Es la hora de partir, oh abandonado! Sin embargo alguna vez corrió una sombra extraña por tus ojos. Neruda's pen name was derived from Czech writer and poet Jan Neruda; Pablo is thought to be from Paul Verlaine. Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The sky was dark that day and it was cold, even though it was in the summer. Like a container you housed endless tenderness. What a powerful, deep, intelligent and beautiful soul! Again a poet must avoid erotic language, to paint the open -secret between the he-man and the she-man.
When it appeared in 1924, this work launched into the international spotlight a young and unknown poet whose writings would ignite a generation. La hora del estupor que ardía como un faro. Until I even believe that you own the universe. The dirt and the flesh and the elements and the cold, wet, hot, dry. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. Always, always you recede through the evenings towards where the twilight goes erasing statues.
Three days after being hospitalized, Neruda died of heart failure. Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues, avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos. Her voice, her bright body. Of the 20 poems on offer, not all made sense to me on first reading, but at only 70 pages in length, I will certainly be re-visiting in time. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
Neruda's outspoken sympathy for the loyalist cause during the Spanish Civil War led to his recall from Madrid in 1937. Storm that buried the bells, muddy swirl of torments, why touch her now, why make her sad. He fearlessly incorporates love and lust in his verses. Es la hora de partir. I'm glad and ecastic with motion of calm words of poet. How terrible and brief was my desire of you! The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. الأول للمترجم مروان حداد و الثاني لمحمود السيد علي و الذي تتفوق عليه بمراحل ترجمة قوقل الفورية! I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
How could one not have loved her g Beautiful and sensual with a touch of lingering sadness. Distant and painful as if you were dead. Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water, You are more than this white head that I hold tightly as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands The tone in these ballads is steady, through these poems you can feel that these lyrics are addressing each other, having a similar anguish and joy. However, thousands of grieving Chileans disobeyed the curfew and crowded the streets to pay their respects. I had never desired to learn Spanish, but after reading Neruda I wished I could find a way to experience him in the original, just as I wish I could improve my Persian to read Hafez and Rumi without the medium of translation. It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. To survive myself I forged you like a weapon, like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.
You are like nobody since I love you. Ovíllate a mi lado como si tuvieras miedo. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Lost discoverer, in you sank everything! There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. It is the hour of departure.
Oh sentina de escombros, pozo abierto y amargo. You swallowed everything, like distance. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. From you the wings of the song birds rose. Now I've moved him up to number 2, just under Kafka. I can clearly understand why he has changed her existence and although I cannot say the same at least for now , Neruda did make my day and probably my week better.
Pablo Neruda is the most famous Spanish-speaking poet of the 20th century, perhaps in all of literature. Body of skin, of moss, of avid and firm milk. One simply needs to read and take in the pure and stark versification of the sensualities of life, both in love and lust. Tonight I Can Write Tonight I can write the saddest lines. The Song of Despair The memory of you emerges from the night around me. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How could one not have loved her great still eyes. It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. It is the hour of departure. Ese fue mi destino y en él viajó mi anhelo, y en el cayó mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio! There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.