Pablo Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

Pablo
Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
1904
1973

Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature

Author Quotes

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.

On either side of the trail I could observe in the wild desolation something which betrayed human activity. There were piled up branches which had lasted out many winters, offerings made by hundreds who had journeyed there, crude burial mounds in memory of the fallen, so that the passer should think of those who had not been able to struggle on but had remained there under the snow forever. My comrades, too, hacked off with their machetes branches which brushed our heads and bent down over us from the colossal trees, from oaks whose last leaves were scattering before the winter storms. And I too left a tribute at every mound, a visiting card of wood, a branch from the forest to deck one or other of the graves of these unknown travelers.

Returned me, oh sun, to my wild destiny, rain of the ancient wood, bringing me back to the aroma of 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 pure 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 such deeps that amongst 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.

Suffer the always expected more. Let him who never expected anyone?

Author Picture
First Name
Pablo
Last Name
Neruda, pen name for Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Birth Date
1904
Death Date
1973
Bio

Chilean Poet and Diplomat, Awarded Nobel Prize for Literature