天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》 《The Poetry of Pablo Neruda》 A Dog Has Died A Dog Has Died My dog has died. I buried him in the garden o a rusted old mae. Some day Ill join him right there, but now hes goh his shaggy coat, his bad manners and his cold nose, and I, the materialist, who never believed in any promised heaven in the sky for any human being, I believe in a heaven Ill never enter. Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom where my dog waits for my arrival waving his fan-like tail in friendship. Ai, Ill not speak of sadness here oh, of having lost a panion who was never servile. His friendship for me, like that of a pore withholding its authority, was the friendship of a star, aloof, with no more intimacy than was called for, with no exaggerations: he never climbed all over my clothes filling me full of his hair or his mange, he never rubbed up against my knee like s obsessed with sex. No, my dog used to gaze at me, payihe attention I need, the attention required to make a vain person like me uand that, being a dog, he was wasting time, but, with those eyes so much purer than mine, hed keep on gazing at me with a look that reserved for me alone all his sweet and shaggy life, always near me, roubling me, and asking nothi
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ng. Ai, how many times have I envied his tail as we walked together on the shores of the sea in the lonely winter of Isla Negra where the wintering birds filled the sky and my hairy dog was jumping about full of the voltage of the seas movement: my wandering dog, sniffing away with his golden tail held high, face to face with the os spray. Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy wit.99lib.h only the autonomy of their shameless spirit. There are no good-byes for my dog who has died, and we dont now and never did lie to each other. So now hes gone and I buried him, and thats all there is to it. Translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer Pablo Neruda A Lemon A Lemon Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight, loves lashed and insatiable essences, sodden with fragrance, the lemon trees yellow emerges, the lemons move down from the trees plaarium Delicate merc
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handise! The harbors are big with it- bazaars for the light and the barbarous gold. We open the halves of a miracle, and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions: creations inal juices, irreducible, geless, alive: so the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, are and acerb. Cutting the lemon the knife leaves a little cathedral: alcoves unguessed by the eye that open acidulous glass to the light; topazes riding the droplets, altars, aromatic facades. So, while t九九藏书he hand holds the cut of the lemon, half a world on a trencher, the gold of the universe wells to your touch: a cup yellow with miracles, a breast and a nipple perfuming the earth; a flashing made fruitage, the diminutive fire of a pla. Pablo Neruda A Song of Despair A Song of Despair The memory of you emerges from the night around me. The river mis stubborn lament with the sea. Deserted like the dwarves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you the wings of the song birds rose. You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilots dread, fury of blind driver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you g to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I ma9９ｌｉb?de the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I
loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Like a jar you housed infienderness. and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a ja?9９ｌib?r. There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in. There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle. Ah woman, I do not know how you could tain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungerih, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. And the tenderness, light as water and as flour. And the word scarcely begun on the lips. This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing, and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you, what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang. Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel. You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The rustli of the sea girdles the shore. Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate. Pablo Neruda Bird Bird It assed fr99ｌib?om one bird to another, the whole gift九九藏书 of the day. The day went from flute to flute, went dressed iation, in flights which opened a tunnel through the wind would pass to where birds were breaking open the dense blue99ｌｉb? air - and there, night came in. When I returned from so many journeys, I stayed suspended and green between sun and geography - I saings worked, how perfumes are transmitted by feathery telegraph, and from above I saw the path, the springs and the roof tiles, the fishermen at藏书网 their trades, the trousers of the foam; I saw it all from my gree9９liｂ.n sky. I had no more alphabet than the swallows in their courses, the tiny, shining water of the small bird on fire which dances out of the pollen. Pablo Neruda Brown and Agile Child Brown and Agile Child Brown and agile child, the sun whis the fruit And ripens the grain and twists the seaweed Has made your happy body and your luminous eyes And given your mouth the smile of water. A blad anguished sun is entangled iwigs Of your black mane when you hold out your arms. You play in the sun as in a tidal river And it leaves tools in your eyes. Brown and agile child, nothing draws me to you, Everything pulls away from me here in the noon. You are the delirious youth of bee, The drunkedness of the wave, the power of the heat. My somber heart seeks you always I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice. Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure Like the wheatfiled, the sun, t
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he poppy, and the water. Pablo Neruda九九藏书 Canto XII from The Heights of Macchu Picchu to XII from The Heights of Macchu Picchu Arise to birth with me, my brother. Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows. You will not return from these stone fastnesses. You will not emerge from subterraime. Your rasping voice will not e back, nor your pierced eyes rise from their sockets. Look at me from the depths of the earth, tiller of fields, weaver, retit shepherd, groom of totemic guanacos, mason high on your treacherous scaffolding, i of Aears, jeweler with crushed fingers, farmer anxious among his seedlings, potter wasted among his clays-- bring to 99lib?the cup of this new life your a buried sorrows. Show me your blo?99ｌiｂ.od and your furrow; say to me: here I was sced because a gem was dull or because the earth failed to give up in time its tithe of or stone. Point out to me the ro which you stumbled, the wood they used to crucify your body. Strike the old flints to kindle a lamps, light up the whips glued to your wounds throughout the turies and light the axes gleaming with your blood. I e to speak for your dead mouths. Throughout the earth let dead lips gregate, out of the depths spin this long night to me as if I rode at anchor here with99lib. you. And tell me everything, tell by , and link by link, and step by step; sharpen the knives you kept hidden away, thrust them into my breast, into my hands, like a torrent of sunbursts, an Amazon of buried jaguars, and leave me cry: hours, days and years, blind ages, stellar turies. And give me silence, give me water, hope. Give me the struggle, the iron, the voloes. Let bodies g like mago my body. e quickly to my veins and to my mouth. Speak through ?99lｉb.my speech, and through my blood. Pablo Neruda Cats Dream Cats Dream How ly a cat sleeps, sleeps with its paws and its posture, sleeps with its wicked claws, and with its unfeeling blood, sleeps with all the rings-- a series of burnt circles-- which have formed the odd geology of its sand-colored tail. I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire; and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with 九九藏书a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams. I have seen how the cat asleep would undulate, how the night flowed through it like d99ｌｉｂ.ark water; and at times, it was going to fall or possibly pluo the bare deserted snowdrifts. Sometimes it grew so mu sleep like a tigers great-grandfather, and would leap in the darkness over rooftops, clouds and voloes. Sleep, sleep cat of the night, with episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache. Take care of all our dreams; trol the obscurity of our slumbering prowess with your relentless heart and the great ruff of your tail. Translated by Alastair Reid Submitted by Jen Pablo Neruda Clenched Soul ched Soul We have lost even this twilight. No one saw us this evening hand in hand while the blue night dropped on the world９９ｌｉｂ?. I have seen from my window the fiesta of su in the distant mountain tops. Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a in my hand. I remembered you with my soul ched in that sadness of mihat you know. Where were you then? Who else was t藏书网here? Saying what? Why will the whole of love e on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away? The book fell that always closed at twilight and my blue sweat.99lib.er rolled like a hurt dog at my feet. Always, alw九九藏书ays you recede through the evenings toward the twilight erasing statues. Pablo Neruda Drunk as Drunk Drunk as Drunk Translated from the Spanish by Christue Drunk as drunk on turpentine From your open kisses, Your wet body wedged Between my wet body and the strake Of our boat that is made of fl.99lib.owers, Feasted, we guide it - our fingers Like tallows adorned with yellow metal - Over the skys hot rim, The days last breath in our sails. Pinned by the suween solstice And equinox, drowsy and taogether We drifted for months and woke With the bitter ta9９lｉb?ste of land on our lips, Eyelids all sticky, and we l
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onged for lime And the sound of a rope L a bucket down its well. Then, We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And l九九藏书ay like fish Uhe of our kisses. Pablo Neruda Enigmas Enigmas Youve asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golde? I reply, the o knows this. You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for? I tell you it is waiting for time, like you. You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms? Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know. You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describing how the sea uni with the harpoon in it dies. You enquire about the kingfishers feathers, which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides? Or youve found in the cards a new question toug on the crystal architecture of the sea anemone, and youll deal that to me now? You want to uand the electriature of the o spines?
The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks? The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out in the deep places like a thread ier? I want to tell you the o knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to t, pure, and among the blood-crapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and us knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infiher-of-pearl. I am nothing but the empty which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers aced to the triangle, longitudes oimid globe of an e. I walked around as you do, iigating the endless star, and in my , during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped ihe wind. Translated by Robert Bly Pablo Neruda Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks All those mehere inside, when she came in totally naked. They had been drinking: they began to spit. Newly e from the river, she knew nothing. She was a mermaid who had lost her way. The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh. Obsities drowned her gol?des. Not knowing tears, she did not we>藏书网ep tears. Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes. They blaed her with burnt corks and cigaretbbr>..te stubs, and rolled around laughing oavern floor..9９ｌｉb. She did not speak because she had no speech. Her eyes were the colour of distant love, her twin arms were made of white topaz. Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light, and suddenly she went out by that door. Entering the river she was ed, shining like a white stone in the rain, and without looking back she swam again swam towards emptiness, swam towards death. Pablo Neruda Fleas interest me so much Fleas i me so much藏书网 Fleas i me so much that I let them bite me for hours. They are perfect, a, Sanskrit, maes that admit of no appeal. They do not bite to eat, they bite only to jump; they are the dancers of the celestial sphere, delicate acrobats in the softest and most profound circus; let them gallop on my skin, divulge their emotions, amuse themselves with my blood, but someone should introduce them to me. I want to know them closely, I want to know what to rely on. Pablo Neruda From – Twenty Poems of Love From – Twenty Poems of Love I write the saddest lionight. Write for example: ‘The night is fractured and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’ The n>ight wind turns in the sky and sings. I write the saddest lionight. I loved her, sometimes she loved me too. On nights like these I held her in my arms. I kissed her greatly uhe infinite sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes. I write the saddest lionight. To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her. Hear the vast night, vaster without her. Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass. What does it matter that I couldn’t keep ..her. The night is fractured and she is not with me. That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off, my soul is not tent to have lost her. As though to reach her, my sight looks for her. My heart looks for her: she is not with me The same night whitens, in the same branches. We, from that time, we are not the same. I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her. Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses. Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes. I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her. Love is brief: fetting lasts so long. Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms, my soul is not tent to have lost her. Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer, and these are the last lines I will write for her. Pablo Neruda?9９lib. from The Book of Questions from The Book of Questions III. Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees ceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train ..anding in the rain? Pablo Neruda Gentleman Alone The young maries and the horny muchachas, The big fat widows delirious from insomnia, The young wives thirty hours pregnant, And the hoarse tomcats that y garden at night, Like a collar of palpitating sexual oysters Surround my solitary home, Enemies of my soul, spirators in pajamas Who exge deep kisses for passwords. Radiant summer brings out the lovers In melanchiments, Fat and thin and happy and sad couples; Uhe elegant ut palms, he o and moon, There is a ark>99liｂ?tinual life of pants and panties, A hum from the fondling of silk stogs, And womens breasts that glisten like eyes. The salary man, after a while, After the weeks tedium, and th..e novels read i night, Has decisively fucked his neighbor, And now takes her to the miserable movies, Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes, And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down With his ardent and salms that smell like cigarettes. The night of the hunter and the night of the husband e together like bed sheets and bury me, And the hours after lunch, wheudents and priests are masturbating, And the animals mount each other openly, And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically, And cousins play strange games w藏书网ith cousins, And dlower at the husband of the young patient, And the early m in which the professor, without a thought, Pays his jugal debt as breakfast, And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly On beds big and tall as ships: So, eternally, This twisted and breathing forest crushes me With gigantic flowers like mouth ah And black roots like fingernails and shoes. Translated by Mike Topp Pablo Neruda I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair.. DONT GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY Dont go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I dont know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in ay station wherains are parked off sbbr>..omewhere else, asleep. Dont leave me, even for an hour, because thetle 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. Dont leave me for a sed, my dearest, because in that moment youll have gone so far Ill wander mazily over all the earth, asking, Will you e back? Will you leave me here, dying? Pablo Neruda I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You I do not love you except be>?ause 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 its you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my.. ging love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly. Maybe January light will e My heart with its cruel Ray, stealing my key to true calm. In this part of the story I am the one who Dies, 9９ｌｉｂ?he only one, and I will die of love because I love you, Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood. Translated by ??? Submitted by Venus Pablo Neruda?t> If You Forget Me If You Fet Me I want you to know ohing. 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 he 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 fet me do not look for me, for I shall already have fotten 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 ９９lｉb?t>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, ihing is extinguished or fotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine. Pablo Neruda>9９ｌiｂ? Im Explaining a Few Things Im Explaining a Few Things Yoing to ask: and where are the lilacs? and the poppy-petalled metaphysics? and the raiedly spattering its words and drilling them full of apertures and birds? Ill tell you all the news. I lived in a suburb, a suburb of Madrid, with bells, and clocks, and trees. From there you could look out over Castilles dry face: a leather o. My house was called the house of flowers, because in every y geraniums burst: it was a good-looking house with its dogs and children. Remember, Raul? Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember from uhe ground my balies on which the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth? Brother, my brother! Everything loud with big voices, the salt of merdises, pile-ups of palpitating bread９９ｌiｂ?, the stalls of my suburb uelles with its statue like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake: oil flowed into spoons, a deep baying of feet and hands swelled ireets, metres, litres, the sharp measure of life, stacked-up fish, the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which the weather vane falters, the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes, wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea. And one m all that was burning, one m the bonfires leapt out of the earth dev human beings -- and from then on fire, gunpowder from then on, and from then on blood. Bandits with planes and Moors, bandits with finger-rings and duchesses, bandits with bla>. friars spattering blessings came through the sky to kill children and the blood of children ran through the streets without fuss, like childrens blood. Jackals that the jackals would despise, stohat the dry thistle would bite on and spit out, vipers that the vipers would abominate! Face to face with you I have seen the blood of Spain tower like a tide to drown you in one wave of pride and knives! Treac..herous generals: see my dead house, look at broken Spain : from every house burnial flows instead of flowers, from every socket of Spain Spain emerges and from every dead child a rifle with eyes, and from every crime bullets are born which will one day find the bulls eye of your hearts. And youll ask: why doesnt his poetry speak of dreams and leaves and the great voloes of his native land? e ahe blood ireets. e and see The blood ireets. e ahe blood Ireets! Pablo Neruda In My Sky At Twilight 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. You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips and in your life my infinite dreams live. The lamp of my soul dyes your feet, the sour wine is sweeter on your lips, oh reaper of my evening song, how solitary dreams believe you９９ｌｉb?o be mine! You are mine.?, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoons wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice. Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder stills your noal regard as though it were water. You are taken i of my music, my love, and my s of music are wide as the sky. My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of m. In your eyes of m the land of dreams begin. Pablo Neruda Leaning Into The Afternoons Leaning Into The Afternoons Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad s towards your oic eyes. There in the highe藏书网st blaze my solitude lengthens and flames, its arms turning like a drowning mans. I send out red signals across your absent eyes that smell like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse. You keep only darkness,. my distant female, from yard sometimes the coast of dread emerges. Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad s to that sea that is thrashed by your oic eyes. The birds of night peck at the first stars that flas.99lｉb.like my soul when I love you. The night gallops on its shadowy mare shedding blue tassels over the land. Pablo Neruda Lost in the forest... Lost in the forest... Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips: maybe it was the voice of the rain g, a cracked bell, or a torn heart. Something from far off it seemed deep a to me, hidden by the earth, a shout muffled by huge autumns, by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves. Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tos drifting 9９ｌｉｂ?fragrance climbed up through my sind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood--- and I stopped, wounded by the wandering st. Pablo Neruda Love Love Whats wrong with you, with us, whats happening to us? Ah our love is a harsh cord that binds us wounding us and if we want to leave our wound, to separate, it makes a new knot for us and ns us to drain our blood and burn together. Whats wrong with you? I look at you and I find nothing in you but two eyes like all eyes, a mouth lost among a thousabbr>nd mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful, a body just like those that have slipped beh my body without leaving.99liｂ? any memory. And how empty you went through the world like a wheat-colored jar without air, without sound, without substance! I vainly sought in you depth for my arms that dig, without cease, beh the earth: beh your skih your eyes, nothing, beh your double breast scarcely raised a current of crystalline order that does not know why it flows singing. Why, why, why, my love, why? Pablo Neruda Magellanic Penguin Magellaniguin her nor child nor black nor white but v..erticle and a questioning innoce dressed in night and snow: The mother smiles at the sailor, the fisherman at the astronaunt, but the child child does not smile when he looks at the bird child, and from the disorderly ocean the immaculate passenger emerges in snowy m. I was without doubt the child bird there in the cold archipelagoes when it looked at me with its eyes, with its a bbr>o eyes: it had her arms nor wings but hard little oars on its sides: it was as old as the salt; the age of moving water, and it looked at me from its age: sihen I know I do ; I am a worm in the sand. the reasons for my respect remained in the sand: the religious bird did not o fly, did not o sing, and.. through its form was visible its wild soul bled salt: as if a vein from the bitter sea had been broken. Penguin, static traveler, deliberate priest of the cold, I salute your vertical salt and envy your plumed pride. Pablo Neruda藏书网 Nothing But Death Nothing But Death There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bohat do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is ihe bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, ing out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tear.t>s of rain. Sometimes I see alone９9lｉｂ? coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence. Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, es and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, es and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. heless its steps be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree. Im not sure, I uand only a little, I hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the peing dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter. But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is ihe broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread. Death is ihe folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blas, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound.. that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral. Translated by Robert Bly Pablo Neruda Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market Among the market greens, a bullet from the o depths, a swimming projectile, I saw you, dead. All around you were lettuces, sea foam of the earth, carrots, grapes, but of the o truth, of the unknown, of the u>.nfathomable shadow, the depths of the sea, the abyss, only you had survived, a pitch-black, varnished witness to deepest night. Only you, well-aimed dark bullet from the abyss, mangled at oip, but stantly reborn, at anchor in the current, winged fins windmilling in the swift flight of the marine shadow, a m arrow, dart of the sea, olive, oily fish. I saw you dead, a deceased king of my own o, green assault, silver submarine fir, seed of seaquakes, now only dead remains, yet in all the market yours was the only purposeful form amid the bewildering rout.. of nature; amid the fragile greens you were a solitary ship, armed among the vegetables fin and prow blad oiled, as if you were still the vessel of the wind, the one and only pure o mae: unflawed, navigating the waters of death. Pablo Neruda Ode to Maize Ode to Maize America, from a grain of maize you grew to with spacious lands the o foam. A grain of maize was yeography. From the grain a green lance rose, was covered with gold, to grace the heights of Peru with its yellow tassels. But, poet, let history rest in its shroud; praise with your lyre the grain in its granaries: sing to the simple maize i. First, a fine beard fluttered in the field above the teeeth of the young ear. Then the husks parted bbr>and fruitfulness burst its veils of pale papyrus that grains of laughter might fall upon the earth. To the stone, in your journey, you returned. Not to the terrible stone, the bloody triangle of Mexi death, but to the grinding stone, sacred stone of your kits. There, milk and matter, strength-giving, nutritious eal pulp, you were worked and patted by the wondrous hands of dark-skinned women. Wherever you ..fall, maize, whether into the splendid pot of partridge, or among try beans, you light up９９ｌｉｂ? the meal and lend it your virginal flavor. Oh, to bite into the steaming ear beside the sea of distant song and deepest waltz. To boil you as your aroma spreads through blue sierras. But is there no end to your treasure? In chalky, barren lands bordered by the sea, along the rocky Chilean coast, at times only your radiance reaches the empty table of the miner. Yht, your eal, your hope pervades Americas solitudes, and to hunger your lances are enemy legions. Within your husks, like gentle kernels, our sober provincial childres were nurtured, until life began to shuck us from the ear. Pablo Neruda Ode to Sadness Ode to Sadness Sadness, scarab with seven crippled feet, spiderweb egg, scramble-brained rat, bitchs skeleton: ry here. Dont e in. Go away. Go back south with your umbrella, go back north with your serpents teeth. A poet lives here. No sadness may cross this threshold. Through these windows es the breath of the world, fresh red roses, flags embroidered with the victories of the people. No. ry. Flap your bats wings, I will trample the feathers that fall from your mantle, I will sweep the bits and pieces of your carcass to the four ers of the wind, I will wring your neck, I will stitch your eyelids shut,? I will sew your shroud, sadness, and bury your rodent bones beh the springtime obbr>藏书网f an apple tree. Pablo Neruda Ode to Salt Ode to Salt This salt in the salt cellar I once saw in the salt mines. I know you wont believe me but it sings salt sings, the skin of the salt mines sings with a mouth smothered by the earth. I shivered in those. solitudes when I heard the voice of the salt in the desert. Near Antofagasta the nitrous pampa resounds: a broken voice, a mournful song. In its caves the salt moa99lｉｂ?ns, mountain of buried light, translut cathedral, crystal of the sea, oblivion of the waves. And then oable in the world, salt, we see your piquant powder sprinkling vital light upon our food. Preserv?er of the a holds of ships, discoverer on the high seas, earliest sailor of the unknown, shifting byways of the foam. Dust of the sea, in you the tongue receives a kiss from o night: taste imparts to every seasoned dish your o essence; the smallest, miniature wave from the saltcel.９９ｌｉｂ.lar reveals to us more than domestic whiteness; in it, we taste finitude. Pablo Neruda Ode to the Book Ode to the Book When I close a book I open life. I hear faltering cries among harbours. Cnots slide doits to Tocopilla. Night time. Among the islands our o throbs with fish, touches the feet, the thighs, the chalk ribs of my try. The whole of night gs to its shores, by dawn it wakes up singing as if it had ９9lib?excited a guitar. The os surge is calling. The wind calls me and Ruez calls, and Jose Antonio-- I got a telegram from the "Mine" Union and the one I love (whose name I wo out) expects me in Bucalemu. No book has been able to me in paper, to fill me up with typography, with heavenly imprints or was ever able to bind my eyes, I e out of books to people orchards with the hoarse family of my song, to work the burnials or to eat smoked beef by mountain firesides. I lo?ve adventurous books, books of forest or snow, depth or sky but hate the spider book in which thought has laid poisonous wires to trap the juvenile ..and cirg fly. Book, let me go. I wont go clothed in volumes, I dont e out of collected works, my poems have en poems-- they devour exg hap9９ｌｉb?penings, feed h weather, and dig their food out of earth and men. Im on my way with dust in my shoes free of mythology: send books back to their shelves, Im going down into the streets. I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single ki?ss and could teao one anything except that I have lived with something in ong men, when fighting with them, when saying all their say in my song. Pablo Neruda Ode To Wine Ode To Wirong> Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wih purple feet or wih topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth, wine, smooth as a golden sword, soft as lascivious velvet, wine, spiral-seashelled and full of wonder, amorous, marine; never has one goblet tained you, one song, one man, you are choral, gregarious, at the least, you must be shared. At times you feed on mortal memories; your wave carries us from tomb to tomb, stoer of icy sepulchers, and we weep transitory tears; your glorious spring dress is different, blood rises through the shoots, wind ihe day, nothing is left of your immutable soul. Wine stirs the spring, happiness bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, and rocky cliffs, chasms close, as song is born. A jug of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness, sang the a poet. Let the wicher add to the kiss of love its own. My darling, suddenly the line of your hip bees the brimming curve of the wine goblet, your breast is the grape cluster, your nipples are the grapes, the gleam of spirits lights your hair, and your navel is a chaste seal stamped on the vessel of your belly, your love an inexhaustible cascade of wine, light that illuminates my senses, the earthly splendor of life. But you are more than love, the fiery kiss, the heat of fire, more than the wine of life; you are the unity of man, translucy, chorus of discipline, abundance of flowers. I like oable, when were speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine. Drink it, and remember in every d..rop of gold, iopaz glass, in every purple ladle, that autumn labor..t>ed to fill the vessel with wine; and in th..e ritual of his office, let the simple man remember to think of the soil and of his duty, tate the ticle of the wine. Pablo Neruda Poetry Poetry And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in seare. I dont know, I dont >?９９lｉb.know where it came from, from winter or a river. I dont kno..w 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. I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names, my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or fotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire, and I >９9liｂ.rote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, plas, palpitating plantations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe. And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, imag9９ｌiｂ?e of mystery, felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars,. my heart broke loose on the wind. Pablo Neruda Poor Fellows Poor Fellows What it takes on this pla, ..to make love to each other in peace. Everyone pries under your sheets, everyoerferes with your loving. They say terrible thin?９9liｂ?gs about a man and a woman, who after much milling about, all sorts of puns, do something unique, they both lie with each other in one bed. I ask myself whether frogs are so furtive, or sneeze as they please. Whether they whisper to each other in ss about illegitimate frogs, or the joys of amphibious living. I ask myself if birds si enemy birds, or bulls gossip with bullocks before they go out in public with cows. Even the roads have eyes and the parks their police. Hotels spy on their guests, wi?９９lｉb?t>ndows name names, s and squadrons debark on missio..t>ns to liquidate love. All those ears and those jaws w incessantly, till a man and his girl have to raise their climax, full tilt, on a bicycle. Pablo Neruda Puedo Escribir Puedo Escribir Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Escribir, por ejemplo: La > está estrellada, y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos. El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y ta. Puedo escribir los versos más 藏书网tristes esta noche. Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso. En las noches p;eacute;sta la tuve entre mis brazos. La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito. Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería. Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos. Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche. Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido. Oir la noche inmensa, más inmnesa sin ella. Y el verso cae al alma o al pasto el rocío. Qu&..eacute; importa que mi amor no pudiera guadarla. La á estrellada y ella á igo. Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien ta. A lo lejos. Mi alma no se tenta haberla perdido. o para acercarla mi mirada la busca. Mi corazón la busca, y ella á igo. La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles. Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise. Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído. De otro. Será de otro. o antes de mis besos. Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos. Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero. Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido. Porque en noches p;eacute;sta la tuve entre mis brazos, mi alma no se tenta haberla perdido. Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa, y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo. Pablo Neruda Saddest Poem Saddest Poem I write the saddest poem of all tonight. Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars, and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance." The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. I write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. On nights like this, I held her in my arms. I kissed her so many times uhe infinite sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her. How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? I write the saddest poem of all tonight. To think I dont have her. To feel that Ive lost her. .o hear the immense night, more immehout her. And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. What does it matter that my love couldnt keep her. The night is full of stars and she is not with me. Thats all. Far away, someone sings. Far away. My soul is lost without her. As if t her near, my eyes search for her. My heart searches for her and she is not with me. The same night that whitens the same trees. ho were, we are the same no longer. I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her. My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. Someone elses. She will be someone elses. As she once beloo my kisses. Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her. Love is so short and oblivion so long. Because on nights like this I held her in my arms, my soul is lost without her. Although this may be the last.. pain she causes me, and this may be the last poem I write for her. Pablo Neruda Some Beasts Some Beasts It was the twilight of the iguana: From a rainbowing b.?attlement, a tongue like a javelin lunging in verdure; an areading the jungle, monastiusical feet; the guanaco, oxygen-fine in the high places swarthed with distances, cobbling his feet into gold; the llama of scrupulous eye the widens his gaze on the dews of a delicate world. A monkey is weaving a thread of insatiable lusts on the margins of m: he topples a pollen-fall, startles the violet-flght of the butterfly, wings on the Muzo. It was the night of the alligator: s..nouts moving out of the slime, in inal darkness, the pullulations, a clatter of armour, opaque in the sleep of the bog, turning back to the chalk of the sources. The jaguar touches the leaves with his phosphorous absence, the puma speeds to his covert in the blaze of his hungers, his eyeballs, a jungle of alcohol, burn in his head. Pablo Neruda Sonata Sonata her the heart cut by a pie>..ce of glass in a wasteland of thorns nor t?rocious waters seen in the ers of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes capture your waist in my hands when my heart lifts its oaks towards your unbreakable thread of snow. Noal sugar, spirit of the s, ransomed human blood, your kisses send into exile and a stroke of water, with remnants?. of the sea, s on the silehat wait for you surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors. Nights with bright spindles, divided, material, nothing but voiothing but naked every day. Over your breasts of motionless current, over ys of firmness and water, over the permanend the pride of your naked hair I want to be, my lo.９９ｌｉｂ.ve, now that the tears are thrown into the raucous baskets where they accumulate, I want to be, my love, aloh a syllable of mangled silver, aloh a tip of your breast of snow. Pablo Neruda Sonnet LXXXI So LXXXI And? now youre mine. Rest with your dream in my dream. Love and pain and work should all sleep, now. The night turns on its９９lｉb? invisible wheels, and you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber. 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 yo藏书网u, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon. Your hands have already opeheir delicate fists aheir 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 world, the wind spin out their destiny. Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all. Pablo Neruda Sonnet VIII So VIII If your eyes were not the color of the moon, of a day full [here, interrupted by the baby waking -- tinued about 26 hours later ] of a day full of clay, and work, and fire, if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air, if you were not an amber week, not the yellow mo9９lｉｂ?ment when autumn climbs up through the vines; if you were not that bread the fragrant moon kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky, 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 be alive: with９9ｌｉｂ?t>out moving I see it all: in your life I see everything that lives. Pablo Neruda Sonnet XI So XI 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 hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. I want to ea9９lib?he sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sn 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 h?ot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue. Pablo Neruda Sonnet XVII So XVII I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of ations 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 plexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does , nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. Pablo Neruda Sonnet XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea) So XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea) You are the daughter of the sea, anos first cousin. Swimmer, your body is pure as the water; cook, your blood is quick as the soil. Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth. Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise; your hands go out to t.99ｌib?he earth and the seeds swell; you know the deep essence of water and the earth, joined in you like a formula for clay. N.９9liｂ.aiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces, they will bloom resurrected i. This is how you bee everything that lives. And so at last, you sleep, in the ciry arms that push back the shadows so that you rest-- vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams. Translated by Stephen Tapscott Pablo Neruda The Dictators The Dictators An odor has remained among the sugare: a mixture of>.. blood and body, a peing petal that brings nausea. Between the ut palms the graves are full of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles. The delicate dictator is talking with top hats,bbr> gold braid, and collars. The tiny palace gleams like a watch and the rapid laughs with gloves on cross the corridors at times and join the dead voices and the blue mouths freshly buried. The weeping ot be seen, like a plant whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth, whose large blind leaves grow even without light. Hatred has grown scale on scale, blow on blow, in the gh.ly water of the s, with a snout full of ooze and silence Pablo Neruda The Light Wraps You The Light s You The light s you in its mor９9liｂ.al flame. Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way against the old propellers of the twighlight that revolves around you. Speechless, my friend, alone in the loneliness of this .９9ｌｉb?hour of the dead and filled with the lives of fire, pure heir of the ruined day. A bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment. The great roots of night grow suddenly from your soul, and the things that hide in you e out again so that a blue and palled people your newly born, takes nourishment. Oh magnifit and fed and magic slave of the circle that moves in turn through blad gold: rise, lead and possess a creation so ri life that its flowers perish and it is full of sadness. Pablo Neruda The Night in Isla Negra The Night in Isla Negra A night and the unruly salt beat at the walls of my house. The shadow is all ohe sky throbs now along with the o, and sky and shadow erupt in the crash of their vast flict. All night long they struggle; nobody knows the name of the harsh light that keeps slowly opening like a languid fruit. So on the coast es to light, out of seething shadow, the harsh dawn, g by the moving salt, swept by the mass of ni.9９lｉｂ.ght, bloodstained in its sea-washed crater. Pablo Nerudabbr>.. The Question The Question Love, a question has destroyed you. I have e back to you from thorny uainty. I want you straight as the sword or the road. But y>９9liｂ?ou insist on keeping a nook of shadow that I do not want. My love, uand me, I love all of you, from eyes to feet, to toenails, inside, all the brightness, which you kept. It is I, my love, who knocks at your door. It is not the ghost, it is not the one who oopped at your window. I knock down the door: I enter your life: I e to live in your soul: you ot cope with me. You must open door to door, you must obey me, you must open your eyes so that I may sear them, you must see how I walk .９9ｌib.with heavy steps along all the roads that, blind, were waiting for me. Do not fear, I am yours, but I am not the passenger or the beggar, I am your master, the one you were waiting for, and now I enter your life, no more to leave it, love, love, love, but to stay. Pablo Neruda The Saddest Poem The Saddest Poem I write the saddest poem of all tonight. Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars, and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance." The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. I write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. On nights like this, I held her in my arms. I kissed her so many times uhe infinite sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her. How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? I write the saddest poem of all tonight. To think I dont have her. To feel that Ive lost her. To hear the immense night, more immehout her. And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. What does it matter that my love couldnt keep her. The night is full of stars and she is not with me. Thats all. Far away, someone sings. Far away. My soul is lost without her. As if t her near, my eyes search for her. My heart searches for her and she is not with me. The same night that whitens the same trees. ho were, we are the same no longer. I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her. My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. Someone elses. She will be someone elses. As she once beloo my kisses. Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her. Love is so short and oblivion so long. Because on nights like this I held her in my arms, my soul is lost without her. Although this may be the last pain she causes me, and this may be the last poem I write for her. Pablo Neruda The Song of Despair The Song of Despair You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, lik.pell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilots dread, fury of a blind diver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! Pablo Neruda The Weary One The Weary Orong> The weary one, orphan of the９９ｌiｂ? masses, the self, the crushed ohe one made of crete, the ohout a try in crowded res>..taurants, he who wao go far away, always farther away, didnt know what to do there, whether he wanted or didnt want to leave or remain on the island, the hesitant ohe hybrid, entangled in himself, had no place here: the straight-aone, the infinite look of the granite prism, the circular solitude all banished him: he went somewhere else with his sorrows, he returo the agony of his native land, to his indecisions, of winter and summer. Pablo Neruda藏书网 The White Mans Burden The White Mans Burden Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips: maybe it was the voice of the rain g, a cracked bell, or a tor. Something from far off it seemed deep a to me, hidden by the earth, a shout muffled by huge autumns, by the moist half-open dark９９ｌiｂ?ness of the leaves. Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tos drifting fragrance climbed up through my sind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood--- and I stopped, wounded by the wandering st Pablo Neruda Tonight I Can Write Tonight I Write Tonight I write the saddest lines. Write, for example, The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance. The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again uhe endless sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could o have loved her greatbbr> still eyes. Tonight I write the saddest lines. To think that I do >?not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immehout her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me. This is all. In the distaneone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight tries to find her as though t her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no lon..ger the same. I no longer love her, thats certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Anothers. She will be anothers. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, thats certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, fetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her. translated by W.S. Merwin Pablo Neruda Tonight I can write the saddest lines Tonight I write the saddest lines Tonight I write the saddest lines. Write, for example,The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance..９９ｌｉb. The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms I kissed her again and again uhe藏书网 endless sky. She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too. How could o have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I ?９9liｂ? write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the imme..t>nse night, still more immehout her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and she is not with me. This is all. In the distaneone is singing. In the bbr>distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight searches for her as though to go to her. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no lohe same. I no longer love her, thats certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Anothers. She will be anothers. Like my kisses before. Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes. I no longer love her, thats certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, fetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her. Pablo Neruda Tower Of Light Tower Of Light O tower of light, sad beauty that magnified necklaces and statues in the sea, calcareous eye, insignia of the vast waters, cry of the m petrel, tooth of th９９lib.e sea, wife of the Oian wind, O separate rose from the long stem of the trampled bush that the depths, verted into arch藏书网ipelago, O natural star, green diadem, alone in your lonesome dynasty, stil?t>l unattainable, elusive, desolate like one drop, like one grape, like the sea. Pablo Neruda Walking Around Walking Around It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses dried up, roof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes. The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, noods, no spectacles, no elevators. It so happens that I am siy feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens I am sic..k of being a man. Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, orbbr> kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to gh the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold. I dont want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinkiing every day. I dont want so much misery. I dont want to go on as a root and a tomb, alone uhe ground, a warehouse with corpses, half frozen, dying of grief. Thats why Monday, when it sees me ing with my vict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night. And it pushes me into certain ers, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, aain streets ..hideous as cracks in the skin. There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous iines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth fotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, fetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the liｐ://?9９ｌiｂ? underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling. Translated by Robert Bly Pablo Neruda Water Water Everything on the earth bristled, the br藏书网amble pricked and the green thread ..nibbled away, the petal fell, falling until the only flower was the falling itself. Water is another matter, has no dire bu?９９ｌiｂ.t its own bright grace, runs through all imaginable colors, takes limpid?t> lessons from stone, and in those funings plays out the unrealized ambitions of the foam. Pablo Neruda We Are Many We Are Many Of the many men whom I am, whom we are, I ot settle on a single one. They are lost to me uhe cover 藏书网of clothing They have departed for another city. Whehing seems to be set to show me off as a man of intelligence, the fool I keep cealed on my person takes over my talk and occupies my mouth. On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst of people of some distin, and when I summon my ceous self, a coward pletely unknown to me swaddles my poor skeleton in a thousand tiny reservations. When a stately home bursts into flames, instead of the fireman I summon, an arsonist bursts on the se, and he is I. There is nothing I do. What must I do to distinguish myself? How I put myself together? All the books I read lionize dazzling hero figures, brimming with self-assurance. I die with envy of them; and, in films where bullets fly on th9９ｌiｂ.e wind, I am left in envy of the cowboys, left admiring even the horses. But when I call upon my DASHING BEING, out es the same OLD LAZY SELF, and so I never know just WHO I AM, nor how many I am, nor ILL BE BEING. I would like to be able to touch a bell and call up my real self, the truly me, because if I really need my proper self, I must not allo> myself to disappear. While I am writing, I am far away; and when I e back, I have already left. I should like to see if the same thing happens to other people as it does to me, to see if as many people are as I am, and if they seem the same way to themselves. When this problem has been thhly explored, I am going to syself so well in things that, when I try to explain my problems, I shall speak, not of self, but of geography. Pablo Neruda XVII (I do not love you...) XVII (I do not love you...) I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of ations the fire shoots off. I love you as certain dark things are to be ..loved, i, b9９lib?ween 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 plexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does , nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. Translated by Stephen Tapscott Anonymous Submission Pablo Neruda XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea) XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea) You are the daughter of the sea, anos first cousin. Swimmer, your body is pure as the water; cook, your blood is quick as the soil. Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth. Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise; your hands go out to the earth >and the seeds swell; you know the deep essence of water and the earth, joined in you like a formula for clay. Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces, they will bloom resurrected i. This is how you bee everything that lives. And so at last, you sleep, in the ciry arms that push back the shadows so that you rest-- vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams. Translated by Stephen Tapscott Submitted by Hen Pablo Neruda Your Feet Your Feet When I ot look at your faet I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little藏书网 feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your walked u藏书网pon the earth and upon the wind and upoers, until they found me. Pablo Neruda Your Laughter Your Laughter Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter. Do not take awa藏书网y the rose, the lance flower that you pluck, the water that suddenly bursts forth in joy, the sudden wave of silver bo..rn in you. My struggle is harsh and I e back with eyes tired at times from having seen the ungih, but when your laughter enters it rises to the sky seeking me and it opens for me all the doors of life. My love, in the darkest hour your laughter opens, and if suddenly you see my blood staining the stones of the street, laugh, because your laughter will be for my hands like a fresh sword. o the sea iumn, your laughter must raise its foamy cascade, and in the spring, love, I want your laughter like the flower I was waiting for, the blue flower, the rose of my eg try. Laugh at the night, at the day, at the moon, laugh at the twisted streets of the island, laugh at this clumsy boy who loves you, but when I open my eyes and close them, when my 藏书网steps go, when my steps return, deny me bread, air, light, spring, but never your laughter for I would die. Pablo Neruda天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》