You have deep eyes in which the night flails. The sea wind is hunting stray gulls. I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. Because of you, I love the white statues Drowsing in the parks, the white statues that Have neither voice nor sight. Memorable lines : 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. I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone. My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. But my words become stained with your love. Memorable lines : My words rained over you, stroking you A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of you body Until I even believe that you own the universe I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark h azels, and rustic baskets of kisses I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst. A black yearning sun is braided into the strands of your black mane, when you stretch your arms. My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
He became known as a poet when he was only 10 years old and when he was 19, his poetry collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair made him a household name in Latin America. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. Upon returning to Chile in 1943, he was elected to the Senate and joined the Communist Party. The first period was the blue period. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. Love, Perseverance Why do you think Pablo Neruda wrote this poem? Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky. Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators. On September 23, 1973, just twelve days after the defeat of Chile's democratic regime, the man widely regarded as the greatest Latin American poet since Darío died in Santiago, Chile. Pale and lashed to my ravenous water, I cruise in the sour smell of the naked climate, still dressed in grey and bitter sounds and a sad crest of abandoned spray. Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over. I go so far as to think that you own the universe. On nights like these I held her in my arms. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
As she was before my kisses. Necklace, drunken bell for your hands smooth as grapes. As she was before my kisses. Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long. It shedsits own light,benign majesty. Behind the nocturnal mountains, white lily of conflagration, ah, I can say nothing! I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes, and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue. The moon turns its clockwork dream.
I made the wall of shadow draw back,beyond desire and act, I walked on. Well, coz we will make it darned hard for you to not want to. And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie housesdried up, waterproof, like a swan made of feltsteering my way in a water of wombs and ashes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent, distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
Then love knew it was called love. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. In December,unabated,the tomatoinvadesthe kitchen,it enters at lunchtime,takesits easeon countertops,among glasses,butter dishes,blue saltcellars. 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. Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window. You were what the wind was making with illuminated leaves.
One word then, one smile, is enough. Search in the poems of Pablo Neruda: Pablo Neruda was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. One word then, one smile is enough.
Tonight I Can Write The Song of Despair Selected Bibliography Suggestions for Further Reading. Here is the solitude from which you are absent. Pablo Neruda was renown for his vast literary output, and categorizing his work as Pablo Neruda love poetry only, does not do justice to his epic range which encompassed his humanity and passionate love for history and his country, not to mention his politics which many readers from Europe and North America found difficult to separate from his poetry. 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. In My Sky At Twilight In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud and your form and colour are the way I love them.