From "Poetry", Memorial de Isla Negra
Place gifts of silver in our hands. Give us this day our daily fish. Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks All these fellows were there inside when she entered utterly naked. She was a mermaid who had lost her way, the taunts flowed over her glistening flesh Obscenities drenched her golden breasts.
A stranger to tears, she did not weep, A stranger to clothes, she did not dress. They pocked her with cigarette ends and with burnt corks And rolled on the tavern floor in raucous laughter She did not speak, since speech was unknown to her Her eyes were the colour of far away love Her arms were matching topazes Her lips moved soundlessly in coral light And ultimately she left by that door Hardly had she entered the river than she was cleansed Gleaming once more like a white stone in the rain And without a backward look, she swam once more Swam towards nothingness, swam to her dawn.
Ode to a Beautiful Nude With a chaste heart - with pure eyes - I celebrate your beauty. Holding the leash of blood so that it might leap out and trace your outline while you lie down in my Ode As in a land of forests or in surf, in aromatic loam or in sea music Beautiful nude - arched by primeval tap of wind and sound.
Your ears, small shells of the splendid American sea. Your breasts, a level plenitude fulfilled by living light. Your flying eyelids of wheat, revealing or enclosing The two deep countries of your eyes. The line your shoulders have divided into pale regions Loses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple, Continues, separating your beauty down into two columns Of burnished gold Did your body come together?
Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills.
The cleavage of one petal, sweet fruits of a deep velvet until alone remained, astonished the fine and firm feminine form. So much as clarity The moon lives in the lining of your skin. It seems as though 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. You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream, and you are like the word Melancholy. I like for you to be still, and you seem far away. It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you: Let me come to be still in your silence. And let me talk to you with your silence that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring. You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations. Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: One word then, one smile, is enough. Walking Around It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailor shops and movie houses dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators. It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man. Still it would be marvellous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, into shoe shops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-coloured birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopaedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: Tonight I can write Tonight I can write the saddest lines.However, you can write off the murkily recorded and indifferently played Debussy collection with the Orchestra dell’ Academia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, as well as a mediocre Israel Philharmonic Dvorák “New World” Symphony that can’t begin to compete with Bernstein’s breathtaking New York version.
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair: XX.
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. All tracks originally broadcast on BBC's Third Programme "Red Bird Dancing On Ivory" during the spring of , Recorded In London 29 May, poems - Find the best poems by searching our collection of over 9, poems by classic and contemporary poets, including Maya Angelou, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Juan Felipe Herrera, Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, William Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, and more.
You can even find poems by occasion, theme, and form. Il Postino - Tonight I Can Write Narrated by Andy Garcia Il Postino - Tonight I Can Write - Poem written by Pablo Neruda in the movie it was Narrated by Andy .
Pablo Neruda was born Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto on 12 July , in Parral, Chile, a city in Linares Province, now part of the greater Maule Region, some km south of Santiago, to José del Carmen Reyes Morales, a railway employee, and Rosa Basoalto, a schoolteacher who died two months after he was born.
Soon after her death, Reyes moved to Temuco, where he married a woman.