(picture from www.poetryfoundation.org)
A few words about the poem:
My understanding is that Gimenez was another Chilean poet, and that Neruda wrote the poem upon his death. I like the poem because of the way its repetitive rhythm, and the enumerative picture it is painting, draws you in. It reminds me of what I like about a lot of Walt Whitman's poetry. The idea of painting the entire canvas, and creating beauty out of detail. Ultimately, my read is that Neruda establishes Gimenez's presence and immortality by contrasting him against pretty much everything worldly that he's left behind - and after each visual, "he comes flying". He is greater than the things and he world he left behind.
English translation first:
Alberto Rojas Jimenez Comes Flying
Between terrified feathers, between nights
and magnolias and telegrams,
between southerly winds and winds from the sea blowing West,
you come flying.
Under grave-plots and ashes,
under the ice on the snail,
under the remotest terrestrial waters,
you come flying.
Deeper still, between girls under fathoms of water,
blind plants and a litter of fish heads,
deeper, still deeper, among clouds once again
you come flying.
Further than blood or than bones,
further than bread; beyond wines,
conflagrations,
you come flying.
Beyond vinegar’s sting and morality,
between canker and violets,
in your heavenly voice, with the wet on your shoes,
you come flying.
Over drugstores, committees,
over lawyers and navies, wheels
and the reddened extraction of teeth,
you come flying.
Over cities with roofs under water
where notable ladies uncouple the braids of their hair
with lost combs in the span of their hands
you come flying.
Close to the ripening wine in the cellars,
with hands tepid and turbid, quiet,
with gradual, wooden, red hands
you come flying.
Among vanishing airmen
by the banks of the canals and the shadows,
beside lilies now buried,
you come flying.
Among bitter-hued bottles,
rings of anise and accidents,
lamenting and lifting your hands,
you come flying.
Over dentists and parishes,
cinemas, tunnels, ears,
in your newly bought suit, with your eyeballs effaced,
you come flying.
Over that graveyard unmarked by a wall,
where even the mariner founders,
while the rains of your death fall,
you come flying.
While the rain of your fingertips falls,
while the rain of your bones falls,
and your laughter and marrow fall down,
you come flying.
Over the flint into which you dissolve,
flowing fast under time, under winter,
while your heart falls in droplets,
you come flying.
You are no longer there in that ring of cement,
hemmed in by the black-hearted notaries
or the horseman’s maniacal bones:
you come flying.
Oh, sea-poppy, my kinsman,
bee-clothed guitarist,
all the shadows that blacken your hair are a lie:
you come flying.
All the shadows that pursue you, a lie;
all the death-stricken swallows, a lie;
all the darkening zones of lament:
you come flying.
A black wind from Valparaiso
spreads the charcoal and foam of its wings
sweeping away the sky where you pass:
you come flying.
There are mists and the chill of dead water,
and whistles and months and the smell
of the rain in the morning and the swill of the fishes:
you come flying.
There’s rum, too, between us, you and I and the soul that I mourn, in,
and nobody, nothing at all but a staircase
with all the treads broken, and a single umbrella:
you come flying.
And always, the sea, there. I go down in the night and I hear you
come flying, under water, alone,
under the sea that inhabits me darkly:
you come flying.
I listen for wings and your slow elevation,
while the torrents of all who have perished assail me,
blind doves flying sodden:
you come flying.
You come flying, alone, in your solitude,
alone with the dead, alone in eternity,
shadowless, nameless, you come flying
without sweets, or a mouth, or a thicket of roses,
you come flying.
The original:
Alberto Rojas Jiménez Viene Volando (Spanish)
Entre plumas que asustan, entre noches,
entre magnolias, entre telegramas,
entre el viento del Sur y el Oeste marino,
vienes volando.
Bajo las tumbas, bajo las cenizas,
bajo los caracoles congelados,
bajo las últimas aguas terrestres,
vienes volando.
Más abajo, entre nińas sumergidas,
y plantas ciegas, y pescados rotos,
más abajo, entre nubes otra vez,
vienes volando.
Más allá de la sangre y de los huesos,
más allá del pan, más allá del vino,
más allá del fuego,
vienes volando.
Más allá del vinagre y de la muerte,
entre putrefacciones y violetas,
con tu celeste voz y tus zapatos húmedos,
vienes volando.
Sobre diputaciones y farmacias,
y ruedas, y abogados, y navíos,
y dientes rojos recién arrancados,
vienes volando.
Sobre ciudades de tejado hundido
en que grandes mujeres se destrenzan
con anchas manos y peines perdidos,
vienes volando.
Junto a bodegas donde el vino crece
con tibias manos turbias, en silencio,
con lentas manos de madera roja,
vienes volando.
Entre aviadores desaparecidos,
al lado de canales y de sombras,
al lado de azucenas enterradas,
vienes volando.
Entre botellas de color amargo,
entre anillos de anís y desventura,
levantando las manos y llorando,
vienes volando.
Sobre dentistas y congregaciones,
sobre cines, y túneles y orejas,
con traje nuevo y ojos extinguidos,
vienes volando.
Sobre tu cementerio sin paredes
donde los marineros se extravían,
mientras la lluvia de tu muerte cae,
vienes volando.
Mientras la lluvia de tus dedos cae,
mientras la lluvia de tus huesos cae,
mientras tu médula y tu risa caen,
vienes volando.
Sobre las piedras en que te derrites,
corriendo, invierno abajo, tiempo abajo,
mientras tu corazón desciende en gotas,
vienes volando.
No estás allí, rodeado de cemento,
y negros corazones de notarios,
y enfurecidos huesos de jinetes:
vienes volando.
Oh amapola marina, oh deudo mío,
oh guitarrero vestido de abejas,
no es verdad tanta sombra en tus cabellos:
vienes volando.
No es verdad tanta sombra persiguiéndote,
no es verdad tantas golondrinas muertas,
tanta región oscura con lamentos:
vienes volando.
El viento negro de Valparaíso
abre sus alas de carbón y espuma
para barrer el cielo donde pasas:
vienes volando.
Hay vapores, y un frío de mar muerto,
y silbatos, y mesas, y un olor
de mańana lloviendo y peces sucios:
vienes volando.
Hay ron, tú y yo, y mi alma donde lloro,
y nadie, y nada, sino una escalera
de peldańos quebrados, y un paraguas:
vienes volando.
Allí está el mar. Bajo de noche y te oigo
venir volando bajo el mar sin nadie,
bajo el mar que me habita, oscurecido:
vienes volando.
Oigo tus alas y tu lento vuelo,
y el agua de los muertos me golpea
como palomas ciegas y mojadas:
vienes volando.
Vienes volando, solo solitario,
solo entre muertos, para siempre solo,
vienes volando sin sombra y sin nombre,
sin azúcar, sin boca, sin rosales,
vienes volando.
Source for original and translation:
http://www.babelmatrix.org/works/es/Neruda,_Pablo-1904/Alberto_Rojas_Jiménez_Viene_Volando/en/54902-Alberto_Rojas_Jimenez_Comes_Flying