Knowing the last year has been a brutal one for this writer, Deanna, a wonderful friend of mine from California, sent me this Neruda poem. It is exquisitely healing. And so, for the first time in this blog’s history, another writer’s words take center stage. After you read them, I think you’ll agree that is exactly where they belong.
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
For once on the face of the earth,
Let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing
What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count to twelve
And you keep quiet and I will go.
___________________________________________________________
Peter S. Kahrmann - Est. 1953 