Una bella raccolta di poesie. Tutte singolarmente molto carine, alcune a dir poco eccezionali, ma nel complesso le poesie sono un po' ridondanti sia per stile che per figure retoriche adottate.

Neruda è l'autore di poesie che amo non solo più di chiunque altro, ma che arrivo ad idolatrare, quando leggo (e rileggo e rileggo e ancora rileggo) i suoi versi. Fin da ragazzino tenevo sempre un suo libro, che avevo rubato dalla libreria di mia madre, come fonte di ispirazione e di sospiri sognanti, per le lettere d'amore che quando si è giovani tutti scriviamo al/la proprio/a amato/a. Facile farsi breccia nei cuori altrui usando ispirazioni come queste. Neruda fa dell'amore quello che l'amore stesso fa a tutti noi. Ci prende in un vortice d'emozione e di parole così calde da incenerirci il cuore e l'anima; certi versi scavano così profondamente in noi che i nostri occhi ne rimangano quasi feriti e il cuore sobbalza ad ogni fine di verso e rimaniamo in attesa di quel sospiro sognate che chiude la poesia. Alcune poesie sono capolavori che trasudano amore in ogni parola e che tinteggiano nella nostra mente le immagini che i versi stessi scrivono... "O la croce nera di una nave. Solo. A volte albeggio, ed è umida persino la mia anima. Suona, risuona il mare lontano. Questo è un porto. Qui ti amo."... "A volte, come una moneta mi si accendeva un pezzo di sole tra le mani."... "Saprai che non t'amo e che t'amo perché la vita è in due maniere, la parola è un'ala del silenzio, il fuoco ha una metà di freddo." Questi versi sono per me, l'apoteosi dell'amore fatta poesia.

Mañana

XXV
Antes de amarte, amor, nada era mío:
Vacilé por las calles y las cosas:
Nada contaba ni tenía nombre:
El mundo era del aire que esperaba

Mediodía

XL
Era verde el silencio, mojada era la luz,
temblaba el mes de junio como una mariposa
y en el austral dominio, desde el mar y las piedras,
Matilde, atravesaste el mediodía.

Tarde

LXVI
No te quiero sino porque te quiero
y de quererte a no quererte llego
y de esperarte cuando no te espero
Pasa mi corazón del frío al fuego.

Noche

XCV
Quiénes se amaron como nosotros? Busquemos
la antiguas cenizas del corazón quemado
y allí que caigan uno por uno nuestros besos
Hasta que resucite la flor deshabilitada.

The Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (1904-1971) wrote “estos mal llamados” (these badly called) sonnets to Matilde Urrutia in 1959. They had met in 1946 and over the years became lovers. Neruda built a house for her in Santiago and she became his third wife in 1966.

Divided into the four parts of the day, Neruda extols his love, the good and bad, the longing, the ups and downs, the storms and the calm. Beautiful, fine words.

For all that it’s worth, all I can say is that the man sure loved his lover.

Cleaning up my currently reading list.

and to me she quoted him...

"no one else, love, will sleep in my dreams. you will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
no one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon."

thus, i knew for sure.

The author’s way with words was truly beautiful. I didn’t care for every poem, but I didn’t expect to. Sometimes you just need to find the right one and there were various right ones.

In some of my favorites, though, the english translation left something to be desired. It just didn’t always translate well. Whether it was the translator or the language difference, I cannot quite tell you. Perhaps it was just that I personally would have said it a different way. But that is the thing with language that you know. It includes your background, your culture, sayings, geography, habits, and meanings beyond simple words. Sometimes you just can’t translate all of that, simply changing a sentence from Spanish to English.

Uno DE MIS FAVORITOS DE NERUDA, en parte porque crecí con una copia en mi velador . Los leía casi cada noche antes de dormirme, y me aprendí varios de memoria. A veces los recito, en la noche, cuando voy sola por la calle. He descubierto que la gente me mira con más horror y reserva que cuando canto, jaja, así que probablemente me protege mejor de los ladrones y violadores (ya, pero ando sola exclusivamente por trayecto cortos, no se asusten, papás).

Muchas están escritas medio en clave. O sea, uno no tiene idea a qué se refieren (o yo no tengo idea), pero… son tan lindas, sobre todo cuando se leen (o recitan) en voz alta. Y me encanta cómo se dividen en mañana, tarde, noche, etcétera. Capturan metafóricamente una vida completa en solo momentos del día.

Yo recomiendo este poemario total y absolutamente. Es más, todos los niños deberían crecer junto a uno. A un poemario, aunque no fuera exclusivamente este.

Agregaré dos sonetos, en honor a la preciosidad de la poesía. Y a mis recuerdos, buáh.



Soneto VII

“Vendrás conmigo” dije – sin que nadie supiera
dónde y cómo latía mi estado doloroso,
y para mí no había clavel ni barcarola,
nada sino una herida por el amor abierta.

Repetí: “ven conmigo”, como si me muriera,
y nadie vio en mi boca la luna que sangraba,
nadie vio aquella sangre que subía al silencio.
¡Oh, amor, ahora olvidemos la estrella con espinas!

Por eso cuando oí que tu voz repetía
“Vendrás conmigo”, fue como si desataras
dolor, amor, la furia del vino encarcelado

que desde su bodega sumergida subiera
y otra vez en mi boca sentí un sabor de llama,
de sangre y de claveles, de piedra y quemadura.





Soneto XCVI

Pienso, esta época en que tú me amaste
se irá por otra azul sustituida,
será otra piel sobre los mismos huesos,
otros ojos verán la primavera.

Nadie de los que ataron esta hora,
de los que conversaron con el humo,
gobiernos, traficantes, transeúntes,
continuarán moviéndose en sus hilos.

Se irán los crueles dioses con anteojos,
los peludos carnívoros con libro,
los pulgones y los pipipasseyros.

Y cuando esté recién lavado el mundo
nacerán otros ojos en el agua
y crecerá sin lágrimas el trigo.



Los que me sé de memoria son el XLVI (46) y el LXXVIII (78). Sí, de los raritos. Bueno, en realidad el 78, que demuestra cómo (casi) todos los adolescentes nos sentimos tan especiales y al final somos un poco emo, jeje. El otro (46) es simplemente romántico, a lo teleserie subida de tono, roarr. Pero romántico.

(Y no, esos no los puse a propósito, para que si alguien se motiva con esto, haga la tarea y se consiga su copia y ahí los encuentre. Jijiji).

II
“AMOR, quantos caminhos até chegar a um beijo,
que solidão errante até tua companhia!...”

XI
“TENHO fome de tua boca, de tua voz, de teu pelo,
e pelas ruas vou sem nutrir-me, calado,
não me sustenta o pão, a aurora me desequilibra,
busco o som líquido de teus pés no dia...”

XVII
“... te amo como se amam certas coisas obscuras,
secretamente, entre a sombra e a alma.
Te amo como a planta que não floresce e leva
dentro de si, oculta, a luz daquelas flores,
e graças a teu amor vive escuro em meu corpo
o apertado aroma que ascendeu da terra...”

LXVI
“NÃO TE QUERO senão porque te quero
e de querer-te a não querer-te chego
e de esperar-te quando não te espero
passa meu coração do frio ao fogo.

Te quero só porque a ti te quero,
te odeio sem-fim, e odiando-te rogo,
e a medida de meu amor viageiro
é não ver-te e amar-te como um cego...”

It was one of those days. The kids flooded the bathroom, the cat vomited on my carpet, a toothbrush got lodged down the drain. One of those days. It was not a day to start a Sarah Vowell book about the beginnings of Hawaii… No, not today. Today, I grabbed the bottle of Sangria and sat down with this.

Again, I have to thank Goodreads for introducing me to Bells (shout out to Bells! Woot! Woot!) who introduced me to Pablo. Imagine living my whole life and not knowing Pablo!! The horror!

There is a reason that middle aged women find abstinent shiny vampires attractive. We are tired. We have lost the inspiration and cling to the notion of everlasting love like spanx. We are what we are. I will admit that I was duped by that Edward. With all his “Do you truly believe that you care more for me than I do for you?" crap? Yes, we are faulty. We want to hear that stuff. We also want to hear that you loved Duran Duran and that Say Anything was your favorite movie of all time. We clear? Good.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, pouring another glass of Sangria and talking about Pablo. Okay, Pablo with his baldness and his Alfred Hitchcockian body… Pablo would take Edward down. No stake needed, my friend.

Oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is---
Sand, time, the tree of the rain,

Everything is alive so that I can be alive
Without moving I can see it all
In your life I see everything that lives.

Hellz to the Yeah! That’s the stuff! Whoo!! Pablo Pablo he’s our man! Okay, he’s Matilda Uruttia’s man, but eh… semantics. Imagine! 100 love sonnets! For one woman! Swoon. And, it’s not like you have to look for lines like the one above. It’s every-frickin’-page. I just fall deeper and deeper. I drink more and my eyes water.

"Yes, you are exactly my brand of heroin."

Oh, Eddie… silly you. Give it up. Go away.


This is part of Pablo's dedication: "When I set this task for myself, I knew very well that down the right sides of sonnets, with elegant discriminating taste, poets of all times have arranged rhymes that sound like silver, or crystal, or cannon fire. But--with great humility--I made these sonnets out of wood: I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and this is how they should reach your ears. … Now that I have declared the foundations of my life, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.”

Can you imagine living with that? We all crave that crazy new found love feeling, right? Be honest.. There’s nothing like that rush… but imagine a full grown, fleshed out, downright dedication of life. Suddenly, it’s not about the adrenaline… it’s about the stamina.

Pablo divides his sonnets into four sections: Morning, Afternoon, Evening, and Night. And isn’t that the kicker.. The words so powerful that you feel each time, you age with him, you are his day. Lucky, lucky woman, that Matilda.

Morning:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

Afternoon:

So that I am like a scorched rock
that suddenly sings when you are near, because it drinks
the water you carry from the forest, in your voice

Evening:

I need the light of your energy,
I looked around, devouring hope.
I watched the void without you that is like a house,
nothing left but tragic windows.

Night:

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams, you will go,
We will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
Only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
And let their soft drifting signs drop away;
Your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move

After, following the folding water you carry, that carries
Me away. The night, the word, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you , I am your dream, only that, and that is all.


It’s hard to write a review of Pablo without totally quoting Pablo. You have to experience him, I feel like I’m cheating with this one. I will end with just this: I hope everyone finds their Pablo… I hope everyone opens their eyes and sees their Pablo.

حقیقتش اصلا دوست نداشتم این کتاب رو
نمیدونم مشکل از ترجمه بود یا واقعا خود اشعار به دلم نشستن
ترجمه شعر کلا خیلی کار سخت و حساسیه
اگه طرف وارد نباشه کاملا تو ذوق خواننده میخوره

ولی پابلو نرودا کاملا ناامیدم کرده

Conhecia a poesia de Pablo Neruda através de vídeos no youtube. Apaixonei-me pelo poema "Te amo" e mas tarde li a sua autobiografia. Fiquei absolutamente encantada com todo o que este escritor viveu. Deve ter sido uma pessoa maravilhosa....

Estes sonetos descrevem vários tipos de amor. Não apenas o carnal. Há o amor puro, o amor amigo, o amor pela natureza, o amor pelo universo, o amor pelo seu país, entre outros. Os meus preferidos são aqueles que ele escreve para a sua amada. Li no original. A língua espanhola é tão bela. E só daquelas pessoas que considera que a poesia traduzida perde as suas sensações.

Matilde, where are you? Down there I noticed,
under my necktie and just above the heart,
a certain pang of grief between the ribs,
you were gone that quickly.

I needed the light of your energy,
I looked around, devouring hope.
I watched the void without you that is like a house,
nothing left but tragic windows.

Out of sheer taciturnity the ceiling listens
to the fall of the ancient leafless rain,
to feathers, to whatever the night imprisoned:

so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.

~ from the book

When I die I want your hands on my eyes

When I die I want your hands on my eyes:
I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands
to pass their freshness over me one more time
to feel the smoothness that changed my destiny.

I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep,
I want for your ears to go on hearing the wind,
for you to smell the sea that we loved together
and for you to go on walking the sand where we walked.

I want for what I love to go on living
and as for you I loved you and sang you above everything,
for that, go on flowering, flowery one,

so that you reach all that my love orders for you,
so that my shadow passes through your hair,
so that they know by this the reason for my song.

~ from the book