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
It is time, love, to break off that somber rose, shut up the stars and bury the ash in the earth; and, in the rising of the light, wake with those who awoke or go on in the dream, reaching the other shore of the sea which has no other shore.
Little by little, and also in great leaps, life happened to me, and how insignificant this business is. Carried These veins my blood, what I scarcely ever saw, I Breathed the air of so many places without keeping a sample of any. In the end, everyone is aware of this: nobody keeps any of what I have, and life is only a borrowing of bones. The best thing was learning not to have too much either of sorrow or of joy, to hope for the chance of to last drop, to ask more from honey and from twilight. Perhaps it was my punishment. Perhaps I was condemned to be happy. Let it be known that nobody crossed my path without sharing my being. Plunged I up to the neck into adversities that were not mine, into all the Sufferings of others. It was not a question of applause or profit. Much less. It was not being able to live or breathe In this shadow, the shadow of others like towers, like bitter trees That bury you, like cobblestones on the knees. Wounds heal with our own weeping, our own wounds heal with singing, but in our own doorway lie bleeding. Widows, Indians, poor men, fishermen the miner's child does not know his father amidst all that suffering so be it, but my business was the fullness of the spirit: a cry of pleasure choking you, a sigh from an uprooted plant, the sum of all action. It pleased me to Grow with the morning, to bathe in the sun, in the great joy of sun, salt, sea-light and wave, and in That unwinding of the foam my heart Began to move, That essential growing in spasm, and dying away as it seeped into the sand.
My feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
Oh each successive night that comes has something in it of an abandoned ember that is slowly burning out, and it falls swathed in ruins, surrounded by funereal objects.
Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.
Someday anywhere, unfailingly anywhere you find yourself, and that, only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
The flag arise me. Nobody would like me to stay on the pillow where your eyelids want to close the world to me. There would also let me sleep blood surrounding your sweetness. But arise, you, get up, get up but me and let's get together to grapple with the cobwebs of evil, against the system that distributes hunger, against the organization of misery. Going, and you, my star, next to me, newborn of my own clay, you've already found the spring that hidden in the fire and will be next to me, with your eyes mischievously, raising my flag.
The whole human earth was bleeding. Time, buildings, routes, rain, erase the constellation of the crime, the fact is, this small planet has been covered a thousand times by blood, war or vengeance, ambush or battle, people fell, they were devoured, and later oblivion wiped clean each square meter: sometimes a vague, dishonest monument, other times a clause in bronze, and still later, conversations, births, townships, and then oblivion. What arts we have for extermination and what science to obliterate memory! What was bloody is covered with flowers. Once more, young men, ready yourselves for another chance to kill, to die again, and to scatter flowers over the blood.
I'm a poet with no provision but I say, without pity and without regret: murderer no good in my opinion.
It is today exactly one hundred years since an unhappy and brilliant poet, the most awesome of all despairing souls, wrote down this prophecy: "In the dawn, armed with a burning patience, we shall enter the splendid Cities."
Long horse. Gallop hear how the sea, the sky, wants to kill me. Listen how the world is these toxins to destroy me. shall hide me in your arms just for this night, when the rain- mouth the innumerable sea chest and breaks down , listen how the wind Gallop Gallop for my winnings. , with your forehead on my forehead and mouth to mouth our bodies tied to the love that pulls us down let the wind pass and me battle. , let the wind through the canopy of the sea floor, let me sing and chew me when I go down into your big eyes, and only one night in the quiet, my love
My life, you will not find in the well that I fall for you to keep up.
Oh Earth, Wait for Me Return to me, oh sun, to my wild destiny, rain of the ancient wood, bring me back the flavor and the swords That fall from the sky, the solitary peace of pasture and rock, the damp at the river-margins, the smell of the larch tree, the wind alive like a heart beating in the crowded restlessness of the towering araucaria. Earth, give me back your mashed gifts, the towers of silence which rose from the solemnity of their roots. I want to go back to being what I have not Been, and learn to go back from deeps such that among all natural things I could live or not live; it does not matter to be one stone more, the dark stone, the pure stone which the river bears away.
Perhaps not to be is to be without your being, without your going, that cuts noon light like a blue flower, without your passing later through fog and stones, without the torch you lift in your hand that others may not see as golden, that perhaps no one believed blossomed the glowing origin of the rose, without, in the end, your being, your coming suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life, blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze: and it follows that I am, because you are: it follows from ?you are?, that I am, and we: and, because of love, you will, I will, We will, come to be.
Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.
The heiress of the destroyed day.
The word was born in the blood, grew in the dark body, beating, and took flight through the lips and the mouth. Farther away and nearer still, still it came from dead fathers and from wondering races, from lands which had turned to stone, lands weary of their poor tribes, for when grief took to the roads the people set out and arrived and married new land and water to grow their words again. And so this is the inheritance; this is the wavelength which connects us with dead men and the dawning of new beings not yet come to light.
In a kiss, you know all that I kept silence.
It seems that your eyes had flown away and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth. As all things are filled with my soul you emerge from the things, filled with my soul. Butterfly dream, you look like my soul and you look like the word melancholy.
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 crying, a cracked bell, or a torn heart. Something from far off: it seemed deep and secret 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 tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind 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 scent.
My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?
Sometimes I get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.
The mistakes which led me to a relative truth and the truths which repeatedly led me back to the mistakes did not allow me - and I never made any claims to it - to find my way to lead, to learn what is called the creative process, to reach the heights of literature that are so difficult of access. But one thing I realized - that it is we ourselves who call forth the spirits through our own myth-making. From the matter we use, or wish to use, there arise later on obstacles to our own development and the future development. We are led infallibly to reality and realism, that is to say to become indirectly conscious of everything that surrounds us and of the ways of change, and then we see, when it seems to be late, that we have erected such an exaggerated barrier that we are killing what is alive instead of helping life to develop and blossom. We force upon ourselves a realism which later proves to be more burdensome than the bricks of the building, without having erected the building which we had regarded as an indispensable part of our task. And, in the contrary case, if we succeed in creating the fetish of the incomprehensible (or the fetish of that which is comprehensible only to a few), the fetish of the exclusive and the secret, if we exclude reality and its realistic degenerations, then we find ourselves suddenly surrounded by an impossible country, a quagmire of leaves, of mud, of cloud, where our feet sink in and we are stifled by the impossibility of communicating.