Tšiili luuletaja, pedagoog ning diplomaat Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto (1904-1973) valis oma pseudonüümi Pablo Neruda Tšehhi luuletaja Jan Neruda eeskuju järgi. Pablo Neruda sai mehe kodanikunimeks aastal 1943.
Neruda poliitiline roll Tšiili ajaloos on sama märkimisväärne kui tema panus ladina-ameerika kirjandusse: 1970. aastal kuulus aastaid diplomaadi mappi kandnud Neruda Tšiili presidendikandidaatide hulka. Aasta hiljem pälvis luuletaja Nobeli kirjanduspreemia.
Üks hispaaniakeelse kirjanduse tähtsamaid esindajaid ning kaasnobelisti Gabriel Garcia Marquezi poolt 20. sajandi tähtsaimaks hispaania keeleruumi luuletajaks tituleeritud Neruda kirjutab tundelisi vabas riimis värsse nii lihalisest kui filosoofilisest armastusest ning kodumaast; samuti on talle omased oodid ja sonetid. Nerudat on nimetatud Ladina-Ameerika Walt Whitmaniks.
Neruda on ilmselt tänapäevani üks tuntumaid ladina-ameerika luuletajaid - minu teadmiste kohaselt tuntum kui talle eelnenud Gabriela Mistral, keda Neruda muide ka tundis: Mistral oli Neruda lapsepõlvelinna tüdrukute kooli õpetaja. Samuti tutvus ning sõbrunes Neruda tuntud luuletaja Federico García Lorcaga.
Eesti keeles on ilmunud luulekogud "Kivid ja linnud", "Poeedi kohus. Vaikigem", "Kapteni laulud" , ning Neruda memuaarid.
Mõned inglisekeelsed näited Neruda luulepagasist:
Enigma with Flower
Victory. It has come late, I had not learnt
how to arrive, like the lily, at will,
the white figure, that pierces
the motionless eternity of earth,
pushing at clear, faint, form,
till the hour strikes: that clay,
with a white ray, or a spur of milk.
Shedding of clothing, the thick darkness of soil,
on whose cliff the fair flower advances,
till the flag of its whiteness
defeats the contemptible deeps of night,
and, from the motion of light,
spills itself in astonished seed.
***
From The Heights Of Maccho Picchu
Rise up to be born with me, brother.
Give me your hand from the deep
Zone seeded by your sorrow.
You won’t return from under the rocks.
You won’t return from your subterranean time.
Your hardened voice won’t return.
Your gouged-out eyes won’t return.
Look at me from the depth of the earth,
laborer, weaver, silent shepherd:
tamer of wild llamas like spirit images:
construction worker on a daring scaffold:
waterer of the tears of the Andes:
jeweler with broken fingers:
farmer trembling as you sow:
potter, poured out into your clay:
bring to the cup of this new life
your old buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow,
Tell me, “Here I was punished,
Because the jewel didn’t shine or the earth
Didn’t yield grain or stones on time.”
Show me the stone you fell over
And the wood on which they crucified you,
Make a spark from the old flints for me,
For the old lamps to show the whips still stuck
After centuries in the old wounds
And the axes shining with blood.
I come to speak for your dead mouth.
Across the earth come together all
The silent worn-out lips
And from the depth speak to me all this long night
Like I was pinned down there with you.
Tell me all, chain by chain,
Link by link and step by step,
Sharpen the knives which you hid,
Put them in my breast and in my hand,
Like a river of yellow lighting
Like a river of buried jaguars
And let me weep, hours, days, years,
For blind ages, cycles of stars.
Give me silence, water, hope.
Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.
Stick bodies to me like magnets.
Draw near to my veins and my mouth.
Speak through my words and my blood.
