Ring of Fire
by M. F. Luder
Seth mutters the words coming from his earphones softly under his breath, fingers drumming the edge of the book as he passes page after page, slowly and carefully, hoping to get something out of it.
Maybe some idea will arise from the pages through to his fingers, at some point, if he keeps at this. Maybe he will understand what the writer is trying to say because, really, he doesn't get a word of it.
Seth shakes his head, closing the book with a loud sound. He hangs his head back, closing his eyes.
He moves his head and his torso with the music.
Opening one eye, he looks down at the book on the table. He shakes his head.
He clicks stop on his mp3 player because, really, music as a background does not help when trying to understand a crazy writer.
Because, yeah, the guy had to be crazy to write this.
Pick one poem and write an essay about it. The author writes passionately, that's one of Pablo's characteristics. You must understand that love, that passion that drives him. You must understand it in order to understand him.
Stupid teacher of his. Seth shakes his head. To read a poem and write an essay. Great. Perfect for a Wednesday. Like he actually understands what the writer is trying to say.
First he has to choose a poem, which Seth can't seem to do. Each one seems much more complicated than the one before.
Well, there's a method that has always worked for him.
Seth reaches for his notebook, opening it to the last page. He writes down the numbers from one to twenty in big letters, then the letter D for desperate. Seth wonders who would give the title "Desperate song" to one of their poems.
With a shrug, Seth closes his eyes and placing his hand on his head, takes a deep breath. His index finger comes down to touch the page and Seth opens his eyes to see which poem he will be analyzing.
Number fifteen is the lucky winner.
Seth passes the pages until he finds the poem.
Sighing, he starts reading.
I like you calm, as if you were absent,
and you hear me far-off, and my voice does not touch you.
It seems that your eyelids have taken to flying:
it seems that a kiss has sealed up your mouth.The words seem to fly away as Seth reads them, understanding what it says, but not what it means.
He knows there are ways to do the work, to write the essay. With the Internet, everything is possible, but he doesn't want to take the easy route.
Groaning, he throws the book on the bed as he stands up, walking out. He still has two more weeks until the deadline. Enough time. More than enough time.
Trotting down the stairs, Seth wonders if Ryan has finished his homework.
On Friday night, Seth finishes reading about Physics and vibrations. He doesn't understand it. He really doesn't get it. He has the entire weekend to learn how to calculate how many minutes a clock is running late from a formula he doesn't get either.
Placing his book on top of the stack he has formed at the side of his desk, three books fall down.
Leaning over to pick them up, Seth catches the edge of a thin, slim red covered book and pulls it out from under his Calculus book.
He snorts as he reads the title. He had almost forgotten about his Literature homework.
He's supposed to be good at this. He's supposed to like this, to want to read more poetry, to crave the words of Pablo Neruda, but he doesn't.
For a moment Seth wonders about his chosen career.
It takes Seth a moment to remember the poem he had chosen before looking for it.
His eyes skim through the first quartet before falling on the second.
Since all these things are filled with my spirit,
you come from things, filled with my spirit.
You appear as my soul, as the butterfly’s dreaming,
and you appear as Sadness’ word.Worse than before, Seth thinks because, really, this time he can't even remember what he reads.
He tells himself it's the time, because it's almost seven and he's cutting it close to the Gala tonight. He still has to shower and change, and being in a hurry and reading poetry doesn't go hand in hand, so he places the book on top of the Physics one and makes his way to the bathroom, thinking about poetry that makes no sense and writers that were probably too high to know what they were writing about.
It isn't until next Thursday that Seth finds the book once again.
"You know, this is it. I'm doing this thing now. I am. I'm doing it. I'm reading it, understanding it and writing the damn essay right now. Take it or leave it."
He lifts the screen of his laptop, cracking his fingers after clicking on the Microsoft Word icon.
He places the book by the side of the laptop, stack of post-it notes in between the pages so he can read and write at the same time.
This time, Seth reads the whole poem in one sitting.
I like you calm, as if you were absent,
and you hear me far-off, and my voice does not touch you.
It seems that your eyelids have taken to flying:
it seems that a kiss has sealed up your mouth.Since all these things are filled with my spirit,
you come from things, filled with my spirit.
You appear as my soul, as the butterfly’s dreaming,
and you appear as Sadness’ word.I like you calm, as if you were distant,
you are a moaning, a butterfly’s cooing.
You hear me far-off, my voice does not reach you.
Let me be calmed, then, calmed by your silence.Let me commune, then, commune with your silence,
clear as a light, and pure as a ring.
You are like night, calmed, constellated.
Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.I like you calm, as if you were absent:
distant and saddened, as if you were dead.One word at that moment, a smile, is sufficient.
And I thrill, then, I thrill: that it cannot be so.He frowns, reading it again.
He catches words and sentences, can almost imagine what might be behind those words, but nothing concrete.
Nothing that's worth writing.
He groans, loud and clear, bending forward and letting his forehead fall down onto the top of the keyboard.
"I hate this." He turns around, eyes staring at the book on his right. "I hate you, you know? I hate you. I hate you. I don't think I hate Neruda, but I do hate the fact that I can't read you. What where you thinking? Were you high? Is that what I need to get you, to be high? Because, like, I can do it. I can totally do it. I'll go out with Ryan and get some pot, I swear to God."
Another groan and when he lifts his head, there are lines of Gs and Hs on the screen. He shakes his head, marking everything with the mouse and deleting.
He reads the poem for the third time.
Maybe if he chooses another poem. It's not like they had to choose it from "Twenty poems of love: A desperate Song". He also has "100 Love Sonnets" here... somewhere. He bought both, since his teacher recommended both books.
However, this totally sucks.
"I've got other things to do, you know?" Seth says, not certain who he's speaking to. "I have a Physics project to finish and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Not that I want to understand Physics. I really don't. I'm not gonna need it once I go to college. I won't."
He pauses, staring at the book once again.
What he will need is to understand Neruda because, at some point through out the curricula, he's gonna have to take Very Productive and Famous Poets of the 1900's and that will totally include Pablo Neruda and an essay will be a must.
He wonders if choosing a school that doesn't have that subject in the curricula is wrong.
"That's so wrong," he accepts, closing the laptop and picking it up. It takes him a moment to find his Physics book and in that second he hates Serway's guts for writing about Physics, ergo giving the teacher a decent bibliography. Bibliography he's supposed to understand.
"I'm leaving," Seth says, not turning around to look at the book. "I'm leaving and I'm not taking you."
Book and laptop in hand, he walks out of his bedroom and toward the pool house, convinced he needs to get started on that Physics project with Ryan before he feels guilty for not doing Literature.
Seth tries not to think about Literature and Neruda and the poem from hell he can't seem to understand on Saturday morning.
Still, he has to give up on Sunday afternoon when he doesn't have more than a few hours before having to deliver a paper he isn't ready to start typing.
He puts it off even more, against his better judgment and his pride that tell him he should be able to understand anything written by anyone in this sucky world. He goes to the pool house, to hang out with Ryan and not think about Literature and poets.
He pauses as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and he thinks that, if he's gonna blow off homework, the least he can do is take the book with him.
But, what is the point of not wanting to think about it if he's gonna take the stupid book anyway.
With a shake of his head, he walks down the stairs and toward the pool house.
Seth pulls the door open, nodding at Ryan as he turns around and gives Seth the briefest glance before returning his attention to the laptop in front of him.
Seth grumbles under his breath. He places his things on the table by the door and he lies down on his back, horizontal to the bed.
Ryan's sitting at the desk, books opened haphazardly and he seems to be writing a masterpiece by the speed.
"Dude, are you re-writing War and Peace or do you just want to mock me? Because, really." Seth turns on his side, propping up his head with one elbow. "Like, I have things to write too, but I've postponed them in order to spend some quality time with you, you know?"
Seth hears Ryan snorting and it's the only indication Ryan actually heard what he said because the boy doesn't turn around, not even a look over his shoulder in Seth's direction.
Seth feels utterly neglected. And he's vocal about it. "Dude, are you shutting me out now, or what? That paper can't be that important."
"One sec."
"Dude!"
Seth sits down, outraged by the direct mistreatment to his persona. He glares at Ryan's back, though it's probably not as powerful as Ryan's "Glare of Doom", but that doesn't stop him.
It takes another moment, the longest moment for Seth, for Ryan to sigh and turn around, one arm draped over the back of the chair and nod in Seth's direction.
Seth slumps down his shoulders. "Well, finally. Like, what was so important you couldn't hit pause for like a second to actually look at me?"
Ryan rolls his eyes, annoyance clear on his face but Seth doesn't care. He's feeling bad as it is, not being able to understand Neruda and now, Ryan not looking at him? Seth doesn't take that abuse well, not from Ryan.
"I was finishing the paper Mr. Clark assigned us. You know," Ryan says, standing up and stretching his arms. He hits save once again on the computer. "That thing about the poem."
Seth blinks, confused and rather taken back. Seth should have finished it first. Not that Ryan isn't smart enough. Ryan is smart. Way smart. So very smart, Seth is not really hurt by his ability to understand something Seth should excel at. "You done with it?"
Ryan nods, walking to the bed. Laptop left on. "I wanted to finish it last week, but I had that Biology thing."
"Oh, right, the Biology thing." The Biology thing Seth totally forgot about and had to stay up until three am the night before to actually finish it. "So, what poem did you choose?"
Ryan shrugs nonchalantly, lying down on the bed by Seth's side. He picks up the latest copy of Justice League, opening it to the page he last read.
"You didn't choose one in particular?" Seth tilts his head, eyeing Ryan carefully.
Ryan's eyes follow the graphics as he answers, "Nah, not really."
"Oh, cool." Seth pauses, lying down on the bed once again and Ryan is forced to pull his legs up for Seth not to lie down on top of them.
He looks up at the ceiling as Ryan carries on with his reading.
He tells himself he's not curious about Ryan's paper, not the fact that maybe there is a simpler poem in Neruda's book that Seth can choose and therefore do his essay on it instead.
Seth tells himself that, really, no, he shouldn't try to peek at Ryan's work, but he can't stop himself. He stands up with a jump and walks toward the desk.
"Seth? Seth, what are you--?"
Seth looks over his shoulder. Ryan's standing up, walking toward him. "Just a quick look, Ryan, I swear." Seth says, lifting the screen of the laptop and hitting page up, to read the whole work.
"Seth! No. Leave it!"
Seth chuckles as Ryan stands up by his side and tries to lower the lid. With a quick maneuver, Seth picks up the notebook and walks behind the bed and down the four steps to the lower level. "Dude, what's the matter? I'm just gonna read it! I'm not gonna copy it!"
Ryan's glaring at Seth, jaw set. "Seth, leave it. Okay? Just leave it."
Seth's lifts an eyebrow, shocked at Ryan's reluctance to let him read his work. "Dude, is there someone you don't want me to read about or what?"
Ryan looks at Seth squarely and swallows. He ducks his head as he speaks. "No, of course not."
"See? Nothing wrong." Seth grins, sitting down on the bed and placing the notebook on his lap. He lifts the lid once again and reads the poem Ryan chose.
His eyes flicker to Ryan, who takes a seat on the armchair in front of him. He gives Ryan a grin before looking down at the paper.
***
Poem XVII from "100 Love Sonnets"
I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire
I love you as certain hidden things are loved,
secretly, between night and soul.I love you like the flower-less plant
carrying inside itself the light of those flowers,
and, graced by your love, a fierce perfume
risen from earth, is alive, concealed in my flesh.I love you without knowing how, whence, when.
I love you truly, without doubts, without pride,
I love you so, and know, no other way to love,none but this mode of neither You nor I,
so close that your hand over my chest is my hand,
so close are your eyes they shut when I sleep.***
Seth checks the page count. Six. Seth wonders where Ryan found the inspiration to write six pages.
His eyes pass through Theme Reference and Biography, certain he wouldn't have thought about adding that, until he hits what he wants to read.
The comments on the poem itself.
Ryan seems to have separated the poem in verses for analysis.
***
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fireThe author compares the love he feels for whom we'll call his beloved with things that seem not only to be personal, but also familiar to the two of them.
Salt-rose and topaz might remind the author of fire, and the color of carnations do as well. The fire, maybe, he sees in his beloved's eyes, or expression. The fire that can be seen in her essence as well. The fire that he might see in her eyes.
Passion too can be referred to as fire. Passion is a defining characteristic of Pablo Neruda’s writings. This passion is like a ring of fire that surrounds him, that allows him to breathe and be. For without it, he's no one.
***
Seth swallows. Wow. He wouldn't have thought of that.
***
That same fire is the one that drives a person to do things one might not normally do. Such fire reminds the author of everything loved.
I love you as certain hidden things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.Some things, to the author, are not to be spoken of. Are not to be named. Love, seems to be one of them. Love can be felt from within the shadow, in silence and secrecy. It can go unspoken but it is felt either way.
Secretly, like one wants it to be felt, but it’s love nonetheless. Between the shadow and the soul, so deep, sometimes it seems like it's a part of oneself. Like it belongs within us. At moments, it appears as if, without it, we're nothing. No one. We don't exist without the love that vibrates within us. That love is our flame, our desire to live.
We can interpret secretly another way as well. Secretly, in reference to the things we cannot see about the other person, but we love nonetheless. One can fall in love with the way someone pushes their hair back, or touches a book. With the way they smell in the morning, or how they look at you. One can love the passion that is felt within a person, passion we might not share. We can love innocence and kindness that pours from them in waves, and only the touch of such waves seems to makes us better.
I love you like the flower-less plant
carrying inside itself the light of those flowers,What the author feels doesn't need to be exteriorized to be true, to be there, to exist. It only needs to be felt, which the author does, with the utmost passion and sincerity. Ergo, it blooms inside oneself. It carries the light that is not spoken of. It carries the light that no one else can see. Love gives us strength from within. Love gives us life from within.
and, graced by your love, a fierce perfume
risen from earth, is alive, concealed in my flesh.Graced by your love, Neruda says, as if it's a privilege to be loved back by such a person. For him, it is. To have his feelings reciprocated is the ultimate demonstration of devotion.
The fierce perfume the author speaks of, to my understanding, has to be the love he expresses for his beloved in returned. For the love she feels for him, he feels it in the same intensity for her.
Risen from earth, is alive just as love is. Love is like fire, very much alive, moving inside oneself, living from us, to us, for us.
Concealed in my flesh, the love Neruda doesn't speak of. The love Neruda says, it's too pure to even speak of. The love that mustn't be talked about, not verbalize for trying to do so, one would only come short of the words. Nothing is more perfect, more complex and even more unexplainable than love itself.
***
Another wow.
It’s as times like this that Ryan most amazes Seth. Ryan might not share much most of the time, but when he does, like now, like on this paper, it says everything.
Seth wonders if he has an easiness with words like this one. He wonders if he could write something like this.
***
I love you without knowing how, when, where.
I love you truly, without doubts, without pride,
I love you so, and know, no other way to love,These three verses are self-explanatory.
Without knowing how, because love can appear in the strangest places, in the strangest of circumstances. We might find ourselves looking at a friend one day and the next one, like a switch has been clicked above us, we see them in a different light. Nothing has changed in them, not really, because the person is still the same person they were the day before. But what has changed is inside us. Something has shifted, something has drifted out and touched the other soul, making it impossible for us to live without them.
When, because it happens at once. In one second. Without previous notice. We can't predict it, nor choose it. We can't foresee it. And we can't control it. We can't do anything but feel it and that fills us with grace.
Where, because it's all around us. It surrounds us, from inside out. It's within us as we breathe, as we take a step, as we move. It's within us, to make us free. To make us who we are.
Truly, without doubts, without pride, for there is no other way to love. One can only love with everything we have, with everything we are. No doubts to be spoken, because doubts can't be found in true love. There cannot be hesitation in the loving, for if there is, then such a feeling is not love. Love is complete and unconditional. Love is given without asking anything in return. Love is felt without anything to stop it from being so. Without pride, for love is not an emotion that makes us better, only human.
and know, no other way to love,
In the act of loving, one does it the only way we know how. Giving what we have, what we are. To give everything to the other person in hopes of their well being, in hopes of the return of such feelings. We love who we love, and that is all there is to it. It's not more and it's not less. It is what it is. We open our arms, baring our chest, our soul, to the one that matters the most in our life. We do it for we have no choice. We do it for our heart could not bear not to do so.
***
Seth frowns, noticing the change of pronoun from he to we.
He glances in Ryan's direction out of the corner of his eye. Ryan's looking down at the floor, elbows on his knees, fingers twirling.
Something about this doesn't sit right with Seth, but there're still two more pages to read. With a sigh, Seth focuses on the paper once again.
***
none but this mode of neither You nor I,
When such grace has fallen over us, when we have been given the precious gift of love, we are not one person, but two. We are not ourselves anymore, but a part of the other, a part of our beloved. We are incomplete without such person. We are only halves of an entity.
so close that your hand over my chest is my hand,
We lose track of where the other one begins and were we end. We are one, and we cannot dream it to be any other way. Let us imagine, if the other person was to be hurt, we would feel it to. We would feel the pain, for the pain is shared, as it is the joy. We would feel it ten times worse than we would feel our own wounds, because that is one of the clauses of love: You give everything, you are the other person, and when they hurt, you hurt for them. You want to hurt instead of them. You want to hurt, so they won't. You want to protect them. You want to keep them safe.
so close are your eyes they shut when I sleep.
Maybe Neruda makes reference to the clarity that arrives with being in love. Like everything seems better, sharper and brighter. Like nothing before was ever as good enough as it is now.
The unity of two people into becoming one can be visible in the smallest things. It is only when it’s calm that the other can be so. It is only when one is happy that the other can feel it too. And when one hurts, the other does as well.
they shut when I sleep can have a million interpretations, but we will peruse the literal one. Her eyes shut when Neruda sleeps. She can only rest when Neruda is resting himself. That is entirely understandable. We cannot relax until the other one is safe at home. We cannot even breathe until the other one is safe, by our side, looking into our eyes and we can prove to ourselves they are out of harm's way.
***
Seth clicks Page Down, revising the analysis of the number of syllables and type of rhyme, of the flow and tone of the poem. Only, none of that is important.
The author writes passionately, that's one of Pablo's characteristics. You must understand that love, that passion that drives him. You must understand it in order to understand him.
His teacher's words come back to haunt him as his eyes skims through the words Ryan wrote. Words like,
Nothing is more perfect, more complex and even more unexplainable than love itself.
Love is complete and unconditional. Love is given without asking anything in return.
We open our arms, baring our chest, our soul, to the one that matters the most in our life. We do it for we have no choice. We do it for our heart could not bear not to do so.
Between the shadow and the soul, so deep, sometimes it seems like it's a part of oneself. Like it belongs within us. At moments, it appears as if, without it, we're nothing.
Seth's eyes fall on one of the first paragraphs, and his attention is caught and held.
One can fall in love with the way someone pushes their hair back, or touches a book. With the way they smell in the morning, or how they look at you.
Swallowing thickly, past the tightening in his throat, Seth looks up from the liquid screen and at Ryan.
Ryan's sitting on the armchair, left elbow propped up on his knee, hand clutching at his head tightly as he looks to the side.
Passion that has to be felt to be understood, Seth remembers. Passion felt. Love felt.
With the way they smell in the morning, or how they look at you.
Maybe I'm going crazy, Seth thinks.
We can love innocence and kindness that pours from them in waves
Or maybe, he's not.
"Ryan?" Seth asks, his voice not quivering and he’s very proud of that accomplishment. "Dude, when did you--?"
Ryan turns around, gives him a quick and nervous smile that Seth recognizes for what it is, and stands up. "I copied some references I found online. It's not much."
Ryan shrugs nonchalantly, though the nonchalance Ryan seems to want to express doesn't reach his eyes. Instead, Seth notices unease on the edges of Ryan's posture. Uneasiness that only seems to confirm Seth's suspicions.
"This is really good," Seth says, giving Ryan the laptop when he asks for it. Seth watches Ryan walk to the desk and place the laptop on top, by some books, one of them he recognizes as "100 Love Sonnets". There is that awkwardness in Ryan's walk as well.
"So," Ryan asks, walking toward Seth, "what are we gonna do this afternoon? I thought maybe we could go the pier, or--?"
"Ryan," Seth's voice is low, the word almost ending like a question.
Ryan gnaws at his lower lip and ducks his head. "Seth, let’s leave it at that, okay? Just leave it."
"Why?"
Ryan snorts, shaking his head. "Look, it's nothing. I found the references, the comments--"
"No, you didn't." Seth stands up, taking a step closer to Ryan.
Ryan places his arms around himself, protectively, taking a step back.
Retreating. Seth pauses. Ryan retreats from him and that hurts him. "You wrote that."
Ryan shakes his head. Seth watches Ryan's grip on his forearms tighten.
"Yes, you did. You wrote that. You wrote all that in one sitting, probably, because I don't think anyone can find that kind of inspiration twice." Seth tilts his head, trying to catch Ryan's eyes, but he avoids Seth. "You wrote that."
After a sigh, Ryan nods.
"Wow," Seth says. "Wow." He figures that he can ask about it. He figures the answer will be visible. "I didn't know you felt like that about a girl."
Seth waits for Ryan's reaction and he sees it. A small grimace forms at the corner of his lips. His hands tighten again.
"Not a girl."
Seth wonders if the answer could be any more obvious.
Figuring, one might as well bet everything on one hand, Seth closes the space between them in two long strides, hands going to Ryan's forearms. Ryan stiffens under his touch. A breath, two, and then Seth kisses him. Seth closes his eyes as his lips meet Ryan's, his hands shaking slightly, his heart skipping a beat. His knuckles feel cold, and maybe it's the nervousness of it all. When Ryan kisses him back, his heart relaxes, beating normally, and his hands respond when he moves them to Ryan's waist.
In that moment, Seth realizes that passion can't be taught, but only felt. Love can't be spoken of, but experienced.
Three hours later, after discovering that Ryan shudders when he's kissed for too long, that his hands tend to go to Seth's hair and that Ryan likes to be caressed as they lay down in the pool house, Seth sits down at his computer and finishes his Literature paper.
When he reads once again,
I like you calm, as if you were absent,
and you hear me far-off, and my voice does not touch you.truer words were never spoken.
Pablo Neruda never made more sense to Seth than in this moment.
Finished: September 10th, 2004.