XVII
I'm not really very big on poetry; I always thought poems mean so much more to the writer than they ever do for the reader, and T.S. Elliot's stuff always goes over my head.
There are a couple of poets who are exceptions, of course, and probably the biggest is the great Chilean poet
Pablo Neruda. I have this thing when I encounter work by really talented people where I just say to myself, "Man, I wish I had thought of that." Neruda makes me do that all the time, and he's really the only poet who does that. His most famous collection is called
Veinte Poemas De Amor Y Una Cancion Desesperada.
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. I think it's a great, simple title. I wish I had thought of that.
Yesterday marked his 100th birth anniversary, and I thought I'd share one of my favorite poems of his here.
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.
If the poem seems familiar, it's because it was featured in the film
Patch Adams, and is probably one of his two most famous poems along with the beautiful
Tonight I Can Write.
I find that the magic in Neruda's writing is very similar to the magic that you could find in the works of
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, another Latin-born Nobel Laureate for Literature. I suspect this has something to do with the fact that both authors write in their native Spanish and their works are then translated into English.
Curiously, I find the same magic in the work of our recently departed National Artist
Nick Joaquin. Of course, Joaquin was famous for writing in "Joaquinesque" English; that is, he wrote using the English language as if he were speaking in Filipino.
When I was in grade school, I was lucky enough to be invited to a literature workshop at the CCP. When it was time for us to write poems, the kid beside me raised a question we all had been meaning to ask, "What language should we write our work in?" The guy answered, "The language of your dreams."
It all seemed silly to me at the time (I was 11), but I think I've got it all figured out now. I think Neruda, Marquez, and Joaquin were never really better at writing words than we all are, but I think they're better at dreaming up dreams.
Comments:
sonnet 17.
where others can only dream, or feel, neruda is able to speak.
Here is one of my most loved poems, coming from lord tennyson himself. it would be a fitting gift for my One on our wedding day.
marriage morning
alfred, lord tennyson
light, so low upon earth,
you send a flash to the sun.
here is the golden close of love,
all my wooing is done.
oh, the woods and the meadows,
woods where we hid from the wet,
stiles where we stay'd to be kind,
meadows in which we met!
light, so low in the vale
you flash and lighten afar,
for this is the golden morning of love,
and you are his morning star.
flash, I am coming, I come,
by meadow and stile and wood,
oh, lighten into my eyes and heart,
into my heart and my blood!
heart, are you great enough
for a love that never tires?
o heart, are you great enough for love?
i have heard of thorns and briers,
over the meadow and stiles,
over the world to the end of it
flash for a million miles.
Beautiful...
More poems please.
I forgot the title of this poem, even who wrote it. Is it a Neruda? Anyway, i love it. And this was recited by Julia Roberts in one of the old classic movies i cannot remember the title too.
If you forget me
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
Of the wrinkled body of the log
Everything carries me to you
As if everything that exists
Aromas, light, medals
Or little boats that sail toward
Those isles of yours that wait for me
Now, 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 have already forgotten you
If you think it long and mad
That window’s banners
That passes through my life
And 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 impeccable sweetness
If each day
A flower comes up to your lips to seek me
Awe, my love; Awe my own
In me all the fire is repeated
In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten
My love feeds on your love beloved
And as long as you live
It shall be in your arms
Without leaving mine.
yep, that's a neruda poem... i think the movie you're talking about it "Il Postino"
<< Home
