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100 Love Sonnets
Against the backdrop of Isla Negra - the sea and wind, the white sand with its scattering of delicate wild flowers, the hot sun and salty smells of the Pacific - the poet sets the poems in celebration of his love. The subject of that love is Matilde Urrutia de Neruda, Pablo's 'beloved wife'.
232 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1959
About the author
Pablo Neruda
873 books9,024 followersPablo Neruda was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean writer and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. Neruda assumed his pen name as a teenager, partly because it was in vogue, partly to hide his poetry from his father, a rigid man who wanted his son to have a "practical" occupation. Neruda's pen name was derived from Czech writer and poet Jan Neruda; Pablo is thought to be from Paul Verlaine. With his works translated into many languages, Pablo Neruda is considered one of the greatest and most influential poets of the 20th century.
Neruda was accomplished in a variety of styles, ranging from erotically charged love poems like his collection Twenty Poems of Love and a Song of Despair, surrealist poems, historical epics, and overtly political manifestos. In 1971 Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature, a controversial award because of his political activism. Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez once called him "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language."
On July 15, 1945, at Pacaembu Stadium in São Paulo, Brazil, he read to 100,000 people in honor of Communist revolutionary leader Luís Carlos Prestes. When Neruda returned to Chile after his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Salvador Allende invited him to read at the Estadio Nacional before 70,000 people.
During his lifetime, Neruda occupied many diplomatic posts and served a stint as a senator for the Chilean Communist Party. When Conservative Chilean President González Videla outlawed communism in Chile, a warrant was issued for Neruda's arrest. Friends hid him for months in a house basement in the Chilean port of Valparaíso. Later, Neruda escaped into exile through a mountain pass near Maihue Lake into Argentina. Years later, Neruda was a close collaborator to socialist President Salvador Allende.
Neruda was hospitalized with cancer at the time of the Chilean coup d'état led by Augusto Pinochet. Three days after being hospitalized, Neruda died of heart failure. Already a legend in life, Neruda's death reverberated around the world. Pinochet had denied permission to transform Neruda's funeral into a public event. However, thousands of grieving Chileans disobeyed the curfew and crowded the streets to pay their respects. Neruda's funeral became the first public protest against the Chilean military dictatorship.
Neruda was accomplished in a variety of styles, ranging from erotically charged love poems like his collection Twenty Poems of Love and a Song of Despair, surrealist poems, historical epics, and overtly political manifestos. In 1971 Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature, a controversial award because of his political activism. Colombian novelist Gabriel García Márquez once called him "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language."
On July 15, 1945, at Pacaembu Stadium in São Paulo, Brazil, he read to 100,000 people in honor of Communist revolutionary leader Luís Carlos Prestes. When Neruda returned to Chile after his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Salvador Allende invited him to read at the Estadio Nacional before 70,000 people.
During his lifetime, Neruda occupied many diplomatic posts and served a stint as a senator for the Chilean Communist Party. When Conservative Chilean President González Videla outlawed communism in Chile, a warrant was issued for Neruda's arrest. Friends hid him for months in a house basement in the Chilean port of Valparaíso. Later, Neruda escaped into exile through a mountain pass near Maihue Lake into Argentina. Years later, Neruda was a close collaborator to socialist President Salvador Allende.
Neruda was hospitalized with cancer at the time of the Chilean coup d'état led by Augusto Pinochet. Three days after being hospitalized, Neruda died of heart failure. Already a legend in life, Neruda's death reverberated around the world. Pinochet had denied permission to transform Neruda's funeral into a public event. However, thousands of grieving Chileans disobeyed the curfew and crowded the streets to pay their respects. Neruda's funeral became the first public protest against the Chilean military dictatorship.
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October 30, 2021
Cien Sonetos De Amor = 100 Love Sonnets, Pablo Neruda
Against the backdrop of Isla Negra - the sea and wind, the white sand with its scattering of delicate wild flowers, the hot sun and salty smells of the Pacific - the poet sets the poems in celebration of his love. The subject of that love is Matilde Urrutia de Neruda, Pablo's 'beloved wife'.
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
عنوانهای چاپ شده در ایران: «ابدیت یک بوسه»؛ «یکصد شعر عاشقانه از پابلو نرودا»؛ «صدتایی عشق : غزلهای عاشقانه»؛ «یکصد غزلواره ی عاشقانه»؛ نویسنده: پابلو نرودا؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و نهم ماه جولای سال2005میلادی
عنوان: ابدیت یک بوسه؛ نویسنده: پابلو نرودا؛ بازسرایی: شاهکار بینش پژوه؛ تهران، معین، سال1383؛ در176ص؛ شابک9647603460؛ عنوان دیگر یکصد شعر عاشقانه از پابلو نرودا؛ چاپ دوم سال1384؛ موضوع: شعر عاشقانه از شاعران شیلی سده 20م
عنوان: صدتایی عشق: غزلهای عاشقانه؛ نویسنده: پابلو نرودا؛ مترجم: ساسان تبسمی؛ تهران، نشر آبی، سال1384؛ در128ص؛ شابک9645709695؛
عنوان: یکصد غزلواره ی عاشقانه؛ نویسنده: پابلو نرودا؛ مترجم: رضا معتمدی؛ تهران، نگاه، سال1394؛ در232ص؛ شابک9786003761193؛
یکصد شعر عاشقانه؛ یا «ابدیت یک بوسه»؛ داستان عشق آتشین نویسنده، و شاعری بزرگ، از «آمریکای لاتین» است، شاعری مردمی، که تا آخرین لحظه ی حیاتشان، در همه ی دردها، و رنجها، مردانه در کنار مردمانش ایستادند؛ ردپای مردمان، در بسیاری از شعرهای ایشان، بویژه آنهاییکه پس از جنگ داخلی «اسپانیا» سروده شده اند، دیده میشود
نقل شعر: (من برای مردم میسرایم، هرچند چشمان روستایی آنان، به خواندن آن قادر نباشد؛ لحظه ای فراخواهد رسید، که بیتی از شعرم؛ نسیمی که، زندگی مرا، به جنبش میآورد، به گوش آنان رساند؛ آنگاه رنجبر، چشمان خود را، خواهد گشود، و معدنچی، همچنان که سنگ میشکند، لبخندی خواهد زد؛ …؛ شاید بگویند: این، از یاران ما بود.؛ پایان نقل شعر
شاید به همین دلیل بود، که هماره، از حمایت بیدریغ مردمانش، برخوردار بودند، هرجا که میرفتند، در هر مقامی، سناتور، یا مجرمی فراری، مورد احترام و حمایت مردمانشان بودند…؛ ایشان دیگر یک شاعر نبودند، قلبی شده بودند، به وسعت یک کشور! ایشان، شاعر طبیعت، و زیبایی بودند، شاعر صلح، عشق، و مردم، و سرانجام: شاعر خویشتن خویش؛ و این ایستادن را، و این نیرو را، مدیون عشقی بودند، که از ایشان جانبداری میکرد، عشق همسرش «ماتیلده»؛
پابو نرودا، بیشتر از همه؛ در دو کتاب: «ابدیت یک بوسه»؛ و «هوا را از من بگیر خنده ات را نه»؛ به بیان همین عشق و اثر آن پرداخته است
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 12/11/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 07/08/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Against the backdrop of Isla Negra - the sea and wind, the white sand with its scattering of delicate wild flowers, the hot sun and salty smells of the Pacific - the poet sets the poems in celebration of his love. The subject of that love is Matilde Urrutia de Neruda, Pablo's 'beloved wife'.
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
عنوانهای چاپ شده در ایران: «ابدیت یک بوسه»؛ «یکصد شعر عاشقانه از پابلو نرودا»؛ «صدتایی عشق : غزلهای عاشقانه»؛ «یکصد غزلواره ی عاشقانه»؛ نویسنده: پابلو نرودا؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و نهم ماه جولای سال2005میلادی
عنوان: ابدیت یک بوسه؛ نویسنده: پابلو نرودا؛ بازسرایی: شاهکار بینش پژوه؛ تهران، معین، سال1383؛ در176ص؛ شابک9647603460؛ عنوان دیگر یکصد شعر عاشقانه از پابلو نرودا؛ چاپ دوم سال1384؛ موضوع: شعر عاشقانه از شاعران شیلی سده 20م
عنوان: صدتایی عشق: غزلهای عاشقانه؛ نویسنده: پابلو نرودا؛ مترجم: ساسان تبسمی؛ تهران، نشر آبی، سال1384؛ در128ص؛ شابک9645709695؛
عنوان: یکصد غزلواره ی عاشقانه؛ نویسنده: پابلو نرودا؛ مترجم: رضا معتمدی؛ تهران، نگاه، سال1394؛ در232ص؛ شابک9786003761193؛
یکصد شعر عاشقانه؛ یا «ابدیت یک بوسه»؛ داستان عشق آتشین نویسنده، و شاعری بزرگ، از «آمریکای لاتین» است، شاعری مردمی، که تا آخرین لحظه ی حیاتشان، در همه ی دردها، و رنجها، مردانه در کنار مردمانش ایستادند؛ ردپای مردمان، در بسیاری از شعرهای ایشان، بویژه آنهاییکه پس از جنگ داخلی «اسپانیا» سروده شده اند، دیده میشود
نقل شعر: (من برای مردم میسرایم، هرچند چشمان روستایی آنان، به خواندن آن قادر نباشد؛ لحظه ای فراخواهد رسید، که بیتی از شعرم؛ نسیمی که، زندگی مرا، به جنبش میآورد، به گوش آنان رساند؛ آنگاه رنجبر، چشمان خود را، خواهد گشود، و معدنچی، همچنان که سنگ میشکند، لبخندی خواهد زد؛ …؛ شاید بگویند: این، از یاران ما بود.؛ پایان نقل شعر
شاید به همین دلیل بود، که هماره، از حمایت بیدریغ مردمانش، برخوردار بودند، هرجا که میرفتند، در هر مقامی، سناتور، یا مجرمی فراری، مورد احترام و حمایت مردمانشان بودند…؛ ایشان دیگر یک شاعر نبودند، قلبی شده بودند، به وسعت یک کشور! ایشان، شاعر طبیعت، و زیبایی بودند، شاعر صلح، عشق، و مردم، و سرانجام: شاعر خویشتن خویش؛ و این ایستادن را، و این نیرو را، مدیون عشقی بودند، که از ایشان جانبداری میکرد، عشق همسرش «ماتیلده»؛
پابو نرودا، بیشتر از همه؛ در دو کتاب: «ابدیت یک بوسه»؛ و «هوا را از من بگیر خنده ات را نه»؛ به بیان همین عشق و اثر آن پرداخته است
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 12/11/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 07/08/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
August 23, 2017
I have been mesmerized with the persona of Pablo Neruda since I saw the film version of Postman, The/ Il Postino back in high school. In that depiction, Neruda is an exiled poet living in Italy during the rise of Mussolini while there befriends his mail carrier in a charming story. Later, having read many novels and memoirs by Isabel Allende, I have been privileged to learn of her Chilean perspective of Neruda as the nation's poet laureate, especially during Pinochet's 1973 coup d'état. Yet, until now I had not read any of the Nobel Laureate's poetry. As I continue my summer of reading quality poetry collections, I selected a side by side translated edition of 100 Love Sonnets and fell for the work of Neruda the poet.
100 Love Sonnets is a work in four parts, each representing a time of day. Each sonnet is written for Neruda's third wife Matilde Urrutia during the years of 1955-1957. The couple lived together until the poet's death in 1973, and Matilde passed away in 1985. The opening section Manana (Morning) speaks of Neruda's wooing of Maltide and comparing her to the fruits of the earth. He writes of how the "grain grew high in its harvest, in you, in good time the flour swelled; as the dough rose, doubling your breasts, my love was the coal waiting ready in the earth." Employing deeply sensuous language, Neruda in the first thirty three sonnets, hopes and prays that he can woo Matilde to live with him in Isla Negra, his home overlooking the sea in central Chile. With persuasive language, the laureate speaks of his love for his home, using descriptive colors like "seafoam", "orange-and-gasoline rainbow", and "heavenly and sunken blues" in attempts to get Matilde to enter his stunning seaside home.
The two middle sections Mediodia (Afternoon) and Tarde (Evening) describe a deep love between the couple. Sonnet number forty four moved me as the laureate exclaims, "You must know that I do not love and that I love you...I love you in order to begin to love you, to start infinity again, and never stop loving you..." So deep is their love that the language is extremely sensuous and charged with intimate images in each poem. The love flows from these selections, and one can only begin to imagine how deeply the couple care for one another. Sonnet sixty two speaks of the couple's life in Isla Negra with multiple images to kissing and romantic interludes while comparing their love to the "great rain from the South" that falls daily and constantly begins their love anew.
Neruda alludes to how the couple would enjoy eternal love in death in his final section Noche (Night). Sonnet eighty five talks of autumn and nocturnal bodies and how perhaps the couple would be enjoined in an infinite night. I would be remiss if I did not laud the translation by Stephen Tapscott. Noting that North Americans shy away from expressing themselves romantically, Tapscott desired to introduce them to a quality poet and selected Neruda, pointing out that many Americans had already been familiar with the poet's political stance during the fall of the Allende government. With Spanish and English side by side, the English translation is seamless in that none of Neruda's sensuous words diminish in meaning in English. I often found myself reading both the Spanish and English versions of the poems in order to fully appreciate both the depth of Neruda's work and quality of Tapscott's translations.
Awarded the Nobel Prize in 1971 for his life's body of work, 100 Love Sonnets is one of Pablo Neruda's crowning jewels. Each sonnet is as stunning as the next as the poet fully declares his love for Matilde. In a true labor of love, each of the hundred sonnets is romantically charged, sensuous, and full of enamor and adoration for Matilde. Also a love affair to the nation of Chile, which Neruda refused to leave during the government overthrow, many of these sonnets speak more of the love of a nation than of a female lover. Each sonnet is truly a work of love by a 20th century poetry giant, which I rate a full five stars.
100 Love Sonnets is a work in four parts, each representing a time of day. Each sonnet is written for Neruda's third wife Matilde Urrutia during the years of 1955-1957. The couple lived together until the poet's death in 1973, and Matilde passed away in 1985. The opening section Manana (Morning) speaks of Neruda's wooing of Maltide and comparing her to the fruits of the earth. He writes of how the "grain grew high in its harvest, in you, in good time the flour swelled; as the dough rose, doubling your breasts, my love was the coal waiting ready in the earth." Employing deeply sensuous language, Neruda in the first thirty three sonnets, hopes and prays that he can woo Matilde to live with him in Isla Negra, his home overlooking the sea in central Chile. With persuasive language, the laureate speaks of his love for his home, using descriptive colors like "seafoam", "orange-and-gasoline rainbow", and "heavenly and sunken blues" in attempts to get Matilde to enter his stunning seaside home.
The two middle sections Mediodia (Afternoon) and Tarde (Evening) describe a deep love between the couple. Sonnet number forty four moved me as the laureate exclaims, "You must know that I do not love and that I love you...I love you in order to begin to love you, to start infinity again, and never stop loving you..." So deep is their love that the language is extremely sensuous and charged with intimate images in each poem. The love flows from these selections, and one can only begin to imagine how deeply the couple care for one another. Sonnet sixty two speaks of the couple's life in Isla Negra with multiple images to kissing and romantic interludes while comparing their love to the "great rain from the South" that falls daily and constantly begins their love anew.
Neruda alludes to how the couple would enjoy eternal love in death in his final section Noche (Night). Sonnet eighty five talks of autumn and nocturnal bodies and how perhaps the couple would be enjoined in an infinite night. I would be remiss if I did not laud the translation by Stephen Tapscott. Noting that North Americans shy away from expressing themselves romantically, Tapscott desired to introduce them to a quality poet and selected Neruda, pointing out that many Americans had already been familiar with the poet's political stance during the fall of the Allende government. With Spanish and English side by side, the English translation is seamless in that none of Neruda's sensuous words diminish in meaning in English. I often found myself reading both the Spanish and English versions of the poems in order to fully appreciate both the depth of Neruda's work and quality of Tapscott's translations.
Awarded the Nobel Prize in 1971 for his life's body of work, 100 Love Sonnets is one of Pablo Neruda's crowning jewels. Each sonnet is as stunning as the next as the poet fully declares his love for Matilde. In a true labor of love, each of the hundred sonnets is romantically charged, sensuous, and full of enamor and adoration for Matilde. Also a love affair to the nation of Chile, which Neruda refused to leave during the government overthrow, many of these sonnets speak more of the love of a nation than of a female lover. Each sonnet is truly a work of love by a 20th century poetry giant, which I rate a full five stars.
February 3, 2008
When I got tired of copying love poems from the Chinese and Japanese into urgent, wretched note cards to lovers who were unattainable (and I'm a genius at finding unattainable characters to pine after)... that's when I turned to Pablo Neruda. He's even better than Asian poets at crafting throbbing, passionate, wounded phrases of affection:
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrence
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
and:
No one can stop the river of your hands,
your eyes and their sleepiness, my dearest.
You are the trembling of time, which passes
between the vertical light and the darkening sky.
and:
From the stormy archipelagoes I brought
my windy accordian, waves of crazy rain,
the habitual slowness of natural things:
they made up my wild heart.
Imagine for a moment being the unsuspecting recipient of such transcribed scribblings. You thought you were just getting a nice shag, and now you're getting Neruda by notecard, shoved into the mail slot of your door, or left under your windshield wiper at the parking garage. At least I never called in the middle of the night and left Neruda recitations on the answering machine. Okay, maybe I did once. But there had been a great deal of tequila involved.
Not everything he wrote was tortured. Some of it was just beautiful:
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;...
...so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
and:
because love cannot always fly without resting,
our lives return to the wall, to the rocks of the sea:
our kisses head back home where they belong.
and:
By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two
together in their sleep will defeat the darkness
Luckily I got over the phase where I copied tragic poetry into notecards to express my unrequited passions. Now I've moved on to mix CDs. I swear, I'm a caricature even of myself. Emo mommy. Pardon me while I don a pirate blouse and walk moodily across the moors on a stormy day.
Pablo, however, is lovely.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrence
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
and:
No one can stop the river of your hands,
your eyes and their sleepiness, my dearest.
You are the trembling of time, which passes
between the vertical light and the darkening sky.
and:
From the stormy archipelagoes I brought
my windy accordian, waves of crazy rain,
the habitual slowness of natural things:
they made up my wild heart.
Imagine for a moment being the unsuspecting recipient of such transcribed scribblings. You thought you were just getting a nice shag, and now you're getting Neruda by notecard, shoved into the mail slot of your door, or left under your windshield wiper at the parking garage. At least I never called in the middle of the night and left Neruda recitations on the answering machine. Okay, maybe I did once. But there had been a great deal of tequila involved.
Not everything he wrote was tortured. Some of it was just beautiful:
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;...
...so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
and:
because love cannot always fly without resting,
our lives return to the wall, to the rocks of the sea:
our kisses head back home where they belong.
and:
By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two
together in their sleep will defeat the darkness
Luckily I got over the phase where I copied tragic poetry into notecards to express my unrequited passions. Now I've moved on to mix CDs. I swear, I'm a caricature even of myself. Emo mommy. Pardon me while I don a pirate blouse and walk moodily across the moors on a stormy day.
Pablo, however, is lovely.
September 23, 2014
I really sometimes wonder if I love right, love correctly, or if I love at all and am not just miming what I think, what I want, I feel. For me I love all at once, I fall very fast, but rarely. I will go long loveless periods through life, happy and unthinking of what passions I am missing, unenvious of people paired in love, like a bright new boat at sea not thinking at all of the harbor. And suddenly in a lightning flash (un coup de foudre), I am whipped up into a maelstrom of passion and anguish. I am battered on all sides, forced always to maneuver at the helm and can think of nothing else, whatever. I am tormented in waiting out the storm, waiting for the dawn, the exchanged "I love you" or just a sign or symbol of reciprocation. I wait by the telephone, always checking messages, or finding myself reading through old messages. I am mad in love, always. But I think it may be better to be mad than never to feel that madness ever, always to love on a level plane.
What I love in poetry is that it is always, when done right, an attempt at saying what can never be said. Death, love, grief, loss, these things are common material, for what truths can ever be said in language about them? We all feel them every day, but words diminish them. To Love is golden in all its glister, but to speak of love is only to wear gawdy jewelry, paste diamonds and pyrite. It is a poor imitation to describe love, language is an ill-fitted coat for it, it hangs loose and leaves unfitting folds. But poetry, though not all of it, comes close to representing Love. Not every poem, nor maybe even not any whole poem, but lines, phrases, words on the page, somehow strike me and I think "yes, that's just it! that's just the way it is!" And there are a few poets who really strike me as troubadours of love, Love in a meaningful way, meaningful to me. Pablo Neruda (with Edna St. Vincent Millay, and at turns Ronsard, Akhmatova, Plath, Secton, Whitman, sometimes Catullus and Roethke...) stands out as feeling how I feel, writing what I feel abstractly and without words. Many of the sonnets in this collection I do not love, and many I do not like and make me feel nothing. But there are a few which feel infinite to me, which burn in me like my own loves. And my favorite from Neruda, maybe my favorite-ever love poem, "If you forget me" I return to often, maybe every time I feel that pang of love.
Neruda knows, and writes of in his Love Sonnets, that love is an ache. Though love adds an infinitude to life, though it brims over everywhere on everything, it too makes one want more than enough, more than is possible or conceivable. To love someone is to want them so bad and so frequently that you would ruin yourself, like a child over-indulging in sweets. And the worst, the most painful but maybe the most wonderful, too, part of love, is the persistent mystery.
Like in Roland Barthes' Lover's Discourse, I am moved by Neruda's understanding that to love is also to wait.
What I love in poetry is that it is always, when done right, an attempt at saying what can never be said. Death, love, grief, loss, these things are common material, for what truths can ever be said in language about them? We all feel them every day, but words diminish them. To Love is golden in all its glister, but to speak of love is only to wear gawdy jewelry, paste diamonds and pyrite. It is a poor imitation to describe love, language is an ill-fitted coat for it, it hangs loose and leaves unfitting folds. But poetry, though not all of it, comes close to representing Love. Not every poem, nor maybe even not any whole poem, but lines, phrases, words on the page, somehow strike me and I think "yes, that's just it! that's just the way it is!" And there are a few poets who really strike me as troubadours of love, Love in a meaningful way, meaningful to me. Pablo Neruda (with Edna St. Vincent Millay, and at turns Ronsard, Akhmatova, Plath, Secton, Whitman, sometimes Catullus and Roethke...) stands out as feeling how I feel, writing what I feel abstractly and without words. Many of the sonnets in this collection I do not love, and many I do not like and make me feel nothing. But there are a few which feel infinite to me, which burn in me like my own loves. And my favorite from Neruda, maybe my favorite-ever love poem, "If you forget me" I return to often, maybe every time I feel that pang of love.
You know how this is:To me this is what it is to be in love. It is that everything becomes a messenger, a sign, a whisper of Love, even ugly and insignificant things, small things and silly trifles, and also big things that shake you, everything becomes a little boat which carries you off in a flash to that feeling of longing, of loving, of that person which you love which is absent. Time becomes measured in time-with and time-without, and always there is a feeling of lack in the former, and unending excess in the latter.
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists:
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Neruda knows, and writes of in his Love Sonnets, that love is an ache. Though love adds an infinitude to life, though it brims over everywhere on everything, it too makes one want more than enough, more than is possible or conceivable. To love someone is to want them so bad and so frequently that you would ruin yourself, like a child over-indulging in sweets. And the worst, the most painful but maybe the most wonderful, too, part of love, is the persistent mystery.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,To love someone because they are beautiful or kind or generous or smart is an affront to love. While these may spark an initial attraction they are insufficient to inspire love. While attraction may be slave to Love's Dictionary (what is "beauty"? what is "intelligence" or "ambition"?), love is a slave, rather, to it's gesturary. One's love is impinged upon by that smile they wear when you look at them a long time, or the way they carry themselves into the room, or bend over to remove a shoe, or grab a pen and think a moment before writing; it is that flash of confusion on the face when they are surprised, or the tension which builds in their brow when they are stifling despair, or when they are worried and they fidget just a bit. There can be no pride nor complexity in love, because to be in love is to be completely vulnerable to loss. While love adds to everything, it is a constant threat of losing everything, and having to build up from the ruins alone. It is so simple, excruciatingly simple "to love and be loved; to not love nor be loved; to love and not be loved; not to love but be loved" - it is the unnecessary things, the petty superficialities which interfere and threaten love, which make it seem complicated. When the brain and the heart are in discord, when one lies to oneself about what they want, what they love, what they need.
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.
Like in Roland Barthes' Lover's Discourse, I am moved by Neruda's understanding that to love is also to wait.
so I wait for you like a lonely houseFor one feels in love that before love their life was an empty house, unlivable. And they maintained it, washed the windows and unclogged the gutters and kept the paint fresh from chipping, but inside it was always empty, perhaps only filled in the corners but subtle things in shadows. But when you are in love, it seems that suddenly all your house is busy with new furniture and decoration for some imminent party, and there are things that you love but don't need, and things which are needed but not loved, and all over there is activity, and everyone (for now there seem so many guests) is thinking of one thing. And when you are with that person you love, it is not the party which you were waiting for, it seems like you are living in the house and it is some anonymous Sunday morning (you drinking your coffee, them reading the paper, feeding the cat), and everything is calm and quiet. But when they leave, there is the rush in the heart to make them stay. Your whole body aches to make them stay for ever, to keep them prisoner. What if they go away and they stop loving you? Your mind is again aflutter with worries and anxieties, and when it is about to give up, it is re-nourished by a fleeting memory of their smile, or a kind word, or an unexpected message. But always the windows ache, and inside the boiler cries.
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.
November 1, 2017
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadows and soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadows and soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
June 22, 2018
It was one of those days. The kids flooded the bathroom, the cat vomited on my carpet, a toothbrush got lodged down the drain. One of those days. It was not a day to start a Sarah Vowell book about the beginnings of Hawaii… No, not today. Today, I grabbed the bottle of Sangria and sat down with this.
Again, I have to thank Goodreads for introducing me to Bells (shout out to Bells! Woot! Woot!) who introduced me to Pablo. Imagine living my whole life and not knowing Pablo!! The horror!
There is a reason that middle aged women find abstinent shiny vampires attractive. We are tired. We have lost the inspiration and cling to the notion of everlasting love like spanx. We are what we are. I will admit that I was duped by that Edward. With all his “Do you truly believe that you care more for me than I do for you?" crap? Yes, we are faulty. We want to hear that stuff. We also want to hear that you loved Duran Duran and that Say Anything was your favorite movie of all time. We clear? Good.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, pouring another glass of Sangria and talking about Pablo. Okay, Pablo with his baldness and his Alfred Hitchcockian body… Pablo would take Edward down. No stake needed, my friend.
Oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is---
Sand, time, the tree of the rain,
Everything is alive so that I can be alive
Without moving I can see it all
In your life I see everything that lives.
Hellz to the Yeah! That’s the stuff! Whoo!! Pablo Pablo he’s our man! Okay, he’s Matilda Uruttia’s man, but eh… semantics. Imagine! 100 love sonnets! For one woman! Swoon. And, it’s not like you have to look for lines like the one above. It’s every-frickin’-page. I just fall deeper and deeper. I drink more and my eyes water.
"Yes, you are exactly my brand of heroin."
Oh, Eddie… silly you. Give it up. Go away.
This is part of Pablo's dedication: "When I set this task for myself, I knew very well that down the right sides of sonnets, with elegant discriminating taste, poets of all times have arranged rhymes that sound like silver, or crystal, or cannon fire. But--with great humility--I made these sonnets out of wood: I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and this is how they should reach your ears. … Now that I have declared the foundations of my life, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.”
Can you imagine living with that? We all crave that crazy new found love feeling, right? Be honest.. There’s nothing like that rush… but imagine a full grown, fleshed out, downright dedication of life. Suddenly, it’s not about the adrenaline… it’s about the stamina.
Pablo divides his sonnets into four sections: Morning, Afternoon, Evening, and Night. And isn’t that the kicker.. The words so powerful that you feel each time, you age with him, you are his day. Lucky, lucky woman, that Matilda.
Morning:
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Afternoon:
So that I am like a scorched rock
that suddenly sings when you are near, because it drinks
the water you carry from the forest, in your voice
Evening:
I need the light of your energy,
I looked around, devouring hope.
I watched the void without you that is like a house,
nothing left but tragic windows.
Night:
No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams, you will go,
We will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
Only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.
Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
And let their soft drifting signs drop away;
Your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move
After, following the folding water you carry, that carries
Me away. The night, the word, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you , I am your dream, only that, and that is all.
It’s hard to write a review of Pablo without totally quoting Pablo. You have to experience him, I feel like I’m cheating with this one. I will end with just this: I hope everyone finds their Pablo… I hope everyone opens their eyes and sees their Pablo.
Again, I have to thank Goodreads for introducing me to Bells (shout out to Bells! Woot! Woot!) who introduced me to Pablo. Imagine living my whole life and not knowing Pablo!! The horror!
There is a reason that middle aged women find abstinent shiny vampires attractive. We are tired. We have lost the inspiration and cling to the notion of everlasting love like spanx. We are what we are. I will admit that I was duped by that Edward. With all his “Do you truly believe that you care more for me than I do for you?" crap? Yes, we are faulty. We want to hear that stuff. We also want to hear that you loved Duran Duran and that Say Anything was your favorite movie of all time. We clear? Good.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, pouring another glass of Sangria and talking about Pablo. Okay, Pablo with his baldness and his Alfred Hitchcockian body… Pablo would take Edward down. No stake needed, my friend.
Oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is---
Sand, time, the tree of the rain,
Everything is alive so that I can be alive
Without moving I can see it all
In your life I see everything that lives.
Hellz to the Yeah! That’s the stuff! Whoo!! Pablo Pablo he’s our man! Okay, he’s Matilda Uruttia’s man, but eh… semantics. Imagine! 100 love sonnets! For one woman! Swoon. And, it’s not like you have to look for lines like the one above. It’s every-frickin’-page. I just fall deeper and deeper. I drink more and my eyes water.
"Yes, you are exactly my brand of heroin."
Oh, Eddie… silly you. Give it up. Go away.
This is part of Pablo's dedication: "When I set this task for myself, I knew very well that down the right sides of sonnets, with elegant discriminating taste, poets of all times have arranged rhymes that sound like silver, or crystal, or cannon fire. But--with great humility--I made these sonnets out of wood: I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and this is how they should reach your ears. … Now that I have declared the foundations of my life, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.”
Can you imagine living with that? We all crave that crazy new found love feeling, right? Be honest.. There’s nothing like that rush… but imagine a full grown, fleshed out, downright dedication of life. Suddenly, it’s not about the adrenaline… it’s about the stamina.
Pablo divides his sonnets into four sections: Morning, Afternoon, Evening, and Night. And isn’t that the kicker.. The words so powerful that you feel each time, you age with him, you are his day. Lucky, lucky woman, that Matilda.
Morning:
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Afternoon:
So that I am like a scorched rock
that suddenly sings when you are near, because it drinks
the water you carry from the forest, in your voice
Evening:
I need the light of your energy,
I looked around, devouring hope.
I watched the void without you that is like a house,
nothing left but tragic windows.
Night:
No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams, you will go,
We will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
Only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.
Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
And let their soft drifting signs drop away;
Your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move
After, following the folding water you carry, that carries
Me away. The night, the word, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you , I am your dream, only that, and that is all.
It’s hard to write a review of Pablo without totally quoting Pablo. You have to experience him, I feel like I’m cheating with this one. I will end with just this: I hope everyone finds their Pablo… I hope everyone opens their eyes and sees their Pablo.
April 25, 2009
My comment would be: 'written on the wings of butterflies.'
"I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
"I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
May 18, 2022
This is my favorite poet. The poems are beautifull. I recommend this book very highly.
March 23, 2021
''Γεμάτη θλίψη αγνή αγροικά η στέγη
βροχές πανάρχαιες ξέφυλλες να πέφτουν,
φτερά κι ό,τι έχει η νύχτα φυλακίσει:
κι έτσι σε καρτερώ σαν έρμο σπίτι
να γυρίσεις και να με κατοικήσεις.
Αλλιώς τα παραθύρια με πονάνε''.
βροχές πανάρχαιες ξέφυλλες να πέφτουν,
φτερά κι ό,τι έχει η νύχτα φυλακίσει:
κι έτσι σε καρτερώ σαν έρμο σπίτι
να γυρίσεις και να με κατοικήσεις.
Αλλιώς τα παραθύρια με πονάνε''.
October 7, 2017
Σ' αγαπώ καθώς κάποιο φυτό που δεν ανθίζει,
μα που μέσα του κρύβει το λουλουδόφως όλο,
και ζει απ' τον έ��ωτα σου σκοτεινό στο κορμί μου
τ' άρωμα που σφιγμένο μ' ανέβηκε απ' το χώμα.
Σ' αγαπώ μη γνωρίζοντας πως, από που και πότε,
σ' αγαπώ στα ίσια δίχως πρόβλημα ή περηφάνια :
σ' αγαπώ έτσι γιατί δεν ξέρω μ' άλλον τρόπο,
παρά μ' ετούτον όπου δεν είμαι μήτε είσαι,
που το χέρι σου πάνω μου το νιώθω σα δικό μου,
που όταν κοιμάμαι κλείνουν και τα δικά σου μάτια.
μα που μέσα του κρύβει το λουλουδόφως όλο,
και ζει απ' τον έ��ωτα σου σκοτεινό στο κορμί μου
τ' άρωμα που σφιγμένο μ' ανέβηκε απ' το χώμα.
Σ' αγαπώ μη γνωρίζοντας πως, από που και πότε,
σ' αγαπώ στα ίσια δίχως πρόβλημα ή περηφάνια :
σ' αγαπώ έτσι γιατί δεν ξέρω μ' άλλον τρόπο,
παρά μ' ετούτον όπου δεν είμαι μήτε είσαι,
που το χέρι σου πάνω μου το νιώθω σα δικό μου,
που όταν κοιμάμαι κλείνουν και τα δικά σου μάτια.
Read
March 23, 2020"Σ αγαπώ μη γνωρίζοντας πως, από που και ποτε,
σ αγαπώ στα ίσια δίχως προβήματα και περηφάνια:
σ αγαπώ έτσι γιατί δεν ξέρω με αλλο τρόπο,
παρά μ'ετούτον όπου δεν είμαι μήτε είσαι,
που το χέρι σου πάνω μου το νιώθω σα δικό μου,
που όταν κοιμάμαι κλείνουν και τα δικά σου μάτια."
σ αγαπώ στα ίσια δίχως προβήματα και περηφάνια:
σ αγαπώ έτσι γιατί δεν ξέρω με αλλο τρόπο,
παρά μ'ετούτον όπου δεν είμαι μήτε είσαι,
που το χέρι σου πάνω μου το νιώθω σα δικό μου,
που όταν κοιμάμαι κλείνουν και τα δικά σου μάτια."
Read
February 18, 202310/10
I have been consuming poetry in the last few months at an inordinate rate. I enter phases -- cycles in my life where it's easier to read poetry than prose; more importantly, where my life demands poetry more than it does prose. It's silly, in that context, to add long passages of my boring prose to describe what Neruda does perfectly in poems. All I can add is, if you haven't read Neruda, or haven't read him lately, do your soul a favour and pick up this little book, even if you borrow it from the library, and go sit quietly for an hour.
How many times, love, I loved you without seeing you
and maybe without recollection,
not recognizing your glance, not looking at you, a centaur,
in adverse regions, in a burning midday:
you were just the scent of grains I love.
Perhaps I saw you, I imagined you in passing lifting a glass
in Angol, by the light of the moon in June,
or you were the waist of that guitar
I played in the darkness, and it sounded like the excessive seas.
I loved you without knowing it, and I looked for your memory.
In the empty houses I entered with a lantern to steal your portrait.
But I already knew how you were. Suddenly
while you were there with me I touched you and my life stopped:
before my eyes you were, ruling me, and you reign.
Like a bonfire in the forests, fire is your kingdom.
````````````````
Cuántas veces, amor, te amé sin verte y tal vez sin recuerdo,
sin reconocer tu mirada, sin mirarte, centaura
en regiones contrarias, en un mediodía quemante:
eras sólo el aroma de los cereales que amo.
Tal vez te vi, te supuse al pasar levantando una copa
en Angol, a la luz de la luna de junio,
o eras tú la cintura de aquella guitarra
que toqué en las tinieblas y sonó como el mar desmedido.
Te amé sin que yo lo supiera, y busqué tu memoria.
En las casas vacías entré con linterna a robar tu retrato.
Pero yo ya sabía cómo era. De pronto
mientras ibas conmigo te toqué y se detuvo mi vida:
frente a mis ojos estabas, reinándome, y reinas.
Como hoguera en los bosques el fuego es tu reino.
````````````````````
PS This is a lovely edition which includes paintings by Gabriela Campos.
I have been consuming poetry in the last few months at an inordinate rate. I enter phases -- cycles in my life where it's easier to read poetry than prose; more importantly, where my life demands poetry more than it does prose. It's silly, in that context, to add long passages of my boring prose to describe what Neruda does perfectly in poems. All I can add is, if you haven't read Neruda, or haven't read him lately, do your soul a favour and pick up this little book, even if you borrow it from the library, and go sit quietly for an hour.
How many times, love, I loved you without seeing you
and maybe without recollection,
not recognizing your glance, not looking at you, a centaur,
in adverse regions, in a burning midday:
you were just the scent of grains I love.
Perhaps I saw you, I imagined you in passing lifting a glass
in Angol, by the light of the moon in June,
or you were the waist of that guitar
I played in the darkness, and it sounded like the excessive seas.
I loved you without knowing it, and I looked for your memory.
In the empty houses I entered with a lantern to steal your portrait.
But I already knew how you were. Suddenly
while you were there with me I touched you and my life stopped:
before my eyes you were, ruling me, and you reign.
Like a bonfire in the forests, fire is your kingdom.
````````````````
Cuántas veces, amor, te amé sin verte y tal vez sin recuerdo,
sin reconocer tu mirada, sin mirarte, centaura
en regiones contrarias, en un mediodía quemante:
eras sólo el aroma de los cereales que amo.
Tal vez te vi, te supuse al pasar levantando una copa
en Angol, a la luz de la luna de junio,
o eras tú la cintura de aquella guitarra
que toqué en las tinieblas y sonó como el mar desmedido.
Te amé sin que yo lo supiera, y busqué tu memoria.
En las casas vacías entré con linterna a robar tu retrato.
Pero yo ya sabía cómo era. De pronto
mientras ibas conmigo te toqué y se detuvo mi vida:
frente a mis ojos estabas, reinándome, y reinas.
Como hoguera en los bosques el fuego es tu reino.
````````````````````
PS This is a lovely edition which includes paintings by Gabriela Campos.
July 23, 2015
*****5 Stunning Stars*****
I was utterly swept away by the beauty of these love sonnets.
Someone had sent me a quote from one of them, I fell in love with it...and just had to read more....
How...
I am to have the pleasure of reading, such stunning words.
I was utterly swept away by the beauty of these love sonnets.
Someone had sent me a quote from one of them, I fell in love with it...and just had to read more....
I love you without knowing how, or when,
or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without
complexities or pride
so I love you because I know no other way than this
where I does not exist, nor you
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
How...
I am to have the pleasure of reading, such stunning words.
April 13, 2020
I made these sonnets out of wood; I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and that is how they should reach your ears. Walking in forests or on beaches, along hidden lakes, in latitudes sprinkled with ashes, you and I have picked up pieces of pure bark, pieces of wood subject to the comings and goings of water and the weather. Out of such softened relics, then, with hatchet and machete and pocketknife, I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.
*
Whoever loved as we did? Let us hunt
for the ancient cinders of a heart that burned
and make our kisses fall one by one,
till that empty flower rises again.
Let us love the love that consumed its fruit and went
down, its image and its power, into the earth:
you and I are the light that endures,
its irrevocable delicate thorn.
Bring to that love, entombed by so much cold time,
by snow and spring, by oblivion and autumn,
the light of a new apple, light
of a freshness opened by a new wound,
like that ancient love that passes in silence
through an eternity of buried mouths.
*
Whoever loved as we did? Let us hunt
for the ancient cinders of a heart that burned
and make our kisses fall one by one,
till that empty flower rises again.
Let us love the love that consumed its fruit and went
down, its image and its power, into the earth:
you and I are the light that endures,
its irrevocable delicate thorn.
Bring to that love, entombed by so much cold time,
by snow and spring, by oblivion and autumn,
the light of a new apple, light
of a freshness opened by a new wound,
like that ancient love that passes in silence
through an eternity of buried mouths.
March 28, 2023
Mañana
XXV
Antes de amarte, amor, nada era mío:
Vacilé por las calles y las cosas:
Nada contaba ni tenía nombre:
El mundo era del aire que esperaba
Mediodía
XL
Era verde el silencio, mojada era la luz,
temblaba el mes de junio como una mariposa
y en el austral dominio, desde el mar y las piedras,
Matilde, atravesaste el mediodía.
Tarde
LXVI
No te quiero sino porque te quiero
y de quererte a no quererte llego
y de esperarte cuando no te espero
Pasa mi corazón del frío al fuego.
Noche
XCV
Quiénes se amaron como nosotros? Busquemos
la antiguas cenizas del corazón quemado
y allí que caigan uno por uno nuestros besos
Hasta que resucite la flor deshabilitada.
The Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (1904-1971) wrote “estos mal llamados” (these badly called) sonnets to Matilde Urrutia in 1959. They had met in 1946 and over the years became lovers. Neruda built a house for her in Santiago and she became his third wife in 1966.
Divided into the four parts of the day, Neruda extols his love, the good and bad, the longing, the ups and downs, the storms and the calm. Beautiful, fine words.
For all that it’s worth, all I can say is that the man sure loved his lover.
XXV
Antes de amarte, amor, nada era mío:
Vacilé por las calles y las cosas:
Nada contaba ni tenía nombre:
El mundo era del aire que esperaba
Mediodía
XL
Era verde el silencio, mojada era la luz,
temblaba el mes de junio como una mariposa
y en el austral dominio, desde el mar y las piedras,
Matilde, atravesaste el mediodía.
Tarde
LXVI
No te quiero sino porque te quiero
y de quererte a no quererte llego
y de esperarte cuando no te espero
Pasa mi corazón del frío al fuego.
Noche
XCV
Quiénes se amaron como nosotros? Busquemos
la antiguas cenizas del corazón quemado
y allí que caigan uno por uno nuestros besos
Hasta que resucite la flor deshabilitada.
The Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (1904-1971) wrote “estos mal llamados” (these badly called) sonnets to Matilde Urrutia in 1959. They had met in 1946 and over the years became lovers. Neruda built a house for her in Santiago and she became his third wife in 1966.
Divided into the four parts of the day, Neruda extols his love, the good and bad, the longing, the ups and downs, the storms and the calm. Beautiful, fine words.
For all that it’s worth, all I can say is that the man sure loved his lover.
March 2, 2022
"Y cuando esté recién lavado el mundo
nacerán otros ojos en el agua
y crecerá sin lágrimas el trigo."
The first time I read this collection in its entirety, I was wonderstruck by Sonnet XVI, "Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres," which I learnt to love with even more intensity once I became able to appreciate the original Spanish version and which remains my absolute favourite. In these scary times, I felt it was time for me for me to finally sit down and reread methodically all One Hundred of Neruda's love sonnets (I took on a habit of occasionally picking the volume up and rereading a poem or two a time through the years). I rediscovered many favourites, and experienced these poems with an involvement that perhaps wasn't possible when I was younger.
————
- Original 2014 review/commento alla prima lettura del 2014
«Amo il pezzo di terra che tu sei,
perché delle praterie planetarie
altra stella non ho.»
Non si può fare a meno di tremare di fronte a una visione dell'amore come quella di Neruda: totalizzante. Nei suoi versi, il sentimento (che parola riduttiva, quando posta accanto all'intensità di Neruda) amoroso diventa soverchiante, inebriante, conquistatore, è panico perché diventa tutto: terra, cielo, mare, «colomba e geografia». E il lettore amante non può far altro che chiudere gli occhi e inchinarsi.
nacerán otros ojos en el agua
y crecerá sin lágrimas el trigo."
The first time I read this collection in its entirety, I was wonderstruck by Sonnet XVI, "Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres," which I learnt to love with even more intensity once I became able to appreciate the original Spanish version and which remains my absolute favourite. In these scary times, I felt it was time for me for me to finally sit down and reread methodically all One Hundred of Neruda's love sonnets (I took on a habit of occasionally picking the volume up and rereading a poem or two a time through the years). I rediscovered many favourites, and experienced these poems with an involvement that perhaps wasn't possible when I was younger.
————
- Original 2014 review/commento alla prima lettura del 2014
«Amo il pezzo di terra che tu sei,
perché delle praterie planetarie
altra stella non ho.»
Non si può fare a meno di tremare di fronte a una visione dell'amore come quella di Neruda: totalizzante. Nei suoi versi, il sentimento (che parola riduttiva, quando posta accanto all'intensità di Neruda) amoroso diventa soverchiante, inebriante, conquistatore, è panico perché diventa tutto: terra, cielo, mare, «colomba e geografia». E il lettore amante non può far altro che chiudere gli occhi e inchinarsi.
November 27, 2007
and to me she quoted him...
"no one else, love, will sleep in my dreams. you will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
no one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon."
thus, i knew for sure.
"no one else, love, will sleep in my dreams. you will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
no one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon."
thus, i knew for sure.
April 22, 2020
"Κι αυτή η φορά ήταν σαν ποτέ και πάντα:
πάμε εκεί που δεν περιμένει τίποτα
και θα βρούμε ολ' αυτά που περιμένουν."
πάμε εκεί που δεν περιμένει τίποτα
και θα βρούμε ολ' αυτά που περιμένουν."
October 24, 2021
Δεν ξέρω τι να πω γι αυτά τα ποιήματα, εκτός απο το ποσό υπέροχη γυναίκα πρέπει να ήταν η Ματίλντε και πόσο βαθιά την αγαπούσε ο Νερούδα...
July 4, 2010
#2010-16#
Sepotong hari di bukit ilalang
Pagi,...
Rintik gerimis udara dingin, inginkan satu pelukan hangat kekasih. Terbangun dengan satu ciuman di kening, sementara di luar hujan. Kuambil gaun musim panasku dan berjalan ke pintu, memandang hujan rintik halus yang indah, dan berkata kepadanya,
Aku mencintaimu tanpa tahu bagaimana, atau kapan, atau dari mana.
Aku mencintaimu dengan lugas, tanpa banyak soal atau rasa bangga;
begitulah aku mencintaimu sebab aku tak tahu jalan lain. (XVII)
Kulangkahkan kaki ke tepi beranda rumah putih, tempat ayunan tergantung menanti bergoyang. Kutahu akan tertidur di sini dengan desau angin yang melintas ketika hujan reda nanti.
Senja,...
Kemerahan, datanglah hampir tenggelam. Berlari kecil ke dermaga danau, hujan reda menyisakan wangi rumput basah yang diinjak tapak kaki.
Aku duduk bersandar pada satu tiang dermaga, pelepah daun kelapa mengambang di danau. Damai. Hanya beberapa burung melintas dengan bayangan yang terpantul di air. Hembusan angin memberi suara pada kemerisik tanaman tropis di ujung danau.
Ya: siang hari meretih seperti api, atau laksana kawanan lebah
melaju dengan karyanya yang hijau, mengubur dirinya di dedaunan:
sampai di pucuk daun merengkuh
buana gemilang yang berkedipan dan berbisikan.(XLII)
Lalu kulihat sepasang merpati yang sedang bercanda, seolah bersapa minta pengertian sebelum mereka terbang dipeluk angkasa,
Cintaku mempunyai dua kehidupan, untuk mencintaimu;
sebab itulah aku mencintaimu ketika aku tak mencintaimu
dan pula mengapa aku mencintaimu ketika aku mencintaimu.(XLIV)
Kulempar batu ke danau yang memantulkan cahaya langit. Biru di langit, biru di danau. Kelam di langit, kelam juga di danau.
Langit melipatkan sesayapmu ke atasmu,
mengangkatmu, membantunmu ke pelukanku
dengan rasa hormat yang misterius dan tepat waktu.(XLIX)
Petang,...
Kuberlari menuju hutan. Mengejar pelangi yang jatuh di ujungnya. Tak kuhiraukan luka di kaki yang melambatkan lajuku. Gaun yang tadi halus kini sedikit koyak. Hujan turun dengan deras, diiringi petir dan guntur bertalu-talu. Dimana ia? Aku kehilangan pelangi yang tidak muncul lagi. Apakah ini ilusi? Aku terduduk di batang tua, sambil mengusap hujan yang menetesi muka.
Mereka yang ingin melukaiku telah melukaimu,
dan setangkup racun rahasia untukku
bagaikan jaring yang berlalu lewat kerjaku - tapi meninggalkan
noda berkarat dan resah padamu.(LX)
Kemana dia? Apa dia pergi dengan yang lain? Kenapa tak kutemukan di sini di dalam hutan ini? Aku berlari memanggil namanya. Luka kakiku tak kuhiraukan. Badanku basah, aku kedinginan.
api. Aku mencintaimu hanya karena engkaulah
yang kucintai; aku membencimu tanpa akhir, dan membencimu
menikung ke arahmu, dan ukuran dari cintaku yang berubah-ubah untukmu
adalah bahwa aku tak bisa memandangmu namun mencintaimu.(LXV)
Lalu aku melihat bayangannya. Bukan pelangi, namun cahaya yang lebih terang. Aku berlari ke arahnya dan jatuh dalam pelukannya. Aku rindu sekali padanya. Mudah-mudahan ini nyata, bukan hanya bayangan semu yang kukejar.
sejak itu aku adalah aku karena engkau adalah engkau,
sejak itu engkau adalah engkau, aku adalah aku, kita adalah kita
dan melalui cinta aku jadi aku, engkau jadi engkau, kita jadi kita. (LXIX)
Lalu kita saling bertatap dan menuntun jalan menuju pulang. Kita bergandengan dalam sosok tubuh manja, merapatkan dan saling melindungi.
Kemudian cinta tahu mesti dipanggil cinta
Dan ketika aku mengalihkan mataku ke namamu,
tiba-tiba hatimu menunjukkan jalanku. (LXXIII)
Malam,...
Desir angin melambaikan tirai. Waktu serasa berhenti ketika kau memelukku. Hujan sudah mulai reda, dan perapian masih hangat. Gelegar petir terkadang memecah suasana. Namun kau tetap dalam diammu, di belakangku dan berbisik,
Aku ingin engkau hidup selagi aku menunggumu, mengantuk.
Aku ingin telingamu masih mendengar angin, aku ingin kau
menghirup aroma laut yang kita cintai bersama,
terus berjalan di pasir bak sediakala saat kita berjalan berdua.(LXXXIX)
Aku berjingkat, berbalik dan memandangnya. Kuletakkan telunjuk di bibirnya, untuk tidak berkata apa-apa lagi. Kusibakkan rambutnya, menatap kedalaman matanya, lekat-lekat,
Biarlah kita mencintai dengan cinta yang melahap buahnya dan
rontok, bayangnya dan kuasanya, ke ribaan bumi:
kau dan aku adalah cahaya yang bertahan,
dengan duri menyenangkan yang tak bisa ditarik lagi. (XCV)
Kami berdua memandang langit. Hujan baru saja reda. Tinggal bintang-bintang...
***
Tiga setengah bintang karena terjemahan. Ada angin apa ya nulis kayak di atas? fui.. siul-siul dulu aah..
Sepotong hari di bukit ilalang
Pagi,...
Rintik gerimis udara dingin, inginkan satu pelukan hangat kekasih. Terbangun dengan satu ciuman di kening, sementara di luar hujan. Kuambil gaun musim panasku dan berjalan ke pintu, memandang hujan rintik halus yang indah, dan berkata kepadanya,
Aku mencintaimu tanpa tahu bagaimana, atau kapan, atau dari mana.
Aku mencintaimu dengan lugas, tanpa banyak soal atau rasa bangga;
begitulah aku mencintaimu sebab aku tak tahu jalan lain. (XVII)
Kulangkahkan kaki ke tepi beranda rumah putih, tempat ayunan tergantung menanti bergoyang. Kutahu akan tertidur di sini dengan desau angin yang melintas ketika hujan reda nanti.
Senja,...
Kemerahan, datanglah hampir tenggelam. Berlari kecil ke dermaga danau, hujan reda menyisakan wangi rumput basah yang diinjak tapak kaki.
Aku duduk bersandar pada satu tiang dermaga, pelepah daun kelapa mengambang di danau. Damai. Hanya beberapa burung melintas dengan bayangan yang terpantul di air. Hembusan angin memberi suara pada kemerisik tanaman tropis di ujung danau.
Ya: siang hari meretih seperti api, atau laksana kawanan lebah
melaju dengan karyanya yang hijau, mengubur dirinya di dedaunan:
sampai di pucuk daun merengkuh
buana gemilang yang berkedipan dan berbisikan.(XLII)
Lalu kulihat sepasang merpati yang sedang bercanda, seolah bersapa minta pengertian sebelum mereka terbang dipeluk angkasa,
Cintaku mempunyai dua kehidupan, untuk mencintaimu;
sebab itulah aku mencintaimu ketika aku tak mencintaimu
dan pula mengapa aku mencintaimu ketika aku mencintaimu.(XLIV)
Kulempar batu ke danau yang memantulkan cahaya langit. Biru di langit, biru di danau. Kelam di langit, kelam juga di danau.
Langit melipatkan sesayapmu ke atasmu,
mengangkatmu, membantunmu ke pelukanku
dengan rasa hormat yang misterius dan tepat waktu.(XLIX)
Petang,...
Kuberlari menuju hutan. Mengejar pelangi yang jatuh di ujungnya. Tak kuhiraukan luka di kaki yang melambatkan lajuku. Gaun yang tadi halus kini sedikit koyak. Hujan turun dengan deras, diiringi petir dan guntur bertalu-talu. Dimana ia? Aku kehilangan pelangi yang tidak muncul lagi. Apakah ini ilusi? Aku terduduk di batang tua, sambil mengusap hujan yang menetesi muka.
Mereka yang ingin melukaiku telah melukaimu,
dan setangkup racun rahasia untukku
bagaikan jaring yang berlalu lewat kerjaku - tapi meninggalkan
noda berkarat dan resah padamu.(LX)
Kemana dia? Apa dia pergi dengan yang lain? Kenapa tak kutemukan di sini di dalam hutan ini? Aku berlari memanggil namanya. Luka kakiku tak kuhiraukan. Badanku basah, aku kedinginan.
api. Aku mencintaimu hanya karena engkaulah
yang kucintai; aku membencimu tanpa akhir, dan membencimu
menikung ke arahmu, dan ukuran dari cintaku yang berubah-ubah untukmu
adalah bahwa aku tak bisa memandangmu namun mencintaimu.(LXV)
Lalu aku melihat bayangannya. Bukan pelangi, namun cahaya yang lebih terang. Aku berlari ke arahnya dan jatuh dalam pelukannya. Aku rindu sekali padanya. Mudah-mudahan ini nyata, bukan hanya bayangan semu yang kukejar.
sejak itu aku adalah aku karena engkau adalah engkau,
sejak itu engkau adalah engkau, aku adalah aku, kita adalah kita
dan melalui cinta aku jadi aku, engkau jadi engkau, kita jadi kita. (LXIX)
Lalu kita saling bertatap dan menuntun jalan menuju pulang. Kita bergandengan dalam sosok tubuh manja, merapatkan dan saling melindungi.
Kemudian cinta tahu mesti dipanggil cinta
Dan ketika aku mengalihkan mataku ke namamu,
tiba-tiba hatimu menunjukkan jalanku. (LXXIII)
Malam,...
Desir angin melambaikan tirai. Waktu serasa berhenti ketika kau memelukku. Hujan sudah mulai reda, dan perapian masih hangat. Gelegar petir terkadang memecah suasana. Namun kau tetap dalam diammu, di belakangku dan berbisik,
Aku ingin engkau hidup selagi aku menunggumu, mengantuk.
Aku ingin telingamu masih mendengar angin, aku ingin kau
menghirup aroma laut yang kita cintai bersama,
terus berjalan di pasir bak sediakala saat kita berjalan berdua.(LXXXIX)
Aku berjingkat, berbalik dan memandangnya. Kuletakkan telunjuk di bibirnya, untuk tidak berkata apa-apa lagi. Kusibakkan rambutnya, menatap kedalaman matanya, lekat-lekat,
Biarlah kita mencintai dengan cinta yang melahap buahnya dan
rontok, bayangnya dan kuasanya, ke ribaan bumi:
kau dan aku adalah cahaya yang bertahan,
dengan duri menyenangkan yang tak bisa ditarik lagi. (XCV)
Kami berdua memandang langit. Hujan baru saja reda. Tinggal bintang-bintang...
***
Tiga setengah bintang karena terjemahan. Ada angin apa ya nulis kayak di atas? fui.. siul-siul dulu aah..
August 24, 2022
Conhecia a poesia de Pablo Neruda através de vídeos no youtube. Apaixonei-me pelo poema "Te amo" e mas tarde li a sua autobiografia. Fiquei absolutamente encantada com todo o que este escritor viveu. Deve ter sido uma pessoa maravilhosa....
Estes sonetos descrevem vários tipos de amor. Não apenas o carnal. Há o amor puro, o amor amigo, o amor pela natureza, o amor pelo universo, o amor pelo seu país, entre outros. Os meus preferidos são aqueles que ele escreve para a sua amada. Li no original. A língua espanhola é tão bela. E só daquelas pessoas que considera que a poesia traduzida perde as suas sensações.
Estes sonetos descrevem vários tipos de amor. Não apenas o carnal. Há o amor puro, o amor amigo, o amor pela natureza, o amor pelo universo, o amor pelo seu país, entre outros. Os meus preferidos são aqueles que ele escreve para a sua amada. Li no original. A língua espanhola é tão bela. E só daquelas pessoas que considera que a poesia traduzida perde as suas sensações.
October 13, 2021
به عزایم منشین:
عشق من!
در رنجت اگر ببینم
برای دومین بار خواهم مُرد.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
بیتو:
بیتو
هرآنچه بر خاک رستنی است
نابود باد
بی تو.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
پنجرهام درد میکند:
و من به انتظار تو
تا که دوباره بازآیی
و مرا زندگی کنی.
زیرا که بیتو
پنجرهام درد میکند.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
بازخواهی گشت آیا:
وقتی تو نیستی
سرگردان،سرگشته این سوال مداومم
که بازخواهی گشت آیا؟
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
استسقای آتش:
اگر چه هیچ چیز
نباید انسانها را از هم جدا کند
اما خورشید و ماه
تاکنون
این کار را بسیار کردهاند.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
بوسههای ما:
عشق،بی پر و بال پرواز نتواند کرد
پس بوسههای ما
بالهای ماست.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
با من بیا:
با من بیا تا درد ، تا زخم
با من بیا تا نشانت دهم
عشقم را آغاز از کجاست.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
عشق من!
در رنجت اگر ببینم
برای دومین بار خواهم مُرد.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
بیتو:
بیتو
هرآنچه بر خاک رستنی است
نابود باد
بی تو.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
پنجرهام درد میکند:
و من به انتظار تو
تا که دوباره بازآیی
و مرا زندگی کنی.
زیرا که بیتو
پنجرهام درد میکند.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
بازخواهی گشت آیا:
وقتی تو نیستی
سرگردان،سرگشته این سوال مداومم
که بازخواهی گشت آیا؟
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
استسقای آتش:
اگر چه هیچ چیز
نباید انسانها را از هم جدا کند
اما خورشید و ماه
تاکنون
این کار را بسیار کردهاند.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
بوسههای ما:
عشق،بی پر و بال پرواز نتواند کرد
پس بوسههای ما
بالهای ماست.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
با من بیا:
با من بیا تا درد ، تا زخم
با من بیا تا نشانت دهم
عشقم را آغاز از کجاست.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
February 19, 2008
Super simply put, Neruda is word sex. I am not a love poems lover, but these sonnets are so nakedly a lover's poems that in this case I'm head over heels. In seriousness, these are brilliant in translation but I especially adored the original Spanish as it really was the work at its most lyrically organic awesomeness. (And my Spanish is wobbly at best).
And organic is really the only word I'd use to describe these...Neruda himself, probably self-depricatingly (but un-self-consciously razor-accurate at the same time) described his poems relative to the rest of the genre as made out of wood, versus "silver, crystal, or cannonfire" of others. And when it comes to lurv, we know it's all about the wood (ok, that was horrible, sorry upstanding Goodreads community).
But seriously, the way the organic, natural world emerges as characters that dance throughout these poems--i.e. scorched rocks, dove-shaped clay toys metaphorically masquerading as the human heart, breadmaking...it's so tactile that instead of being an intellectual exercise in optical recognition of printed ideas as felt memories--which most poems might even hope to achieve--with Neruda and these sonnets, you can practically taste it. It's a consuming love that even deserves to be written about, and these just devoured me.
And organic is really the only word I'd use to describe these...Neruda himself, probably self-depricatingly (but un-self-consciously razor-accurate at the same time) described his poems relative to the rest of the genre as made out of wood, versus "silver, crystal, or cannonfire" of others. And when it comes to lurv, we know it's all about the wood (ok, that was horrible, sorry upstanding Goodreads community).
But seriously, the way the organic, natural world emerges as characters that dance throughout these poems--i.e. scorched rocks, dove-shaped clay toys metaphorically masquerading as the human heart, breadmaking...it's so tactile that instead of being an intellectual exercise in optical recognition of printed ideas as felt memories--which most poems might even hope to achieve--with Neruda and these sonnets, you can practically taste it. It's a consuming love that even deserves to be written about, and these just devoured me.
October 30, 2023
حقیقتش اصلا دوست نداشتم این کتاب رو
نمیدونم مشکل از ترجمه بود یا واقعا خود اشعار به دلم نشستن
ترجمه شعر کلا خیلی کار سخت و حساسیه
اگه طرف وارد نباشه کاملا تو ذوق خواننده میخوره
ولی پابلو نرودا کاملا ناامیدم کرده
نمیدونم مشکل از ترجمه بود یا واقعا خود اشعار به دلم نشستن
ترجمه شعر کلا خیلی کار سخت و حساسیه
اگه طرف وارد نباشه کاملا تو ذوق خواننده میخوره
ولی پابلو نرودا کاملا ناامیدم کرده
January 31, 2020
[3.5*]
Αυτός ο έντονος λυρισμός και ρομαντισμός με στοιχεία ιμπρεσιονισμού σε πολλά σημεία με κούρασαν. Έπρεπε να φτάσει το "Απόγευμα" για να μας πει ότι η Ματίλντε τον γουστάρει; Δεν θέλω να φανταστώ τι θα έγραφε άμα είχε φάει ερωτική απόρριψη από την αγαπημένη του Ματίλντε.
Αυτός ο έντονος λυρισμός και ρομαντισμός με στοιχεία ιμπρεσιονισμού σε πολλά σημεία με κούρασαν. Έπρεπε να φτάσει το "Απόγευμα" για να μας πει ότι η Ματίλντε τον γουστάρει; Δεν θέλω να φανταστώ τι θα έγραφε άμα είχε φάει ερωτική απόρριψη από την αγαπημένη του Ματίλντε.
January 22, 2024
میخواهم هر آنچه را دوست میداشتم ، زندگی کنی
و تويی آنکه بيش از هرچيز
دوست میداشتم..
و تويی آنکه بيش از هرچيز
دوست میداشتم..
Read
June 26, 2020je refuse de noter le livre d’un violeur assumé
le recueil n’est pas mauvais bien qu’assez redondant, certains poèmes sont très beaux mais la réutilisation constante des mêmes thèmes ternit un tant soit peu l’ensemble. et neruda me dégoûte
le recueil n’est pas mauvais bien qu’assez redondant, certains poèmes sont très beaux mais la réutilisation constante des mêmes thèmes ternit un tant soit peu l’ensemble. et neruda me dégoûte
June 25, 2015
Is the rose naked,
Or is that her only dress?
You won't believe how beautiful the images these two short lines conjure in my head, intricate rose blooms, luscious, red petals spinning in the dark, red folds of silk, dragging on the floor to the dark chambers of a secret lover.
There are lone cemeteries,
tombs full of soundless bones,
the heart threading a tunnel,
a dark, dark tunnel:
like a wreck we die to the very core,
as if drowning at the heart
or collapsing inside from skin to soul
Now that is just so sad. Quietly, movingly, eerily sad.
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness
Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
If this is not beautiful, sexy poetry I don't what is.
And of course, my hands-down, all-time favorite, these unbearably romantic lines to his muse and wife:
It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
The world is bluer and of the earth
at night when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands
Now I know how it feels to fell in love with words, with beautiful, beautiful, sexy and romantic words:
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved
In secret, between the shadows and the soul
And to have my heart broken by it:
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her and sometimes she loved me too.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
And this may be the last poem I write for her.
There is nothing like sublime poetry to feed the soul. And there is something in Neruda's art that simply captures and never let goes, something dark, and delicate, and powerful. I'm no poet so I do not know what is this called. I just know it's beautiful and alluring. I think it's mortal love.
Or is that her only dress?
You won't believe how beautiful the images these two short lines conjure in my head, intricate rose blooms, luscious, red petals spinning in the dark, red folds of silk, dragging on the floor to the dark chambers of a secret lover.
There are lone cemeteries,
tombs full of soundless bones,
the heart threading a tunnel,
a dark, dark tunnel:
like a wreck we die to the very core,
as if drowning at the heart
or collapsing inside from skin to soul
Now that is just so sad. Quietly, movingly, eerily sad.
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness
Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
If this is not beautiful, sexy poetry I don't what is.
And of course, my hands-down, all-time favorite, these unbearably romantic lines to his muse and wife:
It was beautiful to live
when you lived!
The world is bluer and of the earth
at night when I sleep
enormous, within your small hands
Now I know how it feels to fell in love with words, with beautiful, beautiful, sexy and romantic words:
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved
In secret, between the shadows and the soul
And to have my heart broken by it:
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her and sometimes she loved me too.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
And this may be the last poem I write for her.
There is nothing like sublime poetry to feed the soul. And there is something in Neruda's art that simply captures and never let goes, something dark, and delicate, and powerful. I'm no poet so I do not know what is this called. I just know it's beautiful and alluring. I think it's mortal love.
July 7, 2019
Vale a pena ler e sonhar que tais sentimentos um dia possam ser também sentidos por nós, já que escrevê-los não é possível com tamanha paixão e doçura.
"No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño."
"No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño."
August 6, 2014
XVII
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
Me encantan los sonetos y me encanta Pablo Neruda, todo lo que quiero es leerme todos los libros que tenga.
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
Me encantan los sonetos y me encanta Pablo Neruda, todo lo que quiero es leerme todos los libros que tenga.
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