The Fugitive

Through the dead of night, through my entire life, from tear to paper, from clothes to clothes,
I paced these trying days,
I was the fugitive from justice, and in the crystal hour, in the fastness of solitary stars,
I crossed cities, forests, small farms and seaports, from the door of one human being to another, from the hand of one being to another being, and another,
Solemn’s the night, but man has disposed his fraternal signs, and groping my way along roads and shadows
I reached the lit doorway, the little point of star that was mine, the bread crumb that the wolves from the forest had not devoured.

Once in the countryside, at night, I reached a house, where
I’d never seen anyone that night or even imagined those lives.
Whatever they did, their hours were new in my consciousness.
I entered, they were a family of five: all had arisen as on the night of a fire.
I shook hand after hand, saw face after face, that said nothing to me: they were doors that I did not see before in the street, eyes that did not know my face, and in the dead of night, after welcoming me, I succumbed to fatigue, to sleep my country’s anguish…

“A poem is the perfect form of expression.”
Discuss this statement using reviews of at least one poem and a number of articles, which discuss the poet’s work.

Poet ~ Pablo Neruda
Poem ~ Poema 20, Canto 10 – The Fugitive

Introduction

Why poetry? One argument dates back to Aristotle, to the famous distinction between history and poetry: history reports what happened and is therefore subject to all the constraints and imperfections of actual life; poetry by contrast uses words in their fuller potential and creates representations that are more complete and meaningful than nature can give us raw.

In the quest to explain why poetry is the perfect form of expression, the works of poet