The Spanish Civil War

An experiment in the use of poetry mixed with prose, fact mixed with fiction yet in its entirety, offering a worthwhile message on the futility and horror of war. Both sides committed terrible deeds and it was certainly a trial and training ground for Hi

 

EXPLAINING

 

He was a big man, a bit rough really, his face certainly not that of an aesthete. On the table before him was a sketchbook – just a rough old thing with his doodling in paint and pencil. Reasonable, really because he was in an art class

 

The book lay open at a page showing his attempt at some ‘modern’ art, not his great love. Classification would be difficult.

 

There was much red, some black, cross-like objects, which could be loosely interpreted as aeroplanes and some fruit from round which flowed a stream of red, which could be taken for blood. On the ‘blood’ was the suggestion of a crumpled body.

 

‘My house was called the house of flowers, because in every cranny, geraniums burst . . . .’

 

The tutor appeared, seeming to like the painting. ‘It’s my interpretation of a poem,’ he said. ‘Pablo Neruda’s I’m Explaining a Few Things: The Spanish Civil War’. This poem meant so much to him.

 

' .  .   .   .   .  the fine, frenzied ivoryof potatoes. 

 

 

Wave on wave of potatoes rolling down to the sea . . . . . .’

 

He faltered, knowing what was coming. The tutor was picking up the story – eyeing the fruit.

 

‘ . . . . And one morning, all that was burning . . . .’

 

‘I see’, she said quietly. ‘I see the tomatoes, the fruit – it’s a market’.

 

            ‘Yes – but . . . .’  He repeated the line then quoted further:

 

‘ . . . .And one morning, all that was burning . . . . .’

 

‘. . . . . .Face to face with you I have seen the blood

 of Spain tower like a tide . . . . .’

 

‘ . . . .And You will ask: why doesn’t this 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!

 

She turned away from the power of the words, succumbing to their intensity and seeing the story in the picture.

 

‘Don’t ever be ashamed of that painting,’ she said,

 

But the painter seemed distant; by now he was in Spain, a long time ago.

 

The tutor had never seen him in this way before. She had seen him often, true, but now she looked a little deeper. He had never previously revealed this depth of feeling over a painting, or any interest in poetry. He had appeared a very ordinary man with the ready smile and sense of fun common to the area, the odd quip springing frequently to his lips. His art was but moderate though he enjoyed it deeply and with enthusiasm, revelling in any improvement from week to week. Today’s feelings were on another plain.

 

She probed lightly: ‘You’re interested in Spain?

 

There was no smile, no quip. ‘I was three when he left us’. The voice was slow, reflective, and sad. ‘He never came back, d’you see? Did he die? - Suffer? – Or perhaps meet a beautiful senorita? All I see is the blood in the streets and ask: was some of it my father’s?’

 

Sixty five years on, he placed his head in his hands – still a victim of the Spanish Civil War.

 

 

 *         *         *           *           * 

 

 

The story could be true except for the fact that my father neither volunteered for, nor served in the Spanish Civil War.  However, for many, both English and Spanish, even non-Nazi Germans from throughout 1930s Europe, it was. The quoted poetry is that of Pablo Neruda, a Chilean – hence the reference to volcanoes. He was in Spain at the time of the war and of course, wrote in Spanish, a language that translates beautifully into English. I commend him to any lover of descriptive and romantic poetry.

 

It is taken from ‘Pablo Neruda, Selected Poems, Bi-lingual edition – Edited Nathaniel Tarn. Penguin Poets.

 

The idea of my painting of course came from Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ but Neruda’s poem here refers to Madrid, where he lived at the time in his house – ‘The House of Flowers’.

 

Author's Note

Please criticise objectively. If someone describes this as beautiful, I've failed. It isn't and wasn't meant to be. Just tell me does it work, send a message, emphasise the horror of war?

Reviews

[Craig Bates]

I have heard of Pablo Neruda but never really explored his writing. This has given me an urge to read more of his work.

I find it interesting how your characters here remain nameless. Usually this would add to their dehumanization but here they are more human because of it. Their identities are solely based on their character and I like that.

You say you have failed if this is perceived as beautiful and I will hold myself back from calling it beautiful but I see a beauty in it, just not in standard conventional ways. You should take the advice of your own character and not be ashamed of it, not be ashamed of the beauty in it. The writing itself is where the beauty lies, the synthesis of poetry and prose creates something entirely more poetic and significant. Considering the subject, it is a tragic beauty.

My favourite part:
'Don't ever be ashamed of that painting,' she said,

But the painter seemed distant; by now he was in Spain, a long time ago.

On to what you want to know...
I'm not sure if it does emphasise the horrors of war. It tends to be the much more graphic pieces that truly bring things home. What this does do well is present the human response on a personal level and not just from the perspective of someone who was fighting. It's about the way anyone can connect with events like these and be affected by them, even later on in life. The horror is in the fact that this man is still troubled after all this time, coupled with the knowledge that, inevitably, he always will be.

I feel that you often, like me, prefer to let the reader do the imagining from subtle direction and this perfectly captures that. I can see him, staring at nothing, thinking intensely.
Thank you for pointing me towards this.

[Thomas James Martin]

Interesting. Like the mixture of poetry and prose.
tom

[Fabian G. Franklin]

It evokes a spirit and soul trying to get out in the form of its art, much as Neruda's work does. And nothing, thank God, and no words ever speak the true horror of war.

[Margaret Barton-Wahl]

It is thought provoking, interesting and just a tad confusing to my American sensibilities.I had to look up a word or two. Not used to the British spellings. I also enjoyed the way poetry and art are brought together in a written prose piece. NICELY done.Peace&Love be with you...~M~