Author Richard Rensberry

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I was born writing poetry. Nothing has changed. I’ll die with a pen and pencil in hand.

My roots are deeply embedded in the my Native American Spirit where a poem is food for life itself. The rain, the river, the wind and a whole host of phenomena are all poets in the interwoven scheme of creation. They are all much better than I, yet I still try to put a cloud or a whippoorwill into words.

I know it is not a popular or exciting endeavor for most people, poetry is about as esoteric as escargot.

When I was young I discovered the words of Pablo Neruda. Of course, for us English speaking readers, the words are twice removed by the nuances of language, but still speak with the and tongues of our nature.

Those Days

The mists of the North and South left me a little westerly and so those days passed. Everything was at sea.

I certainly earned the title of a wandering gentleman; I wore every kind of hat, I knew racy women; I ate sand, I ate sardines, and I married from time to time.

But without claiming to be emperor or sailor, I must confess I remember the most friendly hurricanes, and confess that I die of envy remembering what I’ve lost, how rich I was and wasn’t, the hunger that kept me going, and those intruding shoes which never knocked at the door.

The great thing about joy is the split self it has. One doesn’t live in today alone– the present is a handbag with a contraband watch in it. Our heart is all future, our pleasure is over.

And so I shifted from course to course, in heat, in cold, in a hurry, and all I didn’t see I still keep remembering– all the shadows I swam in, every sea that took me in; I beat on all the stones, I lay down among thorns, and I had the natural honor of those not born to it.

I don’t know why I’m telling these things, these places, these moments, the smoke of those bonfires. Nobody really needs to tremble at alien earthquakes and truly nobody cares about anyone else’s youth. So I am not asking for pardon. I’m in my usual place. I have a tree with so many leaves that although I don’t claim immortality, I can laugh at you and the autumn.

Pablo Neruda, in the year of 1958