in Poems (Author's Poems)
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
And the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
And the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds.
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in Poems (Author's Poems)
And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the bloods in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!
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Posted by: Luciella Karenina
in Poems (Author's Poems)
When I knew, simply, that I existed
that I could've been, continued,
I felt afraid of it, of life,
I wanted them not to see me,
that they didn't know about my existence.
I became thin, pale, absent,
I didn't want to speak so that they couldn't
recognize my voice, I didn't want to see
so that they wouldn't see me,
walking, I stuck to a wall
like a shadow that slips away.
I would've dressed
with red tiles, of smoke.
to stay there, but invisible,
to be present in everything, but from afar,
mantaining my obscure identity,
tied to the rhythm of spring.
Written on wednesday september 12, 2012
from the book "" by Pablo Neruda
Posted by: Saeglopur
in Poems (Author's Poems)
Modest is the autumn, like the woodcutters.
It's costly to cut all the leaves
off all the trees of all places.
In spring they're sewn on in flight
and now you must let them fall
as if they were little yellow birds:
it insn't easy.
You need time.
You must run the streets,
speak the languages
and everywhere, always,
let fall,
fall,
let fall,
fall the leaves.
It's hard to be autumn,
easy to be spring.
Turning on all that is born
to be turned on.
Turning off the world, instead,
making it slip away
as if it were a circle of yellow roses,
'til smells, light and roots mix
and making wine lift to grapes,
minting patiently the irregular coin
from the top of the tree
and dispersing it later
on uninterested desert roads,
is the job of manly hands.
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If I die, survive me with such a pure force
you make the pallor and the coldness rage;
flash your indelible eyes from south to south,
from sun to sun, till your mouth sings like a guitar.
I don't want your laugh or your footsteps to waver;
I don't want my legacy of happiness to die;
don't call to my breast: I'm not there.
Live in my absence as in a house.
Absence is such a large house
that you'll walk through the walls,
hang pictures in sheer air.
Absence is such a transparent house
that even being dead I will see you there,
and if you suffer, Love, I'll die a second time.
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in Poems (Author's Poems)
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 shadow and the 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 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.
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Posted by: MesaQueen
in Poems (Author's Poems)
You must know that I do not love and that I love you,
because everything alive has its two sides;
a word is one wing of silence,
fire has its cold half.
I love you in order to begin to love you,
to start infinity again
and never to stop loving you:
that's why I do not love you yet.
I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held
keys in my hand: to a future of joy-
a wretched, muddled fate-
My love has two lives, in order to love you. That?s why I love you when I do not love you,
and also why I love you when I do.
Written on tuesday june 14, 2011
Posted by: R. Parisi
in Poems (Author's Poems)
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.
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