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Pablo Neruda (12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral / Chile)
Poetry
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Read poems about / on: poetry, fire, river, winter, silence, wind, alone, night, heart, flower, star
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What is most beautiful? The quality of Pablo Neruda feelings or his perseverance in making them accessible for many in a wonderful simple way? I think the combination of the two is what poetry is, and without it, i will be as living a life but missing the essence of life itself.
Neruda knows how powerful poetry. he is a man who had lived and still living---infinite in his deepest emotion..
I am looking for this poem in Spanish....
Ahhh..poetry. The entire existence of everything inconceivable and imaginable left behind on the paper as your penpoint passes by and you grasp the thing that eludes you.....that is poetry, that is Neruda.
Pablo Neruda! he is a great & pure poet of my youth...
poetry opened me. il postino sent me. i've started to write.
thanks pablo neruda
Poetry, poetry and poetry is the language of a living soul. Pablo Neruda immortalizes such point in his 'Poetry'. He finds refuge for his immortal thoughts through the power of his pen in the form of poetry. Now its spirit moves on.
yes poetry is full of mystery. sometimes, i too wrote poems as if they had written themselves and used me as the media to let loose their pains and joys.
Ah! Pablo.
I discovered this piece in a book just a few short days ago and fell immediately in love. I exist, I think, somewhere inside these words. *sigh*