hey, that's no way to say goodbyeLVII
They're liars, those who say I lost the moon,
who foretold a future like a public desert for me,
who gossiped so much with their cold tongues:
they tried to ban the flower of the universe.
"The quick spontaneous mermaid's amber
is finished. Now he has only the people."
And they gnawed on their incessant papers,
they plotted an oblivion for my guitar.
But I tossed- ha! into their eyes!- the dazzling lances
of our love, piercing your heart and mine.
I gathered the jasmine your footsteps left behind.
I got lost in the night, without the light
of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me
I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
LXI
Love dragged its tail of pain,
its train of static thorns behind it,
and we closed our eyes so that nothing,
so that no wound could divide us.
This crying, it's not your eyes' fault;
your hands didn't plunge that sword;
your feet didn't seek this path;
this somber honey found its own way to your heart.
When love like a huge wave
carried us, crashed us against the boulder,
it milled us into a single flour;
this sorrow fell into another, sweeter, face:
so in an open season of the light
this wounded springtime was blessed.
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There is no poetry like Pablo Neruda's poetry. If you open a book of his, every poem he's written is perfect & true. It's a stumbling realization, it might take time to gather yourself after a full-force wind like that knocks you down into rocks.
Neruda may have been the most perfect poet. He said in so many words that his poetry wasn't made of allegory or form, but was from life- "organic," I think he called it? I read a story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez once, I think they knew each other when Neruda was alive; in it, he has Neruda chomping down rudely on plates on plates of seafood, calling BS on fortune-telling because as a poet he's the most qualified to divine the future, being dreamt about by a snake woman whose dreams are her profession; the sketch of a perfect poet, yeah, that sounds right.
More of a poet than Byron was or Pound was, anyway. Not to say anything bad about them, though, they've each written some pretty good stuff. Just they themselves are a bit unsavory, figures that you want to keep at bay when you're gettin down to thinking- people whose contradictions might obstruct a truer light.
Not Neruda, though- he comes from stormy jungle darknesses and the ocean rain of Chile, a world of love like light. To my thinkin anyway.
-Inuyasha Cooks
America FUCKYEAH
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It's Caliphone, like this: kuh - LIH - foh - nee ^.~
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sorry again for my bad english u.u
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*STEALS YOUR IDENTITY*
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*STEALS YOUR IDENTITY*
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buy my book. please
[link]
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*STEALS YOUR IDENTITY*
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buy my book. please
[link]
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