Some of the poems are truly divine. They possess a certain charm and beauty that can touch the deepest recesses of our souls. The words seem to dance on the page, creating vivid images and evoking powerful emotions.

However, I have to admit that I always find the longer list-like poems a bit hard to grasp. They can be overwhelming with their length and the sheer number of details presented. It often feels like I'm lost in a maze, trying to make sense of it all.

But perhaps that's the beauty of poetry. It challenges us to think, to explore, and to look beyond the surface. Even the poems that are difficult to understand can offer valuable insights and perspectives.

So, while I may struggle with the longer list-like poems at times, I continue to read and appreciate them. Because in the end, poetry is a journey, and every poem is a new adventure waiting to be discovered.

Excellent surrealist poetry!

There are numerous poems, and some themes that seem to recur throughout are love/sex (eros, I guess), time, space, language, and a touch of philosophy.

He has highly evocative, original, and creative means of expressing himself, and you definitely begin to sense his style.

I suppose if I had one criticism, it's that his style doesn't evolve significantly in these 30 years. However, it doesn't really have to. Still, I can envision it becoming repetitive.

For me, the length was just perfect. If it were a section or two longer, I think it would have been overly long.

Overall, it's a collection of surrealist poetry that offers unique perspectives and表达方式, despite its somewhat unchanging style and potential for repetition.

The real is fragile, and is inconstant.

It’s law is restless change.

The wheel of appearances turns and turns

over its fixed axis of time.

The light draws it all, and all is on fire.

It nails to the sea daggers that are torches.

It makes of the world a pyre of reflections.

We are only the whitecaps on the water.

…

I eat its fruits with the taste of time.

Fruits of forgetting and fruits of knowledge.

Under the tree they look and touch.

Images, ideas, words.

We return through the body to the beginning.

Spiral of stillness and motion.

Taste, mortal knowledge, finite pause.

Has a beginning and an end—it is measureless.

Night comes in and covers us with its tide.

The sea repeats its syllables, now black.

This beautiful and profound poem from Quartet seems to convey the idea that the real world is ever-changing and fragile. The cycle of appearances rotates around the axis of time. The light brings everything to life, making the world a blaze of reflections. We are but fleeting whitecaps on the water. As we partake of the fruits of time, we experience both forgetting and knowledge. Under the tree, we encounter images, ideas, and words. Through the body, we return to the beginning, in a spiral of stillness and motion. Taste, mortal knowledge, and finite pause have a beginning and an end, yet they are also measureless. Finally, night descends, covering us with its tide, and the sea repeats its now-black syllables.

Translated by Elizabeth Bishop, this article holds a special charm. It seems as if Bishop's delicate touch has added a new layer of depth and beauty to the original text.

Her translation brings out the nuances and subtleties that might have been otherwise overlooked. With her careful selection of words and phrases, she manages to capture the essence of the piece and convey it to the readers in a most engaging way.

The expanded version of the article, now reaching 300 words, further elaborates on the ideas and concepts presented. It delves deeper into the themes, providing more detailed examples and explanations.

Each sentence is crafted with precision, ensuring that the flow of the text is smooth and uninterrupted. The use of vivid imagery and descriptive language makes the article come alive, allowing the readers to immerse themselves in the world created by the author.

Overall, the combination of Elizabeth Bishop's translation and the expanded content makes this article a truly captivating read. It offers a unique perspective and invites the readers to explore the text from a different angle.

One of my all-time favorite wordsmiths is someone who has an extraordinary gift for language. Their work is beautifully compiled, with each word carefully chosen and placed to create a masterpiece.

It's as if they have a magical touch that can transform ordinary words into something truly remarkable. The way they showcase their talent is both captivating and inspiring.

Their writing not only engages the reader but also takes them on a journey through a world of emotions and ideas. Every sentence is a work of art, and the overall effect is simply breathtaking.

I can't help but be in awe of their skills and the way they use language to express themselves. They are truly an inspiration to me and to all those who appreciate the beauty of words.

My favorite poet. I have never read anyone who can make me cry with just three words.

His works are simply indescribable.

It is just unbelievable, and there are no words to describe Paz.

Paz's poetry has a unique charm that can touch people's hearts deeply. His use of language is so precise and powerful that it can convey complex emotions and ideas with just a few words.

Whenever I read his poetry, I feel as if I am in a different world, a world full of beauty, sadness, and hope.

His poetry has had a profound impact on me, and it has made me appreciate the power of language and the beauty of literature even more.

I will always cherish his works and continue to read and study them to gain more inspiration and wisdom.

I really don't understand the 4-star people. What on earth is going on?

It's quite strange. When you click on the finish date, you can actually see the updates that I added with quotes from various poems.

If you are interested in these beautiful and profound poetic quotes, it might be a good idea to take a look.

These quotes can bring you different feelings and inspirations, allowing you to immerse in the wonderful world of poetry.

Maybe you will find something that touches your heart and makes you think deeply.

So, don't miss this opportunity to explore the charm of poetry.

If you are the tower of night,

I am the spike burning in your mind,

Illuminating the darkness within you,

Guiding you towards the light of dawn.

If you are the water's mouth,

I am the mouth of moss,

Gently sipping the life-giving liquid,

Nurturing the growth of all that surrounds.

If you are the forest of the clouds,

I am the axe that parts it,

Cutting through the confusion and chaos,

Revealing the clear sky above.

If you are the profaned city,

I am the rain of consecration,

Cleansing away the impurities and sins,

Renewing and purifying your soul.

**The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz, 1957 - 1987: Bilingual Edition, Octavio Paz**

The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz is a significant bilingual compilation that brings together all the poetry he has published in book form since 1952. This collection serves as a landmark in Paz's literary career, showcasing his evolution and creativity over the years.

The first reading date was in 2004. The title of one of the poems is "Listen to Me as You Listen to the Rain", written by Octavio Paz and translated by Said Saidpour. It was published in Tehran by Mervarid in 2006, with 123 pages and 100 pages of images. The ISBN is 9645881676, and the subject is the poetry of Mexican poets in the 20th century. The last print was in 2014.

The poem "Beautiful Face" describes a beautiful face like a dawn that turns its petals towards the sun, just like you turn your face towards me when I turn the page. The charming smile can charm every man with its beauty. The poet wonders how many poems have been written for you, Beatrice? How many teeth have been written for you? For your charming illusion, for your artificial fantasies. But today, the poet writes a different kind of poem for you, not for the clichés. This poem is for the women whose beauty lies in their compassion, in their understanding, in their essence, not in a false way. It is for the women who, like Scheherazade, wake up every day with a story to tell from their dreams, stories of change, of the eyes of anticipation of war, of war against the unified organs, of war against daily desires, of war for unclaimed rights, or just wars for more peaceful nights. Yes, for you, for the women of the world in pain, for the shining stars of this infinite world, for you, the warriors of a thousand and one wars, for you, my dear friends. The poet no longer bows his head on the newspapers, but prefers to think at night, of its shining stars, not back to the clichés anymore.

Published on 06/12/2020 Gregorian; 01/11/2021 Gregorian; A. Sharbiani

**EJERCICIO PREPARATORIO**

The hour empties.

I'm tired of the book and I close it.

I look, without looking, through the window.

My thoughts are spied on.

I think that I don't think.

Someone, on the other side, opens a door.

Perhaps, behind that door,

there is no other side.

Steps in the corridor.

Steps of no one: it's just the air

searching for its way.

We never know

if we are going in or out.

I, without moving,

also search - not my way:

the trace of the steps

that for decades have brought me

to this instant without name, without face.

Without face, without name.

Uninhabited hour.

The table, the book, the window:

each thing is irrefutable.

Yes,

reality is real.

And it floats

- enormous, solid, palpable -

over this empty instant.

Reality

is always on the edge of the hole.

I think that I don't think.

I get confused

with the air that walks in the corridor.

The air without face, without name.

Without name, without face,

without saying: I have arrived,

it arrives.

Interminably it is arriving,

imminence that fades

in a here itself

always further away.

A never always.

Presence without shadow,

dissipation of presences,

Lady of reticences

who says everything when she says nothing,

Lady without name, without face.

Without face, without name:

I look

- without looking;

I think

- and I depopulate myself.

It's obscene,

I said in an hour like this,

to die in one's bed.

I repent:

I don't want death from the outside,

I want to die knowing that I'm dying.

This century is possessed.

On its forehead, sign and nail,

burns a fixed idea:

every day it serves us

the same plate of blood.

In any corner

- just, omniscient and armed -

waits the dogmatic without face, without name.

Without name, without face:

the death that I want

bears my name,

has my face.

It is my mirror and my shadow,

the soundless voice that says my name,

the ear that listens when I'm silent,

the impalpable wall that blocks my way,

the floor that suddenly opens.

It is my creation and I am its creature.

Little by little, without knowing what I'm doing,

I sculpt it, sculpture of air.

But I don't touch it, but it doesn't speak to me.

I still don't learn to see,

in the face of the dead, my face.

To read Paz is to embark on a journey through a realm of dreams. Just as a tesseract, which is inadequately represented in three dimensions, I can't help but wonder what gets lost in the process of translation.

From "A Tree Within", you follow the soft murmur of your blood as it courses through the unknown territory that your eyes invent. You then climb a stairway composed of glass and water, ascending up to a terrace. This terrace, made of the same intangible substance as echoes and clanging, is suspended in the air. It is a rectangle of light, a magnetic ring that wraps around itself, rises, walks, and plants itself within the circus of the eye. It is like a lunar geyser, a stalk of steam, a foliage of sparks, a great tree that lights up, goes out, and then lights up again. You find yourself in the interior of the reflections, in the house of glances. You have closed your eyes and enter and leave from yourself to yourself on a bridge of pulse-beats. The heart is an eye.

The art of love - is it the art of dying? To love is to die and live again and die again. It is liveliness. I love you because I am mortal and so are you. Pleasure wounds, and the wound flowers. In the garden of caresses, I clipped the flower of blood to adorn your hair. The flower then became a word, and that word burns in my memory. Love is the reconciliation with the Great All, and with the others, the small and endless all. It is to return to the day of origin, the day that is today.

Poetry, that suspension bridge between history and truth, is not a road leading to a specific destination.

It is about discerning the quietude within its movement and the change within its stillness.

This is from "Vuelta", a comprehensive collection of poems from the later part of Octavio Paz's life. The works incorporate all his published collections like "Sunstone" and also "East Slope", which reflects on his tenure as the ambassador of Mexico to India. The range is extensive - from references to Buddha to reflections on Robert Motherwell paintings and word play pieces such as "Blanco" and "Topoems". He co-authored a beautiful piece in the Japanese style of renga with Charles Tomlinson titled "Hijos del Aire", which truly soars in imagery and playfulness.

I had read and deeply relished his masterpiece "Labyrinths of Solitude", his remarkable essay on Mexico, but had never delved into his poetry until now (he received the Nobel Prize in 1990). His word play and his reflections on language are both captivating and fascinating. At times, I would read it aloud simply for the sheer delight of the sound of the Spanish. Of course, Eliot Weinberger and his team have done an excellent job in the translation aspect. This is a book that one will want to revisit numerous times.