انا مقتنع ان الشعر ميتقرأش الا بلغته الاصلية صعب جدا ترجمته ويوصلك معني الشاعر لكن كنت حابب اقرء لبابلو نيرودا
وكمان انا طول عمري ما بحبش الشعر الرومانسي والجو بتاع عينيكي وجسمك وشعرك وبحبك وهيجيلي جلطة لو زعلتي..والبحر والقمر ... ده كانت مشكلتي في الكتاب ده

وبعدين فيه اجماع ان الترجمة اسوء مما يكون بس انا عندي استفسار اول قصيدة المترجم كاتب جسد المرأة روابي !!
روابي ده سمنة يعني ولا ايه ما هو اكيد مفيش روابي ده في الاسباني ولا كان بيحب واحدة مليانه شوية ولا ايه

أستطيع أن أكتب الأشعار الأكثر حزنًا هذه الليلة.
أكتب، مثلًا: "الليلة ملأى بالنجوم،
وترتعش الكواكب، زرقًا، من البعيد".
رياح الليل تدوّم في السماء وتغنّي.
أستطيع أن أكتب الأشعار الأكثر حزنًا هذه الليلة.
أحببتها، وأحيانًا هي أيضًا أحبّتني.
في ليالٍ مثل هذه أخذتها بين ذراعيّ.
قبّلتها مرّاتٍ كثيرة تحت السماء اللامتناهية.
أحبّتني، وأحيانًا أنا أيضًا أحببتها.
كيف لا أحب عينيها الواسعتين العميقتين.
أستطيع أن أكتب الأشعار الأكثر حزنًا هذه الليلة.
أن أفكر بأنّها ليست لي، أن أشعر بأنّي فقدتها.
لم أعُد أُحبها، صحيح، لكنْ ربّما أحبها.
كم هو قصيرٌ الحب، وكم هو طويلٌ النسيان.
***
أنت لي، أنت لي، سأصرخ مع نسيم المساء،
والريح تجرف صوتيَ الأرمل.
***
روحي وُلدتْ على ضفّة عينيكِ الحزينتين.
وفي عينيكِ الحزينتين يبدأ وطن الحلم.
***
كان العطش والجوع، وكنتِ أنتِ الفاكهة.
كان الأسى والدمار، وكنتِ أنتِ المعجزة.

Stephen Dobyns, in his forward to this edition, tells of what occurred at a poetry event in Venezuela, sometime in the ‘60’s. After Chilean poet Pablo Neruda concluded his prepared reading, he opened himself up to requests. The first request, from a member of this audience of six hundred, was for poem #20 from this book (“Tonight I could write the saddest lines”). When Neruda apologized, saying he had neglected to bring that particular poem, “four hundred people stood up and recited the poem to him.”

For a man like me from the United States, such a story sounds almost fantastic, but then it is hard for a citizen of the good ol’ USA to imagine what its like to live in a country with such a passion for beautiful verse. But then, Spanish speakers do love their poetry, and this little book is one of the most popular of all time. Since Neruda published it in 1924 (when he was nineteen!), it has sold over 20 million copies.

This book is justly famous for its eroticism, but it should be praised for the richness of its natural images too. The images of trees, streams, and animals of all kinds never seem forced or automatic, but rather seem to be part of an ancient and effortless vocabulary, as if either Nature herself had written these passionate lines, or she were the lover to be praised.

This translation by W.S. Merwin—a distinquished poet in his own right—is the best known English version. It is simple, eloquent, and natural—as any good translation of this book must be.

I love “Tonight I could write the saddest lines,” but I won’t reproduce it here. It is rather long, and, besides, it is the best known poem from the book. Instead, I’ll share with you two of its shorter poems that I like almost as much:

n  III: AH VASTNESS OF PINES

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!

In you the rivers sing and my soul flees in them
as you desire, and you send it where you will.
Aim my road on your bow of hope
and in a frenzy I will free my flock of arrows

On all sides I see your waist of fog,
and your silence hunts down my afflicted hours;
my kisses anchor, and my moist desire nests
In you with your arms of transparent stone.

Ah your mysterious voice that love tolls and darkens
in the resonant and dying evening!
Thus in deep hours have I seen, over the fields,
the ears of wheat tolling in the mouth of the wind.



X: WE HAVE LOST EVEN

We have lost even this twilight
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
whiole the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin between my hands.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on my suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that is always turned at twilight
and my cape rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
towards where the twilight goes erasing statues.n