I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Showing posts with label poet: Pablo Neruda. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poet: Pablo Neruda. Show all posts
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Oda a la Tormenta (Ode to the Storm) by Pablo Neruda
{Spanish here.}
Last night
she
came,
livid,
night-blue,
wine-red :
the tempest
with her
hair of water,
eyes of cold fire -
last night she wanted
to sleep on earth.
She came all of a sudden
newly unleashed
out of her furious planet,
her cavern in the sky;
she longed for sleep
and made her bed :
sweeping jungles and highways,
sweeping mountains,
washing ocean stones,
and then
as if they were feathers,
ravaging pine trees
to make her bed.
She shook the lightning
from her quiver of fire,
dropped thunderclaps
like great barrels.
All of a sudden
there was silence :
a single leaf
gliding on air
like a flying violin -
then,
before
it touched the earth,
you took it
in your hands, great storm,
put all the winds to work
blowing their horns,
set the whole night
galloping with its horses,
all the ice whistling,
the wild
trees
groaning in misery
like prisoners,
the earth
moaning, a woman
giving birth,
in a single blow
you blotted out
the noise of grass
or stars,
tore
the numbed silence
like a handkerchief -
the world filled
with sound, fury, and fire,
and when the lightning flashes
fell like hair
from your shining forehead,
fell like swords
from your warrior's belt
and when we were about to think
that the world was ending,
then,
rain,
rain,
only
rain,
all earth, all
sky,
at rest,
the night
fell, bleeding to death
on human sleep,
nothing but rain,
water
of time and sky :
nothing had fallen
except a broken branch,
an empty nest.
With your musical
fingers,
with your hell-roar,
your fire
of volcanoes at night,
you played
at lifting a leaf,
gave strength to rivers,
taught
men
to be men,
the weak to fear,
the tender to cry,
the windows
to rattle -
but
when
you prepared to destroy us, when
like a dagger
fury fell from the sky,
when all the light
and shadow trembled
and the pines devoured
themselves howling
on the edge of the midnight sea,
you, delicate storm,
my beloved,
wild as you were,
did us no wrong :
but returned
to your star
and rain,
green rain,
rain full
of dreams and seeds,
mother
of harvests
rain,
world-washing rain,
draining it,
making it new,
rain for us
and for seeds,
rain
for the forgetting
of the dead
and for
tomorrow's bread -
only the rain
you left behind,
water and music,
for this,
I love you
storm,
speak to me,
return,
awaken me,
illuminate me,
show me your path
so that the strong
and stormy voice of a man
may join and sing your song with you.
Last night
she
came,
livid,
night-blue,
wine-red :
the tempest
with her
hair of water,
eyes of cold fire -
last night she wanted
to sleep on earth.
She came all of a sudden
newly unleashed
out of her furious planet,
her cavern in the sky;
she longed for sleep
and made her bed :
sweeping jungles and highways,
sweeping mountains,
washing ocean stones,
and then
as if they were feathers,
ravaging pine trees
to make her bed.
She shook the lightning
from her quiver of fire,
dropped thunderclaps
like great barrels.
All of a sudden
there was silence :
a single leaf
gliding on air
like a flying violin -
then,
before
it touched the earth,
you took it
in your hands, great storm,
put all the winds to work
blowing their horns,
set the whole night
galloping with its horses,
all the ice whistling,
the wild
trees
groaning in misery
like prisoners,
the earth
moaning, a woman
giving birth,
in a single blow
you blotted out
the noise of grass
or stars,
tore
the numbed silence
like a handkerchief -
the world filled
with sound, fury, and fire,
and when the lightning flashes
fell like hair
from your shining forehead,
fell like swords
from your warrior's belt
and when we were about to think
that the world was ending,
then,
rain,
rain,
only
rain,
all earth, all
sky,
at rest,
the night
fell, bleeding to death
on human sleep,
nothing but rain,
water
of time and sky :
nothing had fallen
except a broken branch,
an empty nest.
With your musical
fingers,
with your hell-roar,
your fire
of volcanoes at night,
you played
at lifting a leaf,
gave strength to rivers,
taught
men
to be men,
the weak to fear,
the tender to cry,
the windows
to rattle -
but
when
you prepared to destroy us, when
like a dagger
fury fell from the sky,
when all the light
and shadow trembled
and the pines devoured
themselves howling
on the edge of the midnight sea,
you, delicate storm,
my beloved,
wild as you were,
did us no wrong :
but returned
to your star
and rain,
green rain,
rain full
of dreams and seeds,
mother
of harvests
rain,
world-washing rain,
draining it,
making it new,
rain for us
and for seeds,
rain
for the forgetting
of the dead
and for
tomorrow's bread -
only the rain
you left behind,
water and music,
for this,
I love you
storm,
speak to me,
return,
awaken me,
illuminate me,
show me your path
so that the strong
and stormy voice of a man
may join and sing your song with you.
Friday, March 30, 2007
If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda
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.
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.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Past
We have to discard the past
and, as one builds
floor by floor, window by window,
and the building rises,
so do we go on throwing down
first, broken tiles,
then pompous doors,
until out of the past
dust rises
as if to crash
against the floor,
smoke rises
as if to catch fire,
and each new day
it gleams
like an empty
plate.
There is nothing, there is always nothing.
It has to be filled
with a new, fruitful
space,
then downward
tumbles yesterday
as in a well
falls yesterday's water,
into the cistern
of all still without voice or fire.
It is difficult
to teach bones
to disappear,
to teach eyes
to close
but
we do it
unrealizing.
It was all alive,
alive, alive, alive
like a scarlet fish
but time
passed over its dark cloth
and the flash of the fish
drowned and disappeared.
Water water water
the past goes on falling
still a tangle
of bones
and of roots;
it has been, it has been, and now
memories mean nothing.
Now the heavy eyelid
covers the light of the eye
and what was once living
now no longer lives;
what we were, we are not.
And with words, although the letters
still have transparency and sound,
they change, and the mouth changes;
the same mouth is now another mouth;
they change, lips, skin, circulation;
another being has occupied our skeleton;
what once was in us now is not.
It has gone, but if they call, we reply:
'I am here,' knowing we are not,
that what once was, was and is lost,
is lost in the past, and now will not return.
Pablo Neruda
and, as one builds
floor by floor, window by window,
and the building rises,
so do we go on throwing down
first, broken tiles,
then pompous doors,
until out of the past
dust rises
as if to crash
against the floor,
smoke rises
as if to catch fire,
and each new day
it gleams
like an empty
plate.
There is nothing, there is always nothing.
It has to be filled
with a new, fruitful
space,
then downward
tumbles yesterday
as in a well
falls yesterday's water,
into the cistern
of all still without voice or fire.
It is difficult
to teach bones
to disappear,
to teach eyes
to close
but
we do it
unrealizing.
It was all alive,
alive, alive, alive
like a scarlet fish
but time
passed over its dark cloth
and the flash of the fish
drowned and disappeared.
Water water water
the past goes on falling
still a tangle
of bones
and of roots;
it has been, it has been, and now
memories mean nothing.
Now the heavy eyelid
covers the light of the eye
and what was once living
now no longer lives;
what we were, we are not.
And with words, although the letters
still have transparency and sound,
they change, and the mouth changes;
the same mouth is now another mouth;
they change, lips, skin, circulation;
another being has occupied our skeleton;
what once was in us now is not.
It has gone, but if they call, we reply:
'I am here,' knowing we are not,
that what once was, was and is lost,
is lost in the past, and now will not return.
Pablo Neruda
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Quote of the Day
"No sé, no sé de dónde salió,
de inverno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran palabras,
ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro y me tocaba."
Pablo Neruda
[I don't know... I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. ]
This is Pablo Neruda's poem "Poesía," and while it is a beautiful image of the artist finding his calling as a poet, I also think it is a beautiful image for any intangible experience, revelation, or inspiration. To not know the means by which it came, even if one knows the source. To be without a face and yet to be chosen abruptly from the others. This is the strange, surreal experience of revelation - poetic, spiritual, intellectual. I just think this poem captures it beautifully.
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