Pablo Neruda

(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral)

Pablo Neruda Poems

121. Fable Of The Mermaid And The Drunks 1/25/2003
122. Canto Xii From The Heights Of Macchu Picchu 1/20/2003
123. Saddest Poem 1/13/2003
124. Poetry 1/3/2003
125. The Saddest Poem 1/3/2003
126. Bird 1/3/2003
127. Your Feet 1/13/2003
128. I'M Explaining A Few Things 1/3/2003
129. A Lemon 1/3/2003
130. And Because Love Battles 9/6/2006
131. Enigmas 1/13/2003
132. Xvii (I Do Not Love You...) 1/13/2003
133. Clenched Soul 1/3/2003
134. Drunk As Drunk 1/3/2003
135. From – Twenty Poems Of Love 1/25/2003
136. A Song Of Despair 1/3/2003
137. A Dog Has Died 1/13/2003
138. Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines 1/3/2003
139. Sonnet Xvii 1/3/2003
140. Your Laughter 1/3/2003
141. Don'T Go Far Off 1/13/2003
142. I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You 1/13/2003
143. If You Forget Me 1/3/2003

Comments about Pablo Neruda

  • Shashikant Nishant Sharma Shashikant Nishant Sharma (4/15/2016 10:18:00 PM)

    This is really an inspiring poem. I really appreciate it. Good work. Short and witty. Thanks for sharing.

    43 person liked.
    25 person did not like.
  • Poop Guy (3/29/2016 1:44:00 PM)

    It stinks, this poem stinks, it does not make sense, smells bad

  • Frankly Marj (3/8/2016 1:01:00 PM)

    Even better, give us the poem in its original language as well.

  • Frankly Marj (3/8/2016 12:59:00 PM)

    You need to include the translator's name in every poem written in a language other than English. For shame!

  • Deez Nuts (2/7/2016 2:16:00 PM)

    how many people read poetry just to read poetry? honestly its not very entertaining

  • Deez Nuts (2/7/2016 2:14:00 PM)

    me no like poetry me like musik

  • Deez Nuts (2/7/2016 2:11:00 PM)

    shut up fabrizio frosini

  • Grace Mariner Grace Mariner (1/13/2016 9:16:00 AM)

    His words touch my heart

  • Soul Watcher Soul Watcher (1/13/2016 4:05:00 AM)

    L like this poet alot.

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (11/24/2015 5:16:00 AM)

    '' The poet is not a 'little god'. No, it is not a 'little god'. ''

    [..]
    El poeta no es un pequeño dios. No, no es un pequeño dios. No está signado por un destino cabalístico superior al de quienes ejercen otros menesteres y oficios. A menudo expresé que el mejor poeta es el hombre que nos entrega el pan de cada día: el panadero más próximo, que no se cree dios. El cumple su majestuosa y humilde faena de amasar, meter al horno, dorar y entregar el pan de cada día, con una obligación comunitaria. Y si el poeta llega a alcanzar esa sencilla conciencia, podrá también la sencilla conciencia convertirse en parte de una colosal artesanía, de una construcción simple o complicada, que es la construcción de la sociedad, la transformación de las condiciones que rodean al hombre, la entrega de la mercadería: pan, verdad, vino, sueños. Si el poeta se incorpora a esa nunca gastada lucha por consignar cada uno en manos de los otros su ración de compromiso, su dedicación y su ternura al trabajo común de cada día y de todos los hombres, el poeta tomará parte en el sudor, en el pan, en el vino, en el sueño de la humanidad entera. Sólo por ese camino inalienable de ser hombres comunes llegaremos a restituirle a la poesía al anchuroso espacio que le van recortando en cada época, que le vamos recortando en cada época nosotros mismos.
    [..]

    Pronunciado por Pablo Neruda
    con ocasión de la entrega del Premio Nobel de Literatura.

Best Poem of Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,...

Read the full of If You Forget Me

Walking Around

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops 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.

[Report Error]