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The Poetics of Learning (and Loving) Language

By Will Willingham 15 Comments

the poetics of learning language
I knew I was in trouble as soon as I walked into the classroom, late on the first day, and saw only two other students and the professor.

It was 1985, my junior year, and the spring of my self-importance. The sound of the Mississippi River lapping at her banks across the bridge from campus enchanted me more readily than stuffy classrooms and the stuffed shirts lecturing in them, so I often arrived late to class, if I arrived at all. These companions, smirking at me from their front row seats, were thinking the same: this will be the longest quarter ever. We three were the ones who appeared for class at random, sat in the back row, muttered wisecracks under our breath, and experienced the occasional ire of a fed-up professor.

Our well-mannered and more studious counterparts were all away in Spain that term. As the only three in Advanced Spanish Literature, we would have no one to slouch behind and snicker at. We’d have to show up–on time and every day. We’d have to pay attention and do our work.

I formally studied Spanish for eight years. During college, I retreated from a Spanish major to a Spanish minor and finally to a Political Science major with a long trail of Spanish classes dragging behind. I excelled in grammar and all things written. I was nominally functional in conversation. Literature was my anathema. And it earned me an equal place in the hearts of my professors.

Reading the works of Miguel de Cervantes and Francisco de Quevedo in their native Golden Age Spanish proved my downfall. I read page after page, comprehending little and retaining less. The day after I read Cervantes for three hours straight, my companions persuaded our Peruvian professor to hold class under the giant oak outside our building. After I failed to answer a single question correctly, she squinted into the sun so as not to look me in the face and suggested that perhaps, tomorrow, I could read con los ojos abiertos. With my eyes open.

After a number of midterm withdrawals from Spanish lit classes, I abandoned hope of a degree in the language. But my love of it went on. I’d spent the previous summer, and would also spend the next, in Argentina, living and learning the rich Castellano spoken along the Rio de la Plata. Without even my two troublesome classmates to rescue me, I learned to speak the way one does when one wants to survive. In order to be fed, to go from here to there, to work, to love. But my professors–from Peru, Spain, Mexico–had little patience with the Porteño tint at the edge of my accent.

I resolved not to sit in another Spanish class and took to reading less Cervantes and more from Hebrew poets like David and Asaph. I followed familiar words in a bilingual text as they worked their way into my mind and body. I found myself thinking in Spanish more freely than in English, as though in some Quixote mind trick I was able to slip by an English-speaking censor in my head.

It’s no surprise to me, then, that my venture into poetry would come full circle, bringing me back to reading Spanish literature. But this time, rather than the dense prose of 16th and 17th century authors it is the earthy poetry of Pablo Neruda, who hands me words I’ve never heard, but that make perfect and instant sense, words I was looking for without knowing.

Tal vez tu sueño
se separó del mío
y por el mar oscuro
me buscaba
como antes,
cuando aún no existías,

Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
as before,
when you did not yet exist

–Pablo Neruda, from “La Noche en la Isla” (Night on the Island)
The Captain’s Verses: Love Poems

Photo by visualpanic. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by LW Lindquist.

______________

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Will Willingham
Will Willingham
Director of Many Things; Senior Editor, Designer and Illustrator at Tweetspeak Poetry
I used to be a claims adjuster, helping people and insurance companies make sense of loss. Now, I train other folks with ladders and tape measures to go and do likewise. Sometimes, when I’m not scaling small buildings or crunching numbers with my bare hands, I read Keats upside down. My first novel is Adjustments.
Will Willingham
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About Will Willingham

I used to be a claims adjuster, helping people and insurance companies make sense of loss. Now, I train other folks with ladders and tape measures to go and do likewise. Sometimes, when I’m not scaling small buildings or crunching numbers with my bare hands, I read Keats upside down. My first novel is Adjustments.

Comments

  1. L. L. Barkat says

    March 29, 2013 at 9:30 am

    So glad you let the Mississippi call you away. There’s something about a body of water that has its own language, its own rhythms. Ultimately, it is that kind of agreement to be “taken away” that allows us to enter into language.

    And Neruda. Who always, always promises to take us away 🙂

    Reply
    • Will Willingham says

      March 29, 2013 at 9:53 am

      People who build universities along rivers clearly do not intend that students attend class during certain times of the year.

      But they could learn other things at the water’s edge. This is certain.

      Reply
  2. Maureen Doallas says

    March 29, 2013 at 9:21 am

    Lovely post!

    I still have all my Spanish texts and plenty of Neruda on my shelves. I studied Spanish from 7th grade through sophomore year in college, giving up further study after discovering Italian. I speak neither language well anymore, but I can still understand the poetry in written form. The poetry never leaves me.

    If everyone could be introduced to poetry with a single Neruda poem, perhaps there would be more love in and of our world.

    Reply
    • Will Willingham says

      March 29, 2013 at 9:50 am

      Thanks, Maureen.

      Despite my dismal academic performance 😉 I’ve used Spanish my entire professional life, and still retreat to it in my most deep and quiet moments. The language seems to have a better grasp of my soul than English does.

      I can’t figure why it took until the last year for Neruda to come into view. Might have changed everything back then. Or maybe, like so many things, the timing is quite justo.

      Reply
  3. Megan Willome says

    March 29, 2013 at 10:33 am

    Just one more reason you should have met my mother, who spent one summer in Mexico and another in Chile. My dad casually mentioned–after reading Maureen’s book–that they went to Neruda’s house for tapas.

    Love this peek into your soul.

    Reply
    • Marilyn Yocum says

      March 29, 2013 at 5:15 pm

      I have a lot to learn about you, Megan. 🙂

      Reply
    • Will Willingham says

      March 29, 2013 at 10:32 pm

      Seriously? They went to Neruda’s house?

      Wow.

      Reply
  4. L. L. Barkat says

    March 29, 2013 at 12:07 pm

    “…poetry arrived
    in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
    it came from, from winter or a river.
    I don’t know how or when…”

    —Pablo Neruda

    🙂

    Reply
    • Will Willingham says

      March 29, 2013 at 12:16 pm

      Well, yeah.

      Like that. 😉

      Reply
  5. Linda says

    March 29, 2013 at 1:37 pm

    The poem is so lovely. I can imagine you sitting by the river. I think it was a great teacher for your words are beautiful.

    Reply
  6. Marilyn Yocum says

    March 29, 2013 at 5:15 pm

    I enjoyed your story and the poem was whipped cream on top of the whole delicious post!

    Recently I was stacking books on a friend’s bookshelves after she moved to a new place. Came across a book of Neruda in the original language. I read several at random, my Spanish iffy but not horrible……fell in love!

    Reply

Trackbacks

  1. Take Your Poet to Work: Pablo Neruda | Tweetspeak PoetryTweetspeak Poetry says:
    June 8, 2013 at 3:40 pm

    […] Pablo Neruda was a Chilean poet born in 1904. He was deeply involved in the politics of his beloved Chile, and in keeping with Latin American tradition, was appointed diplomatic roles, While in Spain, he forged friendships with Federico García Lorca and Manuel Altolaguirre. With Altolaguirre, he published a literary review, Caballo verde para la poesia. […]

    Reply
  2. This Week's Top Ten Poetic Picks - Tweetspeak Poetry says:
    July 25, 2013 at 10:40 am

    […] Luis Borges on one of my trips to Buenos Aires (though in my defense, I was still bitter over those Spanish lit classes I failed). To make up for it, how about I promise to hit F. Scott Fitzgerald’s birthplace in […]

    Reply
  3. How I studied Spanish forever without a degree says:
    July 10, 2014 at 7:58 am

    […] I’m at Tweetspeak Poetry today telling the story of my deep love of Spanish despite dismal academic performance. And how the work of Pablo Neruda could have made all the difference back then. Swing on over and read the rest.  […]

    Reply
  4. Book Club Announcement: Dark Times Filled with Light, by Juan Gelman - says:
    January 4, 2017 at 8:00 am

    […] all trades, I’ve chosen one that isn’t mine.” In something of the way of Pablo Neruda, Gelman’s poems are political, and not, riddled with themes of injustice, of grief, of loss. […]

    Reply

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