Poetry Journal #1

Poem: Minstrel Man by Langston Hughes
Contemporary Poet Response

I hear you laugh
I hear you sing
Oh, how could I know
Your soul cried within?

I too dance
I too sing
But can’t you see
That I too
Hold great pain within?

Both blinded by pain
Both dying inside
I can see now that you hurt
I can understand now why you cry
Your pain like a reflection of mine!


I chose to respond to Hughes poem by writing a poem of my own. When writing my own poem I was not precisely focusing on the structure of the poem, though I did try to resemble Hughes’. I was especially astounded by the brevity of his poem, his economy of words. But though simple, his words were powerful and I wanted my poem to do the same. My main focus was, however, the messages Hughes was trying to send. When I first read this poem I felt as if I knew exactly the pain he talked about. In my poem I wanted him to know that he is not alone, not the only one who lives burdened. The poem I wrote as a response to Hughes’ is not a defiance to his remarks, but simply a reminder that just like him many other have been forced to hide their pain too.

Pablo Neruda

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche esta estrellada, y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos". El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso. En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos. La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito. Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería. Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido. Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella. Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío. Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla. La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo. Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos. Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca. Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo. La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles. Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise. Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído. De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos. Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero. Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido. Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos, mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa, y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

By Pablo Neruda

Poetic Language vs. Poetry

I never really thought of poetic language as being different than poetry, rather I thought of poetic language as the complement to poetry. To me poetry is created by poetic language, a language so complex yet so powerful that captivates even the deepest emotions. Poetic language, to me, is not just words, for even silence is a language. Words in poetry are but a translator of emotions, of illusions, of dreams that otherwise we might not be able to share. When we use poetic language to describe, for instance, the cold breeze dancing to the rhythm of the roaring waves, it is not simply the words that are captivating but the image that is painted in our minds; that images that evokes a sense of fury and strength yet it remains so overwhelming. What I am trying to say is that words do not stand on their own, it is a language, which implies so much more, what keeps them walking. and tome, it is poetic language what makes poetry resonate with even the tightest cords in our beings.