2 posts tagged “poetry”

I love poetry.  I write poetry.  I realize this may not be common knowledge.

One of the most incredible poets I've ever read is Pablo Neruda.  His meter is impeccable (truly) and he speaks of love in the most painfully honest ways.  There is this one poem that I read from time to time, whenever I'm feeling helpless and loveless.  It captures the circuitous route all love seems to take, close and then far away, apart and together simultaneously, hopeless and ridiculously optimistic all at once.

Here is the Spanish for those who can:  (translation to follow)

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos."

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche esta estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque este sea el ultimo dolor que ella me causa,
y estos sean los ultimos versos que yo le escribo.

In English (translation my own- I realize it's not impeccable or professional, but...):

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

Write, for example: "the night is starry
They tremble, blue, their bodies far away."

The night wind turns in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest lines tonight
I once desired her, and sometimes she wanted me

On nights like this I would hold her in my arms
I would kiss her so often under the infinite sky

She desired me, and sometimes I wanted her
How could I not have loved those big fine eyes?

I can write the saddest lines tonight
I think I no longer have her.  I feel as if I've lost her.

I hear the immense night, more immense without her.
The verse falls to the soul like rain to the pasture.

How much that my love could not keep her
The night is full of stars and she is not with me

That is all.  In the distance someone sings-  Far away.
My soul can not be contended since I lost her.

How I sought to bring her near, my dear one,
My heart I looked, and she is not with me

It is the same night that whitened the same trees,
Yet we, of then, are no longer the same we.

I no longer desire her, it is certain, yet I want her
My voice searches out the wind to touch her ear

Another, it is of another, like before my kisses
Her voice, her pure body, her infinite eyes.

I no longer care for her, it is certain, but I want her
Love happens quickly, and forgetting is so long.

On nights such as this I took her in my arms,
my soul cannot content itself with her gone.

And thus that is the last pain that she causes me,
And those are the last verses I will write.

In the stillness
Curled in on myself
like a seed waiting for warmth
In the darkness
Wound terribly tight
Like a spring in a box
I whisper accusations
Mostly against myself
I whisper admonitions
Mostly of my own actions
I judge myself
Because it hurts less
Than judging someone else
I run from hate
I run from bitterness
Because to embrace them
Would curdle my thoughts,
and sour my muse
turning my work into lemons

Vodka would help

I turn in on myself
Like a cat cleaning her ears
Wriggling into impossible
positions in my mind
I pound my thoughts into a pulp
examining the pieces

There is only one
who knows the truth

it isn't me

There is only one
who holds the answers

it isn't me

There is only one
who could offer up healing

it isn't me

There is only one,
only one,
just the one

And I feel like the only one
who's asking him for answers
and then bothering to listen.

Vodka would help.