Favourite Poems #7 One Hundred Love Sonnets – Midday – XLVII by Pablo Neruda

I am a sucker for love poems written with passion. The third last line of this poem is just ridiculous in the best possible of ways: “and my mouth will fill with the taste of you”. Yep. Amazing. You can find this and so much more within the pages of The Poetry of Pablo Neruda.

girl-1031645_1920I want to look back and see you in the branches.
Little by little you turned into fruit.
It was easy for you to rise form the roots,
singing your syllable of sap.
Here you will be a fragrant flower first,
changed to the statuesque form of a kiss,
till the sun and the earth, blood and the sky, fulfill
their promises of sweetness and pleasure, in you.
There in the branches I will recognize your hair,
your image ripening in the leaves,
bringing the petals nearer my thirst,
and my mouth will fill with the taste of you,
the kiss that rose from the earth
with your blood, the blood of a lover’s fruit.

 

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Favourite Poem #4 Love Poem XIV by Pablo Neruda

I have FaceBook to thank for reminding me of this beautiful poem when it displayed my FaceBook post sharing Love Poem XIV by Pablo Neruda four years ago today. The final line in this piece is one even those who claim to not love poetry will recognize.

cherry-blossom-1260675_1920Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy 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.

Favourite Poem #2 Still Another Day XXIII by Pablo Neruda

Next favourite poem is from Stones From The Sky by Pablo Neruda, XXIII in particular. I am not one who attempts to glimpse into the mind of the poet rather I enjoy what the words do for me, that resounding moment when first read, hinting at a revelation of self, if only I were brave enough to listen.

I am this naked

mineral:
echo of underneath:
I am happy
to have come so far,
from so much earth:
I am the last one, barely
guts, body, hands
that split off
from the motherlode
without knowing why,
without hope of staying,
resigned to this flighty human
fate to live and drop like a leaf.
Ah this destiny
of the darkening incessancy,
of being your own – unsculptured granite,
sheer bulk, irreducible, cold:
I was rock, dark rock
and the parting was violent,
a gash of an alien birth:
I want to go back
to that sure thing,
to home base, to the middle
of the stone mother
from which, I don’t know how or when,
I was torn away to be torn apart.
pablo

Ode to Wine by Pablo Neruda – My Favourite Poem

I first read Ode To Wine by Pablo Neruda a few years back when my then lover texted me a line or two from it. It remains my favourite poem all these years later as he remains my favourite poet.

I hope you enjoy it!

Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet contained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal
memories;
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
your
glorious
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind incites the day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
A jug of wine, and thou beside mewoman-1090952_1920
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Let the wine pitcher
add to the kiss of love its own.

My darling, suddenly
the line of your hip
becomes the brimming curve
of the wine goblet,your breast is the grape cluster,
your nipples are the grapes,
the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
and your navel is a chaste seal
stamped on the vessel of your belly,
your love an inexhaustible
cascade of wine,
light that illuminates my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.

But you are more than love,
the fiery kiss,
the heat of fire,
more than the wine of life;
you are
the community of man,
translucency,
chorus of discipline,
abundance of flowers.
I like on the table,
when we’re speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.
Drink it,
and remember in every
drop of gold,
in every topaz glass,
in every purple ladle,
that autumn labored
to fill the vessel with wine;
and in the ritual of his office,
let the simple man remember
to think of the soil and of his duty,
to propagate the canticle of the wine.

Pablo Neruda