pablo_neruda jane clenched soul we have lost even this twilight. no one saw us this evening hand in hand while the blue night dropped on the world. i have seen from my window the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops. sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand. i remembered you with my soul clenched in that sadness of mine that you know. where were you then? who else was there? saying what? why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when i am sad and feel you are far away? the book fell that always closed at twilight and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet. always, always you recede through the evenings toward the twilight erasing statues. 030731 ... pipedream this is THE one. there is nothing after this, and hopefully nobody will ever have to read the terrible translations i have come across of this poem- so far this is the best one. Sonnet 17 I do not love you as the salt rose, topaz, or arrow of carnations that propagate fire. i love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. i love you as the plant that never bloooms, but carries within itself the light of those flowers and, thanks to your love darkly in my body rests the dense fragrance that rises from the earth. i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. i love you simply, without problems or pride. i love you this way because i do not know any other way of loving than this; where there is no i or you, so intimate that your hand on my chest is my hand so intimate, that when i fall asleep, it is your eyes that close. 030731 ... oldephebe i want to be able to write like pablo neruda i want his eloquence his sensual ear his erotic excesses his erotic ambitions i want to be able to thread a womans heart with these pearls i want to be inhabitied by such an implacable imagination mi corazon, mi cierto mi vida, but i have not been endowed with such grace i toil at the forge i bake in my little brick house the fan is rattling old fan protesting its continued use old fan throttled by the current surging through its corroted capillaries and me reading his outrageous lines and me wishing for a wordstorm to be whelped in this tenement of death and then sometimes i think that to be the possessor of such a gift, to be able to inhabit the very ligature, the bone and marrow, to project ones self into the skin, the blood the being, the essence of all things that kind of sensitivity, would be unbearable i think to me..maybe to be able to make love to a womans soul with my words that would be something i wish my spanish weren't so crude i'd like to read the power of his words in their original language like to be able to feel what he felt as he wrote those incendiary lines when i read his words i don't feel so estranged from nature from my nature from what used to sing so loudly so impetuously in my heart pablo a summit i shall never reach but it is enough for me to enjoy the gift of his inimitable words 030731 ... pipedream me too. (i knew this was oldphebe after i read three lines...bravo ;) ) 030801 ... pipedream me too. except i don't want to thread women's hearts, i want MY heart threaded :) (i knew this was oldphebe after i read three lines...bravo ;) ) 030801 ... unhinged and we sat next to each other in masterclass 'what are you reading?' silently mouthed as some haydn group sat on stage i flipped over the book so he could see the cover 'he is wonderful' and he got this look in his eyes that made me think i was above human just because i was sitting there reading a book 030801 ... oldephebe you are unhinged..easily. 040219 ... pipedream In my sky at Twilight In my sky at twilight you are 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 dies your feet. My sour wine is sweeter on your lips, oh reaper of my evening song. how solitary dreams believe you to be mine! You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice. Huntress of the depths of my eyes, your plunder stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water. You are taken in the net of my music, my love, and my nets of music are wide as the sky. My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning. In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins. 040219 ... pipers And now you´re mine And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream. Love and pain and work should all sleep now. The night turns on its 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 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 world, the wind spin out their destiny. Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all. 040219 ... pd you sing the songs of my soul...all the fire, all the loneliness, all the hunger is encapsulated in the searing wonder of your words was there anything as beautiful as this? 040219 ...   tonight_i_can_write is one of my favourites, although it stings like a whip 040219 ... pobody very pretty imagery,pd. :) 040219 ... muttering almost silently to myself funny, i thought i had blathed that years ago, but i guess i posted it somewhere else around the same time i started showing up... that makes sense 040219 ... oE damn pd... 040219 ... unhinged neruda pheb, oh pheb don't say stuff like that 040220 ... unhinged noah (yes i too know that that one about 'tonight i can write the saddest lines' is somewhere in the blue because a friend of mine imed it to me once and i thought it was too wonderful) 040220 ... Adriana I crave your mouth 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 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_poet___neruda My favorite poet. 040220 ... meh... juxtaposition... 040220 ... oE what unbearably erotic sensual prose! 040220 ... pipedream oh god, yes, 'i crave you' is one of my absolute favourites...*pauses to regain control on pulse* 'i could write...' is great too; i once wrote a poem based on the 'i could write' thing. will post it if i ever get the guts to post my own smallness on a page where we all hail the God of the Romance Poem *grins* thankyew, pobody :) rebound attack (sowee 'phebes;) ) : You sing, and your voice peels the husk of the day's grain, your song with the sun and sky, the pine trees speak with their green tongue: all the birds of the winter whistle. The sea fills its cellar with footfalls, with bells, chains, whimpers, the tools and the metals jangle, wheels of the caravan creak. But I hear only your voice, your voice soars with the zing and precision of an arrow, it drops with the gravity of rain, your voice scatters the highest swords and returns with its cargo of violets: it accompanies me through the sky 040221 ... oE Oh my, oh my, oh..my - pd ... 040418 ... megan makes my soul quiver and my thoughts run free definitely a favorite 050728 ... oldephebe "...the diminutive fire of a planet..." frosts golden in her eyes... ... 050728 ... unhinged i picked up the book of 100 love sonnets one day when i was stoned and i found one that immediately reminded me of her. i hadn't talked to her in awhile because i was in one of my psychotic hermit moods. the sonnet reminded me of her so much, it was about sleeping in her bed at night, so i called her to hang out. i hand wrote the sonnet in spanish and and gave it to her. 'you even wrote it in spanish.' 'of course i did.' 050729 ... unhinged 'pablo neruda, the great poet of latin america, comes from chile. i translated a number of his poems into polish. pablo neruda has been a communist for some ten years. when he describes the misery of his people, i believe him and i respect his great heart. when writing, he thinks about his brothers and not about himself, and so to him the power of the word is given. but when he paints the joyous, radiant life of people in the soviet union, i stop believing him. i am inclined to believe him as long as he speaks bout what he knows; i stop believing him when he starts to speak about what i know myself.' - czeslaw_milosz 180905 what's it to you? who go blather from