bones of his body drew close to his skin and faulted him upward: a bone man displayed, a bony prefigurement, a lessening tree gone to bone, in the end, a poet put out by the scrawl of the rain in the unquenchable downpour of time.
"I left him there, nimble with dying, walking toward death as one who awaited a presence stripped to the bone, like himself, in a darkening park; each by the other, they moved toward a bedroom's dishevelment, toward the sleep we shall sleep out together, whosoever we are: a man with a withering rose in his hand, dustily fallen to dust." [Elemental Odes (1954-1957), Third Book of Odes. (1957), Pages 265-273.]
Extravagaria, by the Chilean Poet, Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) [Translation copyright (c) 1969, 1970, 1972, 1974 by Alastair Reid Second University of Texas Press printing, 1994.]
"PARTHENOGENESIS"
"All those who used to give me advice are crazier every day. Luckily I ignored them and they went to another city where they all live together constantly swapping sombreros.
"They were worthy subjects, politically thoughtful, and every fault I committed caused them such suffering that they turned grey and wrinkled, gave up eating chestnuts, and an autumnal melancholy finally left them delirious.
"Now I don't know what to be, forgetful or respectful; to continue to give them counsel or reproach them for their madness. I cannot claim independence. I am lost in so much foliage--- should I leave, or enter, travel or linger, buy cats or tomatoes?
"I will try to understand what I mustn't do, then do it, and so be able to justify the ways which might escape me, for if I don't make mistakes, who will believe in my errors? If I go on being wise, no one will notice me.
"But I will try to change, offer greetings with great care and look to appearances with dedication and zeal until I am all that they wish, as one might be and another might not, till I exist only in others.
"And then, if they leave me in peace, I am going to change completely, and differ with my skin; and when I have another mouth, other shoes, other eyes; when it is all different, and no one can recognize me, since anything else is beyond me, I shall go on doing the same." (Id., pages 83-85.)
"WE ARE MANY"
"Of the many men who I am, who we are, I can't find a single one; they disappear among my clothes, they've left for another city.
"When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.
"At other times, I'm asleep among distinguished people, and when I look for my brave self, a coward unknown to me rushes to cover my skeleton with a thousand fine excuses.
"When a decent house catches fire, instead of the fireman I summon, an arsonist bursts on the scene, and that's me. What can I do? What can I do to distinguish myself? How can I pull myself together?
"All the books I read are full of dazzling heroes, always sure of themselves. I die with envy of them; and in films full of wind and bullets, I goggle at the cowboys, I even admire the horses.
"But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.
"While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone. I would like to know if others go through the same things that I do, have as many selves as I have, and see themselves similarly; and when I've exhausted this problem, I'm going to study so hard that when I explain myself, I'll be talking geography." (Id., pages 99-101.)
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Postscript: I'm looking for someone to go 50/50 with me and move to either Ecuador, Costa Rica, Belize, Guatemala, or Mexico where we can make a very low income go much further with a lower cost, and higher standard, of living (than living in the States on such a low income). This includes an only income of Social Security Disability (SSDI) and/or Retirement benefits. The Social Security Administration most definitely DOES allow SSDI and/or Retirement benefits, but not Supplemental Security Income (SSI) benefits, to be sent to recipients in most other countries! There are many books about moving and living abroad available at the public library and/or at Amazon.com . Naturally, I realize we would probably have to spend some time getting to know eachother, and finding out if we're compatible, before moving abroad together. We could even have our own separate "spaces" by choosing to rent or purchase a house or apartment with separate quarters, and still save considerable money in monthly costs compared to living in the States on the same income. If you might be interested, want to ask me some questions, and/or want to discuss it, please e-mail me at the address below.
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