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4.04 AVERAGE
4.04 AVERAGE
Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
*
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
This is musicality being butchered.
Always more interested in the song of despair, but I feel like giving this another try due to someone's review, and after many years.
April 24, 19
*
Sometimes, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Again, three stars. A bit tragic, despite being able to appreciate - in a way I couldn't before - Neruda's lyricism and its natural voluptuousness, especially considering he wrote this collection when he was only 19.
Pensando, enredando sombras en la profunda soledad.
Tú también estás lejos, ah más lejos que nadie.
Pensando, soltando pájaros, desvaneciendo imágenes,
enterrando lámparas.
*
Thinking, tangling shadows in the deep solitude.
You are far away too, oh farther than anyone.
Thinking, freeing birds, dissolving images,
burying lamps.
from Poem XVII
The rest of the experience remains intact. But I sensed it. This is the kind of poetry I can relate to; the intensity and sentimentality I can bear:
Lo perdido
¿Dónde estará mi vida, la que pudo
haber sido y no fue, la venturosa
o la de triste horror, esa otra cosa
que pudo ser la espada o el escudo
y que no fue? ¿Dónde estará el perdido
antepasado persa o el noruego,
dónde el azar de no quedarme ciego,
dónde el ancla y el mar, dónde el olvido
de ser quien soy? ¿Dónde estará la pura
noche que al rudo labrador confía
el iletrado y laborioso día,
según lo quiere la literatura?
Pienso también en esa compañera
que me esperaba, y que tal vez me espera.
*
What is lost
I wonder where my life is, the one that could
have been and never was, the daring one
or the one of gloomy dread, that other thing
which could as well have been the sword or shield
but never was? I wonder where is my lost
Persian or Norwegian ancestor,
where is the chance of my not being blind,
where is the anchor, the ocean, where the forgetting
to be who I am? I wonder where the pure
night is that the unlettered working day
entrusts to the rough laborer so that he
can also feel the love of literature
I also think about a certain companion
who waited for me once, perhaps still waits.
Love poem by [a:Jorge Luis Borges|500|Jorge Luis Borges|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1537559279p2/500.jpg]
April 26, 19
* Later on my blog.
Veinte Poemas de Amor y una Canción Desesperada de Pablo Neruda fue una lectura que me sorprendió. Aunque los poemas no son lo que suelo leer, la obra de Neruda me cautivó desde el principio. Los versos están cargados de una intensidad emocional tan profunda que, a pesar de no ser mi elección habitual, me encontré conectando con las palabras y las imágenes que crea. Es un libro muy citado y, al leerlo, entendí por qué: sus poemas son una exploración del amor en todas sus facetas, desde lo apasionado hasta lo doloroso. Aunque algunas de las ideas sobre el amor son universales, lo que más me impresionó fue cómo Neruda logra transmitir esa desesperación y la belleza del deseo de una manera tan única.
emotional
sad
medium-paced
This one was a melancholic read.
“How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.”
“How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.”
“every day you play”, “tonight i can write”, and “the song of despair” are really beautiful.
I took this with me on a holiday by the beach in winter for two main reasons:
1. The friend who first introduced me to Neruda (with "Tonight I can write the saddest lines") loves that particular town, and it seemed appropriate; and
2. The friend who loaned me the collection would surely find it hilarious to imagine me clutching the book to my bosom, staring tragically/romantically/poetically (they're all synonyms right?) out to sea.
Actually, so would the first friend.
Anyway. I am not much of a reader of poetry. I love the sound of poetry and I appreciate the artistry of using words as Neruda does, but I am at heart an impatient reader. I love words and I like the idea of lingering over them, but... it never really happens. Plus, I am realising that I am more plot-driven than beauty-focussed, which means poetry isn't really going to work for me.
ANYWAY 2. Neruda. He uses words in beautiful ways - well, I presume he does in the original Spanish, and this isn't just WS Merwin's attempt to get work out there under someone else's name. (What would be the point of that anyway?) Friend 2 pointed out to me that Neruda objectifies his subject a lot, and that's absolutely crucial to much of his poetry: you don't get "Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs / you look like a world, lying in surrender" otherwise. But he does create some exquisite imagery.
Ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking,
slow play of lights, solitary bell,
twilight falling in your eyes, toy doll,
earth-shell, in whom the earth sings!
I had at first expected "Tonight I can write" to be the "Song of Despair" mentioned in the title, but it's not - it's the twentieth love poem. Which made me realise, as I had been slowly realising over reading the collection, that to differentiate the love poems and the song of despair is to suggest something that is not there. In most of the love poems, despair is either present or looming on the margins. And the song of despair is of course only possible because of the love that is also present.
If you like poetry, this is highly recommended. If you want to try poetry, this is short and delightful and evocative. I'm glad I read it.
1. The friend who first introduced me to Neruda (with "Tonight I can write the saddest lines") loves that particular town, and it seemed appropriate; and
2. The friend who loaned me the collection would surely find it hilarious to imagine me clutching the book to my bosom, staring tragically/romantically/poetically (they're all synonyms right?) out to sea.
Actually, so would the first friend.
Anyway. I am not much of a reader of poetry. I love the sound of poetry and I appreciate the artistry of using words as Neruda does, but I am at heart an impatient reader. I love words and I like the idea of lingering over them, but... it never really happens. Plus, I am realising that I am more plot-driven than beauty-focussed, which means poetry isn't really going to work for me.
ANYWAY 2. Neruda. He uses words in beautiful ways - well, I presume he does in the original Spanish, and this isn't just WS Merwin's attempt to get work out there under someone else's name. (What would be the point of that anyway?) Friend 2 pointed out to me that Neruda objectifies his subject a lot, and that's absolutely crucial to much of his poetry: you don't get "Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs / you look like a world, lying in surrender" otherwise. But he does create some exquisite imagery.
Ah vastness of pines, murmur of waves breaking,
slow play of lights, solitary bell,
twilight falling in your eyes, toy doll,
earth-shell, in whom the earth sings!
I had at first expected "Tonight I can write" to be the "Song of Despair" mentioned in the title, but it's not - it's the twentieth love poem. Which made me realise, as I had been slowly realising over reading the collection, that to differentiate the love poems and the song of despair is to suggest something that is not there. In most of the love poems, despair is either present or looming on the margins. And the song of despair is of course only possible because of the love that is also present.
If you like poetry, this is highly recommended. If you want to try poetry, this is short and delightful and evocative. I'm glad I read it.
emotional
reflective
fast-paced
idk u guys
this read a bit creepy
but not haha cool creepy
more like why is he calling her little girl creepy
also i don't wanna be that person but
why does he keep using the color white to describe positive attributes of a woman, huh?
to be fair tho this man knows how to use his words.
some of these imageries paint such a clear picture
like
"i want to do to you what spring does to the cherry tree"????
goddamn
this read a bit creepy
but not haha cool creepy
more like why is he calling her little girl creepy
also i don't wanna be that person but
why does he keep using the color white to describe positive attributes of a woman, huh?
to be fair tho this man knows how to use his words.
some of these imageries paint such a clear picture
like
"i want to do to you what spring does to the cherry tree"????
goddamn
Todo en ti fue Naufragio.
No entiendo mucho de poesía pero estos son versos que calan. Muy reconfortantes en verdad, especialmente el 15, 20 y la canción desesperada.
No entiendo mucho de poesía pero estos son versos que calan. Muy reconfortantes en verdad, especialmente el 15, 20 y la canción desesperada.