Myself Again

Myself Again
Pablo Neruda

I who wanted to talk
of a century inside the web
that is always my poem-in-progress
have found only myself
wherever I looked
and missed the real happening

with wary good faith
I open myself to the wind:
the lockers, clothes-closets, graveyards,
the calendar months of the year
and in every opening crevice
my face looked back at me.

The more bored I became
with my unacceptable person
the more I returned to the
theme of my person;
Worst of all,
I kept painting myself to myself
in the midst of a happening.

What an idiot (I said to myself
a thousand times over)
to perfect all that craft
of description and describe only myself
as though I had nothing
better to tell than the
mistakes of a lifetime.

Tell me, good brothers,
I said at the fisherman's union
do you love yourselves as I do?
the plain truth of it is:
we fishermen stick to our fishing
while you fish for yourself
(said the fisherman): you
fish over and over again for
yourself, then throw yourself
back in the sea.

Who am I? Are there enough words to describe the summation of a person? "What an idiot," Pablo Neruda berates (a thousand times over) "to perfect all that craft of description and describe only myself." No, I won't do it. I refuse. By the end of this post, I shall have shared exceedingly little about myself - which is in essence, myself. For the less I am, the greater Christ is. Therefore, I ought to have been describing Him - rather than myself, or words, or Pablo. What an idiot.