Una delle migliori raccolte di tutta la storia.

Provate a pensare ai quadri "Il bacio" e "Viandante sul mare di nebbia".
Se vi trasportano nel loro universo (nelle loro praterie planetarie ), allora questa raccolta vi piacerà.
it.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Il_bacio_(Hayez)
it.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Viandante_sul...


Neruda descrive l'amore come qualcosa di impetuoso che ti avvolge e ti sommerge. E riesce a farlo in una maniera estremamente semplice, prendendo spunto dalla natura.

Queste poesie mi hanno ricordato quei due quadri.

L'amore che avvolge, l'amore semplice ma infinito che si disinteressa della realtà.
L'amore ne "Il bacio" di Francesco Hayez. Quadro molto semplice ma molto intenso. Quando anni fa l'ho visto dal vivo sono rimasto minuti e minuti avvolto nel suo abbraccio.

Ma soprattutto questa raccolta mi ha ricordato
"Viandante sul mare di nebbia". Chi legge queste poesie di Neruda deve lasciarsi sopraffare dai venti, deve lasciare che l'oceano lo sommerga. Non deve riflettere sullo stile, deve farsi circondare dalle emozioni.

Se volete avere ulteriori informazioni sule due opere:

it.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Il_bacio_(Hayez), dove sono descritte anche le tematiche politiche del quadro.

it.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Viandante_sul..., dove potete avere notizie sul pittore Casper David Friedrich e su altre opere della scuola romantica.

Se vi piacciono i quadri e la letteratura vi consiglio  La ragazza con l'orecchino di perla.

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.

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...”

قلبي كان ينبض مع كل كلمة ومقطع.. جميل نيرودا.

Cleaning up my currently reading list.

You're probably expecting me to say something...scholarly. I can only say:
1) This is probably one of the best books of poetry ever
2) It should be treated with caution. Do not read under the following circumstances:
A. out loud
B. in the original language
C. in the presence of anyone of the opposite sex
D. while under the influence
E. all of the above
3) Don't ask me how I came to the above conclusions.

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.

n  listen... a hundred is a lot.n
༄⋆
note: as i usually do whenever i complete a read that took me a while, i did a tiny bit on research on neruda because i assumed that the portrait painted by every-spanish-teacher-who's-ever-taught-highschoolers of this man was slightly restrictive. i know i should separate the art from the artist since "blablah picasso made masterpieces even though he was the most disgusting man who ever walked this earth" but the fact that neruda wrote a poem about his experience r*ping a woman is something to consider. i'm glad i knew that after i got throught 100 poems on the beauty of love. nonetheless i can't pretend this information didn't taint my vision of this poetry collection, hence the three-stars-rating. please forgive me.
༄⋆
so. i'm obviously unmarried. i've never even been in love.... i couldn't relate to any of these poems. howEVER i guess pablo neruda's talent shows in the way his words made me feel.
i've always been exceptionally bad at describing or critiquing poetry and i doubt this will change today. so HERE'S MY FAVOURITE POEM HEEHEEH ENJOY (and yes it's in spanish because i am incredibly pretentious).

n°59
pobres poetas a quienes la vida y la muerte
persiguieron con la misma tenacidad sombría
y luego son cubiertos por impasible pompa,
entregados al rito y al diente funerario.

ellos -- oscuros como piedrecitas--, ahora
detrás de los caballos arrogantes, tendidos
van, gobernados al fin por los intrusos,
entre los edecanes, a dormir sin silencio.

antes y ya seguros de que está muerto el muerto
hacen de las exequias un festín miserable
con pavos, puercos y otros oradores.

acecharon su muerte y entones la ofendieron :
sólo porque su boca está cerrada
y ya no puede contestar su canto.

When I got tired of copying love poems from the Chinese and Japanese into urgent, wretched note cards to lovers who were unattainable (and I'm a genius at finding unattainable characters to pine after)... that's when I turned to Pablo Neruda. He's even better than Asian poets at crafting throbbing, passionate, wounded phrases of affection:

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrence
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

and:

No one can stop the river of your hands,
your eyes and their sleepiness, my dearest.
You are the trembling of time, which passes
between the vertical light and the darkening sky.

and:

From the stormy archipelagoes I brought
my windy accordian, waves of crazy rain,
the habitual slowness of natural things:
they made up my wild heart.

Imagine for a moment being the unsuspecting recipient of such transcribed scribblings. You thought you were just getting a nice shag, and now you're getting Neruda by notecard, shoved into the mail slot of your door, or left under your windshield wiper at the parking garage. At least I never called in the middle of the night and left Neruda recitations on the answering machine. Okay, maybe I did once. But there had been a great deal of tequila involved.

Not everything he wrote was tortured. Some of it was just beautiful:

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;...

...so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

and:

because love cannot always fly without resting,
our lives return to the wall, to the rocks of the sea:
our kisses head back home where they belong.

and:

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two
together in their sleep will defeat the darkness

Luckily I got over the phase where I copied tragic poetry into notecards to express my unrequited passions. Now I've moved on to mix CDs. I swear, I'm a caricature even of myself. Emo mommy. Pardon me while I don a pirate blouse and walk moodily across the moors on a stormy day.

Pablo, however, is lovely.

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.

I made these sonnets out of wood; I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and that is how they should reach your ears. Walking in forests or on beaches, along hidden lakes, in latitudes sprinkled with ashes, you and I have picked up pieces of pure bark, pieces of wood subject to the comings and goings of water and the weather. Out of such softened relics, then, with hatchet and machete and pocketknife, I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.
*
Whoever loved as we did? Let us hunt
for the ancient cinders of a heart that burned
and make our kisses fall one by one,
till that empty flower rises again.

Let us love the love that consumed its fruit and went
down, its image and its power, into the earth:
you and I are the light that endures,
its irrevocable delicate thorn.

Bring to that love, entombed by so much cold time,
by snow and spring, by oblivion and autumn,
the light of a new apple, light

of a freshness opened by a new wound,
like that ancient love that passes in silence
through an eternity of buried mouths.

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).