Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature
Pablo Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature
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
In that territory, from pies to your front, walking, walking, walking, I pass her life.
It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
Love is a clash of lightnings.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ??hearing. Alternatively. She will be another. As before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her. Love is so short, and forgetting is so long. 'Cause on nights like this I held my arms, my soul is lost without her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.
Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.
Rejected falling, without stubbornly.
Start dying slowly if you do not visit not read the book if you do not listen to the sounds of life if you do not appreciate yourself start dying slowly When you kill in self-esteem when they do not let others help you start dying slowly. If you're a slave of your habits a repetitive way to go if you do not change your routines if you do not wear different colors or if you do not speak to those you start dying slowly if the fervor of feeling rebellious and things that shine in your eyes and your heart beats faster, they shun you start dying slowly if when your job or your love do not change it unless you know for sure you do not risk the uncertain, if not go after your dreams beyond the do not allow yourself , At least once in your life expedient to go beyond your life today Start today threaten me now what thou
The poet is not a "little god". No, he is not a "little god". He is not picked out by a mystical destiny in preference to those who follow other crafts and professions. I have often maintained that the best poet is he who prepares our daily bread: the nearest baker who does not imagine himself to be a god. He does his majestic and unpretentious work of kneading the dough, consigning it to the oven, baking it in golden colors and handing us our daily bread as a duty of fellowship. And, if the poet succeeds in achieving this simple consciousness, this too will be transformed into an element in an immense activity, in a simple or complicated structure which constitutes the building of a community, the changing of the conditions which surround mankind, the handing over of mankind's products: bread, truth, wine, dreams. If the poet joins this never-completed struggle to extend to the hands of each and all his part of his undertaking, his effort and his tenderness to the daily work of all people, then the poet must take part, the poet will take part, in the sweat, in the bread, in the wine, in the whole dream of humanity. Only in this indispensable way of being ordinary people shall we give back to poetry the mighty breadth which has been pared away from it little by little in every epoch, just as we ourselves have been whittled down in every epoch.
There in Rangoon I realized that the gods were enemies, just like God, of the poor human being. Gods in alabaster extended like white whales, gods gilded like spikes, serpent gods entwining the crime of being born, naked and elegant buddhas smiling at the cocktail party of empty eternity like Christ on his horrible cross, all of them capable of anything, of imposing on us their heaven, all with torture or pistol to purchase piety or burn our blood, fierce gods made by men to conceal their cowardice, and there it was all like that, the whole earth reeking of heaven, and heavenly merchandise.
I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
It was the other and nobody, until your beauty and your poverty filled autumn gifts.
Love you without knowing how, where to, love you directly without problems without pride: so love you because I know the love of another type.
Naked you are simple as one of your hands; smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round. You've moon-lines, apple pathways naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat. Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba; you've vines and stars in your hair. Naked you are spacious and yellow as summer in a golden church. Naked you are tiny as one of your nails; curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born and you withdraw to the underground world. As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores; your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves, and becomes a naked hand again.
Oh, love is a journey with water and with stars, with drowning air and brusque storms of flour: loving is a battle of lightning, and two bodies defeated by a single honey.
Remembering her, it is as if my heart were buried in the rain. Again I think it?s she, but why would she be coming now? Oh, what sad days! ? Your eyes : two sleepy cups darkened by purple berries from the forest undergrowth. What a leaf, a leaf from a white vine, fragrant and heavy, I could have brought you from the forest. Every- thing flees from this solitude enforced by rain and contemplation.
Suddenly I cannot tell you what I must tell you, man, forgive me; know that although not listen to my words I started to mourn or not to sleep and I no see you for the last time until the end. Suddenly I cannot just tell you what I Should be telling you, friend, forgive me; you know that although you do not hear my words, I was not asleep or in tears that I am with you without seeing you for a good long time and until the end.
The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight.
There is a certain pleasure in madness, that only mad known.
I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
In the distance someone is singing.
It's hard to tell if we close our eyes or if night opens in us other starred eyes, if it burrows into the wall of our dream till some other door opens. But the dream is only the flitting costume of one moment, is spent in one beat of the darkness, and falls at our feet, cast off as the day stirs and sails away with us.
Love! Love until the night collapses!
Never an illness, nor the absence of grandeur, no, nothing is able to kill the best in us, that kindness, dear sir, we are afflicted with: beautiful is the flower of man, his conduct, and every door opens on the beautiful truth and never hides treacherous whispers. I always gained something from making myself better, better than I am, better than I was, that most subtle citation: to recover some lost petal of the sadness I inherited: to search once more for the light that sings inside of me, the unwavering light.