Watch “Robin Williams reads “I Love You Without Knowing How” by Pablo Neruda” on YouTube

I love you without knowing how,

by Pablo Neruda

POEMS WITH A VOICE, The Lion poem , (‘…Fixing its eye on the rain…’), by Pablo Neruda ( from the volume “Selected poems”)

The Lion poem by Pablo Neruda ( from the volume “Selected poems”)

A great lion came from the distances.
It was huge as silence is,
it was thirsty, it was after blood,
and behind its posturing
it had fire, as a house has,
it burned like a mountain of Osorno.

It found only solitude,
it roared, out of uncertainty and hunger –
the only thing to eat was air,
the wild foam of the coast,
frozen sea lettuces,
air the colour of birds,
unacceptable nourishment.

Wistful lion from another planet,
cast up by the high tide
on the rocky coast of Isla Negra,
the salty archipelago,
with nothing more than an empty maw,
claws that were idle
and a tail like a feather duster.

It was well aware of the foolishness
of its aggressive appearance
and with the passing of years
it wrinkled up in shame.
Its timidity led it on
to worse displays of arrogance
and it went on aging like one
of the lions in the Plaza,
it slowly turned into an ornament
for a portico or a garden,
to the point of hiding its sad forehead,
fixing its eyes on the rain
and keeping still to wait for
the grey justice of stone,
its geological hour.

****The Lion poem by Pablo Neruda ( from the volume “Selected poems”)

 

Lazybones by Pablo Neruda (Selected Poems) (‘They will continue wandering,…I have no wish to change my planet…’)

Lazybones by Pablo Neruda

They will continue wandering,
these things of steel among the stars,
and weary men will still go up
to brutalize the placid moon.
There, they will found their pharmacies.

In this time of the swollen grape,
the wine begins to come to life
between the sea and the mountain ranges.

In Chile now, cherries are dancing,
the dark mysterious girls are singing,
and in guitars, water is shining.
The sun is touching every door
and making wonder of the wheat.

The first wine is pink in colour,
is sweet with the sweetness of a child,
the second wine is able-bodied,
strong like the voice of a sailor,
the third wine is a topaz, is
a poppy and a fire in one.

My house has both the sea and the earth,
my woman has great eyes
the colour of wild hazelnut,
when night comes down, the sea
puts on a dress of white and green,
and later the moon in the spindrift foam
dreams like a sea-green girl.

I have no wish to change my planet.

[A.R.]
379

forever poems: HOUSE Poem by Pablo Neruda (…’and stone I was, stone shall be, and for this caress this stone which has not died for me’…)

House Poem by Pablo Neruda

Perhaps this is the house in which I lived
when neither I, nor earth, existed,
 when everything was moon, or stone, or shadow,
 with the still light unborn.
This stone could then have been
 my house, my windows, or my eyes.
This granite rose recalls
 something that lived in me, or I in it,
a cave, a universe of dreams inside the skull:
 cup or castle, boat or birth.
I touch the rock’s tenacious thrust,
its bulwark pounded in the brine
and I know that flaws of mine subsisted here,
wrinkled substances that surfaced
from the depths into my soul,
and stone I was, stone shall be, and for this
caress this stone which has not died for me:
it’s what I was, and shall be – the tranquility
of struggle stretched beyond the brink of time.

The Dictators Poem by Pablo Neruda

An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence

PABLO NERUDA!! Poema 20 – Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche

Poema Nº 20 de “20 poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada” de Pablo Neruda 
Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche…..

A Lemon by Pablo Neruda

Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love’s
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree’s yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree’s planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation’s
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.

(Visit this website for translations in several other languages)

 

‘March days return with their covert light’ by Pablo Neruda (poems about March)

‘March days return with their covert light’,  by Pablo Neruda

March days return with their covert light, 
and huge fish swim through the sky,
vague earthly vapours progress in secret,
things slip to silence one by one.
Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies,
you reunite the lives of the sea to that of fire,
grey lurchings of the ship of winter
to the form that love carved in the guitar.
O love, O rose soaked by mermaids and spume,
dancing flame that climbs the invisible stairway,
to waken the blood in insomnia’s labyrinth,
so that the waves can complete themselves in the sky,
the sea forget its cargoes and rages,
and the world fall into darkness’s nets.

IL POSTINO- EL CARTERO (soundtrack) – Dedicated to all my friends!

Il Postino (también conocida como El cartero (y Pablo Neruda), El cartero de Neruda o simplemente El cartero) es una película en italiano de 1994 dirigida por Michael Radford la cual cuenta la historia real del poeta chileno Pablo Neruda y su relación con un simple cartero que aprende a amar la poesía. Está protagonizada por Philippe Noiret, Massimo Troisi y Maria Grazia Cucinotta.

Fue adaptada por Anna Pavignano, Michael Radford, Furio Scarpelli, Giacomo Scarpelli y Massimo Troisi de la novela Ardiente Paciencia de Antonio Skármeta. Skármeta ya había adaptado la novela para la pantalla en 1983 bajo el titulo “Ardiente paciencia“. La novela y la película están inspiradas en Chile con Neruda viviendo en la Isla Negra alrededor de 1970. Sin embargo Il Postino traslada la localización a Italia en los años 1950.

La música original de la película fue compuesta por Luis Enríquez Bacalov, quien ganó un Premio Oscar a la mejor banda sonora, luciéndose en la película el tema Madreselva, de Francisco Canaro. La película también obtuvo la nominación al mejor actor (Massimo Troisi), mejor director, mejor película y mejor guión adaptado.

El escritor y protagonista Massimo Troisi pospuso una cirugía cardíaca para poder terminar la filmación. El día después de que la misma fuera terminada, sufrió un ataque cardíaco que le causó la muerte.

El compositor mexicano Daniel Catán ha escrito una ópera basada en la obra.

Now is the right time to get GOOGLE BROWSER to have this wonderful writing translated in  your own idiom, wouldn’t you say? (I got it, and I know it works!)

Related articles

• AP Literature-Pablo Neruda Unit (waltonhigh.typepad.com)
• Did poet Pablo Neruda die from cancer or poison? (rappler.com)
• Love Poetry (littlestepsblogdotcom.wordpress.com)
• Foundation: Chile to exhume body of Nobel laureate Neruda (news.blogs.cnn.com)

 

Pablo Neruda: Verb (Verbo)

Verbo

Voy a arrugar esta palabra,
voy a torcerla ,
sí,
es demasiado lisa,
es como si un gran perro o un gran río
le hubiera repasado lengua o agua
durante muchos años.

Quiero que en la palabra
se vea la aspereza,
la sal ferruginosa
la fuerza desdentada
de la tierra,
la sangre
de los que hablaron y de los que no hablaron.

Quiero ver la sed
adentro de las sílabas:
quiero tocar el fuego
en el sonido:
quiero sentir la oscuridad
del grito. Quiero
palabras ásperas
como piedras vírgenes.

Verb

I’m going to wrinkle this word,
I’m going to twist it,
yes,
it is much too flat
it is as if a great dog or great river
had passed its tongue or water over it
during many years.

I want that in the word
the roughness is seen
the iron salt
The de-fanged strength
of the land,
the blood
of those who have spoken and those who have not spoken.

I want to see the thirst
Inside the syllables
I want to touch the fire
in the sound:
I want to feel the darkness
of the cry. I want
words as rough
as virgin rocks.

Translated by T.M. Lauth Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda: The Bull

Pablo Neruda -El Toro-

El ToroEl más antiguo toro cruzó el día, sus patas escarbaban el planeta. Siguió, siguió hasta donde vive el mar. Llegó a la orilla el más antiguo toro a la orilla del tiempo, del océano. Cerró los ojos, lo cubrió la hierba. Respiró toda la distancia verde. Y lo demás lo construyó el silencio. The Bull The oldest bull crossed the day. His legs scratched the planet. He continued, travelling to where the sea lives, He reached the shore, the oldest bull. On the edge of time, the ocean, Pablo Neruda -El Toro- lunes 30 de mayo de 2005 El ToroEl más antiguo toro cruzó el día, sus patas escarbaban el planeta. Siguió, siguió hasta donde vive el mar. Llegó a la orilla el más antiguo toro a la orilla del tiempo, del océano. Cerró los ojos, lo cubrió la hierba. Respiró toda la distancia verde. Y lo demás lo construyó el silencio. The Bull The oldest bull crossed the day. His legs scratched the planet. He continued, travelling to where the sea lives, He reached the shore, the oldest bull. On the edge of time, the ocean, He closed his eyes and grass covered him. He breathed the whole green distance. And silence built the rest. Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda