Si bien algunos versos son genuinamente bellos, el conjunto me dejó más bien indiferente. La visión de la mujer que plasma como objeto de deseo, siempre fragmentada, buscando devorarla y poseerla pero nunca admitirla como una entidad completa, no me genera particular placer tampoco.

n   “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.” n

Wow: things got hot, and not due to the recent heatwave. These are some of the most passionate poems I have read in a long time. Romantic, full of longing - for a lover that is there, for a lover that is lost - and with erotic allusions hidden in rich images of nature.
My favorites were Tonight I Can Write, Ah Vastness of Pines, The Morning is Full, We Have Lost Even, and I Like For You to Be Still. Incredible that these beautiful poems were written by a young man of 19. Very impressive ❤️

n   “There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.” n

n  The morning is full of storm
in the heart of summer.n —I finally found that line I was looking for, couldn't recall if it was Neruda or Lorca. Pelted with four-inches of rain and gut-wrenching texts it is an altogether miserable day. I turn to poetry. The poet applies healing balm to emotional pain. And the bright colors of this late night sunset promises a better day. Tomorrow or the next.

I adore Neruda's poetry. The only reason that I am giving 4 stars and not 5, is because the "woman as a doll" imagery that he seems fond of using put me off every time I came across it...

Que los amantes de la poesía me perdonen, pero no la entiendo. Y como no la entiendo (y me da que nunca la entenderé), no puedo ponerle más de una estrella.

Me sacan de las rimas fáciles y tontas y ya no soy capaz de ver nada más. Pese a eso, tengo que decir que me gustaron los poemas numero 6, 10 y 20.

Seguro que Neruda fue un artista tremendo, pero a mí no me dice nada.

Lo siento pero, repito, no puedo darle más de 1 estrella sobre 5.

*Popsugar 2020 categoría 42: Un libro cuyo título contenga "20" o "veinte"

تا به من گوش دهی،
کلماتم
گاه نازکی می‌گیرند
چون رد گاکیان بر ساحل

دستبندی، از زنگوله‌های مست
برای دست‌های چون انگورْ نرمت

و من نظاره می‌کنم از دور به کلماتم
- بیشتر از آن تو هستند، تا از آن من -
که از درد کهن من بالا می‌روند، چون پیچک

بالا می‌روند، همچنان که از دیوارهای نمور
گناه این بازی بی رحم به گردن توست
می‌گریزند از کنام تاریکم
هر چه را می‌آکنی تو، هر چه را می‌آکنی

پیش از تو، آنان پر می‌کردند انزوایی را که تو پر کردی
و آشناترند از تو به اندوهم

حال می‌خواهم برایت بگویند
آنچه من می‌خواهم بگویمت
تا گوش دهی، همان گونه که من می‌خواهم گوش دهی

باد اضطراب بر آن‌ها هنوز می‌خزد
گردباد رؤیاها هنوز گاهی از پا درشان می‌افکند
به صداهای دیگری گوش می‌دهی در صدای دردناک من

لیک کلمات من از عشق تو لکه‌دار می‌شود
هر چه را می‌انباری تو، هر چه را می‌انباری

من آن‌ها را
می‌کشم به رشتهٔ دستبندی بی‌پایان
برای دست‌های سفیدِ چون انگورْ نرمت

Tonight I Can Write
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, "The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance."
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this is the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

سرشار

"Love is so short, forgetting is so long."

pablo neruda wrote this at 19 meanwhile i can't even write my college assignment

لا بد أن هذه الأشعار أجمل بلغتها الأصلية
القراءة الأولي للشاعر التشيلي بابلو نيرودا

n  Oh, the power to celebrate you with all the words of happiness
To sing, to burn, to flee, like a church bell in the hands of a madman.n

Pablo Neruda is the most famous Spanish-speaking poet of the 20th century, perhaps in all of literature. He published this, his most popular book, when he was 19 years old—a fact which will fill you with hope or despair, depending on your age. Yet it is youth (being the period in which love is felt most and understood least) that is the best time to write love poetry, as Neruda’s case proves.

I found this book to be more difficult than I expected. In structure the poems range from metrical rhyming couplets to something approaching free-verse. For vocabulary, Neruda mainly sticks to the romantic poetic idiom developed in the previous century (every language has its own specialized stock of poetic words, it seems) and so the poems required some deciphering for me to understand them. But neither of these presented a real difficulty. Rather, what challenged me was that Neruda is a sensual poet. To a degree all poets are sensual, of course; but some are more so than others. As a contrast I would offer Antonio Machado, whose work I read just before this book, and whose poetry usually contains a conceptual core, a kernel of an idea, wrapped up within the images of the poem, which I could at least partially uncover. Neruda’s poems, by contrast, are driven by a touch rather than a thought.

Now, I do not want to stress this dichotomy too much. It is one of the mysteries of the human mind that nothing can be thought without eliciting a feeling, and nothing can be felt without eliciting a thought; and that moods and beliefs, so apparently separate, are really deeply intertwined. Without this deep bond between concept and affect, poetry would hardly be possible, seeing as it plays on the hidden cords that stretch between our sensory, cognitive, and emotional worlds, finding strange harmonies in disparate sources, revealing hitherto unimagined connections in our inner architecture. And since love—and its dark twin, loss—resides at the center of this dusty network, Neruda has much to work with.

n  I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me
and the night entered me with its powerful invasion.
To survive, I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, like a stone in my sling.

But now falls the hour of vengeance, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of avid and firm milk.n

Translating his lines fails to do justice to Neruda, as it fails to do justice to any poet. This is not to say that poetry is absolutely untranslatable; too many poets have found success in foreign tongues for that to be believed. Nevertheless, something is obviously lost. To pick just one example, in one poem Neruda says he wants to make an infinite chain “para tus manos blancas, suaves como las uvas,” which translates to “for your white hands, soft like grapes.” To my ears, this line hardly works in English. For one, the parallel contour of “suave” and “uva” is lost; and more important, the word “uva” is a gentle-sounding word, while “grape” is harsh and grating. Situations like this happen often in translation, presenting the translator with a choice between literal or impressionistic fidelity; and both choices have their downsides.

As you might expect of youthful love poetry, this book is full of ardor, of lust, of desperation, and of the deepest tenderness. The sky is pulled apart, the sea is drained, the stars are rearranged, the forests are uprooted, and the world itself is bent into new shapes in Neruda’s attempt to express his heart. Not a note rings false; there is much sentiment here but little sentimentality. Neruda (mostly) avoids self-pity—that curse of adolescence—and he uses personal metaphors to translate private feelings into universal experiences. Poetry could hardly strive for more.

n  I like it when you’re still because it’s like you’re absent.
Distant and painful as if you were dead.
One word, then, one smile is enough.
And I am happy, happy because it is not true.n

შეყვარებული ვარ.
იმ მომენტიდან, როცა მეოცე პოემის დასაწყისს სულ შემთხვევით გადავაწყდი ერთ-ერთ საიტზე და პირველად წავიკითხე.
შეყვარებული ვარ.
ნერუდას ესპანური იმდენად ღვთაებრივია, რომ თითოეული პოემა ცოცხალია, თითოეულ პოემას გული უცემს და ოთახის ფანჯრიდან რომ გაიხედავ, კარგად შეგიძლია დაინახო ქუჩებში მოსეირნე ფეხშიშველი წყალი, ანდა მოისმინო, როგორ მღერის ღამის ქარი შენთვის.
შეყვარებული ვარ, იმიტომ, რომ სიყვარულზე ძალიან ბევრი პოემა, ლექსი, რომანი, მოთხრობა წამიკითხავს და ვერცერთმა შეძლო ისე საოცრად გადმოეცა სხვადასხვანაირი სიყვარული (დაკარგული სიყვარული, სიყვარული რომელიც მარტოობამ დაჯაბნა, სიყვარული რომელიც სამუდამოა და გულსაც სიკვდილამდე იპყრობს) და ყველა ასე სრულყოფილად, ასე ლამაზად, ასე საოცრად.
შეყვარებული ვარ, იმიტომ რომ ბუნება და ადამიანი გააერთიანა, ბუნებას ადამიანის გულით უცემს გული და ადამიანივით განიცდის ყველაფერს, მარტოობას, მელანქოლიას, დანაკარგს, ტკივილს, სიამოვნებას, სიხარულს. თითქოს სამუდამოდ გადაეჯაჭვა ადამიანი ბუნებას და განუყოფელნი გახდნენ..

გუშინ მთელი დღე გაუჩერებლად ვკითხულობდი და ვკითხულობდი, 2-ჯერ ორიგინალში წავიკითხე და ორჯერ ინგლისურად ნათარგმნი, მთელი სულით დავეწაფე, მაგრამ არ მეყო და ალბათ, არც არასდროს მეყოფა..

“Leaning into the afternoons i fling my sad nets to the sea that beats on your marine eyes.”

“The night on its shadowy mare shedding blue tassels over the land.”

“It is raining. The sea wind is haunting stray gulls. The water walks barefoot in the wet streets.”

“The numberless hearts of the wind beating above our loving silence, orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees, like a language full of loves and songs.”

“Ay seguir el camino que se aleja de todo,
Donde no esta atajando la angustia, la muerte, el invierno, con sus ojos abiertos entre el rocío.”

“Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma y te pareces a la palabra melancolía”

“Pensando, enterrando lamparas en la profunda soledad, quien eres tu? Quien eres?”

“De sol cae un racimo en tu vestido oscuro, de la noche las grandes raíces crecen de súbito desde tu alma, y a lo exterior regresan las cosas en ti ocultas.”

“Te recuerdo como eras en el ultimo otoño,
Eras la boina gris y el corazón en calma,
En tus ojos peleaban las llamas del crepúsculo y las hojas caían en el agua de tu alma.”

დაა, რა თქმა უნდა, მეოცე, ჩემი საყვარელი პოემა:
“Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche, escribir, por ejemplo: “la noche esta estrellada y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.” El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta. Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.”

პ.ს. არასდროს, არაფერი ისე არ მყვარებია, როგორც ეს ღვთაებრივი ენა მიყვარს.