We Are Many
Of so many men that I am, that we are
I cannot find a single one:
They are cloaked inside me
They have gone to a distant city
When the moment is ripe
for my words to be wise and witty
the dolt who hides inside
tangles himself in my tongue
Other moments I drowse in the company
of the bright and the passionate
yet when I call my courageous self
some unknown coward
wraps my bones
in a thousand nuanced hesitations
When a sweet and noble house burns
though I call the fireman
the arsonist bursts forth
And he is me. I have no remedy.
What can I do to sort this fathomless me?
How can I minister to myself?
All the books I read
sing praises of shining heroes
always so bold and self assured
I die of envy,
in the westerns
I yearn to be Shane
I begrudge him his horse and gun
When I call to my best bold self
out comes the familiar sloth,
and I just don’t know
who I am, or how many I am or will be.
I wish I could ring a bell
and summon the true me
so that I could stand witness to myself
in my own time of need.
I am gone as I write
and when I return, I am gone:
one day I will see
if what inhabits me also lives in others,
if there are many like me.
If they appear much the same to themselves
and when I have plumbed this depth
I will map so well this territory
that to explain my heart
I will speak of geography
– Pablo Neruda
– Translation: Leonard Cuff
Copyright © 2006 Leonard Cuff