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.



Favourite Poem #5 Raw With Love by Charles Bukowski

I will admit that I have only flirted with the works of Charles Bukowski, but it has been enough for me to recognize that ever silent yet undeniable pull for more. Below is Raw With Love which I discovered on a random search. It can be found in his book of Poems, What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire.
Raw With Love by Charles Bukowski
little dark girl with Screen Shot 2016-05-09 at 9.32.24 PM
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won’t flinch and
I won’t blame
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won’t blame you,
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won’t use it

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.

Read more poetry – an update

There’s something soothing about reading a poem. You’re not being asked to read more than a few pages. You’re not expected to immerse yourself in the trials and tribulations of another living creature. You can devote what time you have; a minute, an hour. You can come back to it again and again, finding some […]


Favourite Poem #3 Amore VII by E.E. Cummings

I love a poem that makes me want to reach for my lover, to explore and savour the words and feelings they bring together. Amore VII by E.E. Cummings is one such poem.

if i believeIMG_1011

in death be sure
of this

it is
because you have loved me,
moon and sunset
stars and flowers
gold crescendo and silver muting
of seatides
i trusted not,
                   one night
when in my fingers
drooped your shining body
when my heart
sand between your prefect
darkness and beauty of stars
was on my mouth petals danced
against my eyes
and down
the singing reaches of
my soul
the green-
greeting pale-
departing irrevocable
i knew thee death.
                             and when
i have offered up each fragrant
night, when all my days
shall have before a certain
face become
      from the ashes
thou wilt rise and thou
wilt come to her and brush
the mischief from her eyes and fold
mouth the new
flower with
thy unimaginable
wings, where dwells the breath
of all persisting stars
E.E. Cummings

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

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.

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,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
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
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind incites the day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
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,
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