Pablo Neruda's work

Caught in a black and white photograph

Pablo Neruda was born in Chile, a fact that very much altered the way he saw and wrote about the world. He wasn’t accepted as a poet by most of his immediate family, became subjugated by war and politics, experienced a failed marriage and took a life-altering trip to Machu Picchu. Although he stayed true to his culture and beliefs, Neruda allowed his works to be influenced and transformed by his surroundings and experiences.
Like most fathers, Neruda's wanted him to finish school and help him with work. For Neruda this meant laboring on the railroads. Neruda, however, only wanted to work with a fountain pen, some paper and eloquent words strung together. Soon the Spanish Civil War began. Neruda watched as friends and family, who had gone to fight, came back in wooden boxes. Those that did return were often broken in spirit along with so many other first-hand witnesses to the tragedy that tore through Spanish streets. Although he identified more with Spain than with Chile, Neruda hid behind his similes and made sure no one could call him a traitor to his country. As the war raged on, a new chapter of his writing began. In a poem called I’m Explaining a Few Things, he strayed from his traditional laid-back approach and ended it with the words, “Come and see the blood in the streets!” These more forceful words are unexpected and makes the reader question their own self and morals. No longer did he feel the need to hide and instead tells the reader to become aware of the horrors and the blood running in his streets.
The war finally ended, along with his first marriage. He felt the need to go somewhere quiet so that he could write once again. His travels resulted in a series of poems starting with The Heights of Macchu Pichu. He began the poem with, “I went through the streets and thin air, arriving and leaving behind.” It was time for him to begin a brand new chapter. I am able to, when reading his poems, put myself inside a black and white photo in the background and watch. I observe as a tear slides down his face the same way blood trickles down into a street gutter. I feel his happiness in his early poems; I witness his pain in his later works.
Neruda doesn't just speak for himself in his poems. He speaks for anyone who listens. Each experience and each location left an indelible mark on him and in his poetry.