Three poems of his in particular that I enjoyed include "Walking Around," "Tonight I Can Write..." and "I'm Explaining a Few Things," with my favorite being "I'm Explaining a Few Things." In it he begins with a sort of disclaimer in which he explains that this poem will not be like the others. But as he continues, the reader wonders what his first stanza could mean, because the stanzas that follow beautifully describe a suburb of Madrid where he once lived. He describes his home, often referred to as the house of flowers, with geraniums bursting from every crack. He also fondly describes the busy market overlooking the ocean. In the next stanzas the tone changes, though, and he begins to allude the Spanish Civil War and the horror it has brought to his beautiful Spain. He paints a dreadful scene that opposes the enchanting picture conjured in the previous stanzas, a scene of children dying and Spain burning down. The final two stanzas are the most powerful, in my opinion:
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"And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!"
Here, it's as if Neruda is saying he can't write of the things he usually does because his homeland is in ruins, even he can find no beauty.
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