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Showing posts with label Poet: Pablo Neruda. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poet: Pablo Neruda. Show all posts

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem sent in by Shatarupa Ghoshal
(Poem #1798) I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
 I do not love you except because I love you;
 I go from loving to not loving you,
 From waiting to not waiting for you
 My heart moves from cold to fire.

 I love you only because it's you the one I love;
 I hate you deeply, and hating you
 Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
 Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

 Maybe January light will consume
 My heart with its cruel
 Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

 In this part of the story I am the one who
 Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
 Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
-- Pablo Neruda
    (translator unknown)

I first came across Neruda’s poetry when I was in college. We studied him as
part of the syllabus. Though poetry was never one of my favourite subjects,
I found that I liked Neruda. There is something about the way he wrote that
just captivates the reader, even a lay one like me.

This poem quickly entered my halls of poetical fame because on some level I
identified with the very literal movement from intense love to hatred and
back again that the poem portrays.

I am afraid that’s the best - and I know it is not nearly enough - I can do
here. I hope those of you who read it, also fall in love with it the way I
have.

Shatarupa

Ode to the Lemon -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem submitted by Neha Kumar :
(Poem #1701) Ode to the Lemon
 From blossoms
 released
 by the moonlight,
 from an
 aroma of exasperated
 love,
 steeped in fragrance,
 yellowness
 drifted from the lemon tree,
 and from its planetarium
 lemons descended to the earth.

 Tender yield!
 The coasts,
 the markets glowed
 with light, with
 unrefined gold;
 we opened
 two halves
 of a miracle,
 congealed acid
 trickled
 from the hemispheres
 of a star,
 the most intense liqueur
 of nature,
 unique, vivid,
 concentrated,
 born of the cool, fresh
 lemon,
 of its fragrant house,
 its acid, secret symmetry.

 Knives
 sliced a small
 cathedral
 in the lemon,
 the concealed apse, opened,
 revealed acid stained glass,
 drops
 oozed topaz,
 altars,
 cool architecture.

 So, when you hold
 the hemisphere
 of a cut lemon
 above your plate,
 you spill
 a universe of gold,
 a
 yellow goblet
 of miracles,
 a fragrant nipple
 of the earth's breast,
 a ray of light that was made fruit,
 the minute fire of a planet.
-- Pablo Neruda
The imagery is exquisite. Neruda is my favorite poet, but I only just
stumbled upon his collection of odes
(http://sunsite.dcc.uchile.cl/chile/misc/odas.html) and was pleasantly
surprised to note his versatility. A master of expression of human emotions,
he brings to life the most mundanely inanimate of things.

Neha.

If You Forget Me -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem sent in by Anustup Datta who writes:

Aseem's poem [Poem #1409] reminded me of Joni Mitchell's voice and the way it
sparkles like a dry white wine in a crysal goblet, so I had to go back and
listen to River again after a long time. Coincidentally, I was reading Neruda's
poetry just yesterday, and I came across this gem, which I don't think we have
run -
(Poem #1410) If You Forget Me
 I want you to know
 one thing.

 You know how this is:
 if I look
 at the crystal moon, at the red branch
 of the slow autumn at my window,
 if I touch
 near the fire
 the impalpable ash
 or the wrinkled body of the log,
 everything carries me to you,
 as if everything that exists:
 aromas, light, metals,
 were little boats that sail
 toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

 Well, now,
 if little by little you stop loving me
 I shall stop loving you little by little.

 If suddenly
 you forget me
 do not look for me,
 for I shall already have forgotten you.

 If you think it long and mad,
 the wind of banners
 that passes through my life,
 and you decide
 to leave me at the shore
 of the heart where I have roots,
 remember
 that on that day,
 at that hour,
 I shall lift my arms
 and my roots will set off
 to seek another land.

 But
 if each day,
 each hour,
 you feel that you are destined for me
 with implacable sweetness,
 if each day a flower
 climbs up to your lips to seek me,
 ah my love, ah my own,
 in me all that fire is repeated,
 in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
 my love feeds on your love, beloved,
 and as long as you live it will be in your arms
 without leaving mine.
-- Pablo Neruda
        (translated by Donald S. Walsh)

This is vintage Neruda - with all the passion and fickleness of desire. The
underlying melancholy is beautifully brought out by the conversational style
(a la Mir Taqi Mir) - the conceit could have been metaphysical had it not
been for the pain inherent in every verse. This is love that is hurting,
that has been hurt in the past, and yet is open to being hurt again. There
is surrender (and renunciation), but how different from, for instance,
Juliet's youthful optimism in surrender -

        "Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
        If that thy bent of love be honourable,
        Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
        By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
        Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
        And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay
        And follow thee my lord throughout the world."

            - Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene II.

A really moving poem, the more for being tender and unpretentious. I think
Madonna recites this in the "Il Postino" soundtrack, incidentally.

For those who care about things like the original Spanish, here it is -

        "Si Tu Me Olvidas"
        By Pablo Neruda

        Quiero que sepas
        una cosa.

        Tú sabes cómo es esto:
        si miro
        la luna de cristal, la rama roja
        del lento otoño en mi ventana,
        si toco
        junto al fuego
        la impalpable ceniza
        o el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,
        todo me lleva a ti,
        como si todo lo que existe:
        aromas, luz, metales,
        fueran pequeños barcos que navegan
        hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.

        Ahora bien,
        si poco a poco dejas de quererme
        dejaré de quererte poco a poco.

        Si de pronto
        me olvidas
        no me busques,
        que ya te habré olvidado.

        Si consideras largo y loco
        el viento de banderas
        que pasa por mi vida
        y te decides
        a dejarme a la orilla
        del corazón en que tengo raíces,
        piensa
        que en esa día,
        a esa hora
        levantaré los brazos
        y saldrán mis raíces
        a buscar otra tierra.

        Pero
        si cada día,
        cada hora,
        sientes que a mí estás destinada
        con dulzura implacable,
        si cada día sube
        una flor a tus labios a buscarme,
        ay amor mío, ay mía,
        en mí todo ese fuego se repite,
        en mí nada se apaga ni se olvida,
        mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada,
        y mientras vivas estará en tus brazos
        sin salir de los míos.

Regards
Anustup

Poetry -- Pablo Neruda

GUest poem sent in by singh_abs2000
(Poem #1271) Poetry
 And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
 in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
 it came from, from winter or a river.
 I don't know how or when,
 no, they were not voices, they were not
 words, nor silence,
 but from a street I was summoned,
 from the branches of night,
 abruptly from the others,
 among violent fires
 or returning alone,
 there I was without a face
 and it touched me.

 I did not know what to say, my mouth
 had no way
 with names
 my eyes were blind,
 and something started in my soul,
 fever or forgotten wings,
 and I made my own way,
 deciphering
 that fire
 and I wrote the first faint line,
 faint, without substance, pure
 nonsense,
 pure wisdom
 of someone who knows nothing,
 and suddenly I saw
 the heavens
 unfastened
 and open,
 planets,
 palpitating planations,
 shadow perforated,
 riddled
 with arrows, fire and flowers,
 the winding night, the universe.

 And I, infinitesmal being,
 drunk with the great starry
 void,
 likeness, image of
 mystery,
 I felt myself a pure part
 of the abyss,
 I wheeled with the stars,
 my heart broke free on the open sky.
-- Pablo Neruda
This was my first Neruda Poem (ok I admit I was introduced to him
through the film 'Il Postino' (Great Movie, Must watch!) ).
And when I heard it, I could feel the tips of my forgotten wings
quiver!

Neruda is such a passionate poet...but his passion is earthy, and
gentle, yet so...immediate. With this passion he can recreate the
most primeval of human emotions.

Like the 'encounter' with poetry...

Somehow, reading this poem brings images of Van Gogh to my mind.
Images - the heavens unfastened, palpitating planations, shadow
perforated (love that one!), winding night, the universe...wheeling
with the stars, hearts broken free on the open sky. What Van Gogh
did with paint in the 'Starry Night', Neruda does with words
in 'Poetry'.

By the way It would be great if we could get the original spanish
for this, too!

Finally I feel that this poem is particularly apt for
the 'Minstrels', since it captures something that is shared by all
of us here...the tug of poetry, fervid summons of the messiah that
lets the disciples loose,  freewheeling in the open skies!

Morning XXVII -- Pablo Neruda

Guet poem sent in by singh_abs2000
(Poem #1263) Morning XXVII
 Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,
 smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:
 you have moon-lines, apple-pathways:
 naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

 Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba;
 you have vines and stars in your hair;
 naked you are spacious and yellow
 as summer in a golden church.

 Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails -
 curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
 and you withdraw to the underground world,

 as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
 your clear light dims, gets dressed - drops its leaves -
 and becomes a naked hand again.
-- Pablo Neruda
What can be said about what cannot be said...that Neruda could say it?

For me this poem captures all the beauty and painful longing of mortal
love...while reading this poem I realized that this poem could equally be a
lover talking of his love lying next to him...or a mother talking of her own
nakedness suckling at her breasts...

Needless to say my favorite line of all times is in here...

  "you have moon-lines, apple-pathways;
  Naked, you are as slender as a naked grain of wheat"

But more than all this there is something unspeakably sacred in these words.
I cant point my fingers at it...it sweeps you when you come face to face
with this poem.

P.S. I have noticed that there are very few Nerudas in the
collection...so I hope this poem opens a new gateway to more Neruda
discoveries! [actually, eight poems isn't all that few, considering. more
would, of course, always be nice :) - martin]

Love Sonnet XI -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem sent in by atheos
(Poem #1157) Love Sonnet XI
 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.

 I hunger for your sleek laugh,
 your hands the color of a savage harvest,
 hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
 I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

 I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
 the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
 I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

 and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
 hunting for you, for your hot heart,
 like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
-- Pablo Neruda
This is the first thing that comes to mind when I think Neruda. I
read it quite a while back but it has stayed with me... The sheer
intensity of what he's feeling comes through, and grips you and
elevates you. It makes me feel like there is music and drama and
poetry in living, that makes it hard to feel indifferent, numb.
Every time I read it, I catch my breath; I am swept up by it all
over again.

If I were to analyse it tongue in cheek, I would say it should be
titled My Love to Me a Meal Is. And proceed to demonstrate how
he's sublimating his passion by using verbs of the culinary
persuasion. Grin. Alternatively, I could choose to take him
literally, and proceed to demonstrate that this is Dr. Hannibal
Lecter, who's taken over Neruda's life. After eating him, of
course.

More seriously, though, I think it's a beautiful poem. There are
references to him as a hunter - I think of a large, beautiful
jungle cat padding around on empty, cobbled streets. I can see the
twitch of its tail and the flare of nostrils. Hungry. Hunting.
His (the translator's?) turn of phrase is lovely; "Bread does not
nourish me" "the liquid measure of your steps" "for your hot
heart" - all these sound so right that the rightness, the
resonance of the words leaves you dazed.

I think it's a good counterpoint to the other poem we saw a few
days back [Poem #1149], don't you?

atheos

Don't Go Far Off -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem sent in by Sitaram Iyer
(Poem #1149) Don't Go Far Off
 Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
 because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
 and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
 when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

 Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
 then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
 the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
 into me, choking my lost heart.

 Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
 may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
 Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

 because in that moment you'll have gone so far
 I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
 Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
-- Pablo Neruda
In passing through a transient spell of self-inflicted grief, I'm
finding a certain measure of solace in several of Neruda's poems -- not
so much as a distraction, but as a gentle voice that understands and
speaks the pain. Although this poem reflects only an approximation of
the sentiment, the metaphors strike the right sort of chord, helping
convey the appropriate sense of (potential) loss. (I'll get over this
bottomless black mood in a few days, so don't bother sympathizing :))

Sitaram

Clenched Soul -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem submitted by a contributor who wishes to remain anonymous:
(Poem #941) Clenched Soul
 We have lost even this twilight.
 No one saw us this evening hand in hand
 while 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 in my hand.

 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 me suddenly
 when I am sad and feel you are far away?

 The book fell that always closed at twilight
 and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

 Always, always you recede through the evenings
 toward the twilight erasing statues.
-- Pablo Neruda
Pablo Neruda is one of my favourite poets. His poetry has a curious ethereal
quality to it, a haunting sadnesss. This is one of his most brilliant poems,
conveying the wistfulness ever so tenderly. In a way I would call him the
Van Gogh of poetry -- a brilliant artist drawing on the most poignant of
pictures and capturing them in a web of words. His poetry lives, lives in
the true sense of the word.

[Minstrels Links]

Pablo Neruda:
Poem #164, Bird
Poem #422, Sonnet XVII: Love
Poem #605, The Saddest Poem
Poem #816, I'm Explaining a Few Things

I'm Explaining a Few Things -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem submitted by Amulya Gopalakrishnan:
(Poem #816) I'm Explaining a Few Things
 You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
 and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
 and the rain repeatedly spattering
 its words and drilling them full
 of apertures and birds?
 I'll tell you all the news.

 I lived in a suburb,
 a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
 and clocks, and trees.

 From there you could look out
 over Castille's dry face:
 a leather ocean.
 My house was called
 the house of flowers, because in every cranny
 geraniums burst: it was
 a good-looking house
 with its dogs and children.
 Remember, Raul?
 Eh, Rafel?         Federico, do you remember
 from under the ground
 my balconies on which
 the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
 Brother, my brother!
 Everything
 loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
 pile-ups of palpitating bread,
 the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
 like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
 oil flowed into spoons,
 a deep baying
 of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
 metres, litres, the sharp
 measure of life,
 stacked-up fish,
 the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
 the weather vane falters,
 the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
 wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

 And one morning all that was burning,
 one morning the bonfires
 leapt out of the earth
 devouring human beings --
 and from then on fire,
 gunpowder from then on,
 and from then on blood.
 Bandits with planes and Moors,
 bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
 bandits with black friars spattering blessings
 came through the sky to kill children
 and the blood of children ran through the streets
 without fuss, like children's blood.

 Jackals that the jackals would despise,
 stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
 vipers that the vipers would abominate!

 Face to face with you I have seen the blood
 of Spain tower like a tide
 to drown you in one wave
 of pride and knives!

 Treacherous
 generals:
 see my dead house,
 look at broken Spain :
 from every house burning metal flows
 instead of flowers,
 from every socket of Spain
 Spain emerges
 and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
 and from every crime bullets are born
 which will one day find
 the bull's eye of your hearts.

 And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
 speak of dreams and leaves
 and the great volcanoes of his native land?

 Come and see the blood in the streets.
 Come and see
 The blood in the streets.
 Come and see the blood
 In the streets!
-- Pablo Neruda
Translated by Nathaniel Tarn.

Here's one for all those who decry politically engaged literature as being
aesthetically compromised: Pablo Neruda. For some of the most wonderful
poems that combine Art and heart. He wrote some of the most burning,
gorgeous lines but what powers his poetry is always his politics. Unlike
Nabokov's idea that 'the sole purpose of art is aesthetic bliss', he
fiercely believes that poems can make new worlds. He described the first of
his poetry readings at a trade union meeting as 'the most important fact of
my literary career'.

This particular poem combines generosity, fight, painfulness... and
lyricism, even as it shows up the absurdity of 'poppy-petalled metaphysics'.
There's an aggressive overabundance - the spilling over of the merchandise,
building up to the rush of violent visual images, (black friars spattering
blessings) and then, the unexpected, bludgeoning moments of tenderness (the
house of geraniums, the children's blood).

Neruda's surreal, sure, but it isn't swimmy, soft-focus surrealism. His
images cohere emotionally, with the energy of his anger, all the way up to
the terrible finality of 'come out and see the blood on the streets'. The
poem burns clean.

Amulya.

Saddest Poem -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem sent in by Suchitra
(Poem #605) Saddest Poem
 I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

 Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
 and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

 The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

 I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
 I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

 On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
 I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

 She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
 How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

 I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
 To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

 To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
 And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

 What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
 The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

 That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
 My soul is lost without her.

 As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
 My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

 The same night that whitens the same trees.
 We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

 I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
 My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

 Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
 belonged to my kisses.
 Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

 I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
 Love is so short and oblivion so long.

 Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
 my soul is lost without her.

 Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
 and this may be the last poem I write for her.
-- Pablo Neruda
I've always liked sad poems since they are almost always beautiful. But the
first time  I was moved to tears was by this poem that I stumbled across on
the internet. I think the poem is both simple and powerful. I also like the
poet's admission of perhaps, trying to write a sad poem. He repeats this a
few times initially - you expect him to keep this up - but then his
description of his love, and his emotion seems to overtake him.

I also like the poem's candid approach to love. It is a poet's misery over
the loss of the feeling of  love, rather than of his lover - as in the lines
"I no longer love her true, but how much I loved her". Also small touches of
irony like "She loved me, sometimes I loved her". But best of all, I love
the last line (the saddest line of all?) - for (I imagine) what can be
worse for a romantic poet than to stop writing about his lost love?

[Bio]

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)  - Original name Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto.
Winner of the  Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971 "for a poetry that with
the action of an elemental force brings alive a continent's destiny and
dreams".

Chilean poet, diplomat, and Marxist, Neruda is the most widely read of the
Spanish American poets. Neruda first gained international fame in 1924 as an
writer with VEINTE POEMAS DE AMOR Y UNA CANCÍON, which is his most widely
read work. From the 1940s his works reflected the political struggle of
peasants and workers and socio-historical developments in South America, but
he also wrote love poems. Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
(1924) have sold over a million copies since it first appeared.

"Poetry is a deep inner calling in man; from it came liturgy, the psalms,
and also the content of religions." (from Memoirs, 1974)

"He was once referred as the Picasso of poetry, alluding to his protean
ability to be always in the vanguard of change. And he himself has often
alluded to his personal struggle with his own tradition, to his constant
need to search for a new system in each book." (Rene de Costa in The Poetry
of Pablo Neruda, 1979)

[Links to other poems]

[broken link] http://www-personal.umich.edu/~agreene/Neruda.html
http://members.aol.com/KatharenaE/private/Pweek/Neruda/neruda.html

-Suchitra

Sonnet XVII: Love -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem submitted by Sudha Shastri:
(Poem #422) Sonnet XVII: Love
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
-- Pablo Neruda
Translated by Stephen Mitchell

An Italian sonnet (Petrarchan form), where the 14 lines are divided as 8
(octave) + 6 (sestet). Usually this form is characterised by a 'turn' in the
thought after the octave, but here the divide seems to be rather differently
achieved. Almost (?) ironical the way the octave elaborately labours the ways of
loving ( reminds me of 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' ) and the
sestet tersely dismisses the possibility of a successful description of the
emotion.

As for theme, well, it carries echoes and echoes from mostly Renaissance poetry.
The octave in particular reminds me of Viola's description of her love in
'Twelfth Night' - the oft-quoted 'Patience on a monument' speech.

Also, I wonder if the anaphora helps.

S Shastri.

[PS:

'Anaphora' - repetition of a word or expression at the beginning of successive
phrases, clauses, sentences, or verses especially for rhetorical or poetic
effect <Lincoln's "we cannot dedicate--we cannot
consecrate--we                      cannot hallow--this ground" is an example>

        -- Merriam-Webster, www.m-w.com

- t.]

Bird -- Pablo Neruda

Guest poem sent in by Rajeev
(Poem #164) Bird
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.

When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
-- Pablo Neruda
My first exposure to Neruda was around 12 years ago. Among the poems in the
course for CBSE (Class IX or X) was a strange one called "Ode to the
Clothes". The title was decidedly off-track, but the poem itself was more
so. It broke whatever norms or rules I perceived poetry as having, and its
theme - of the thoughts of a man as he wears a shirt - was unconventional,
to say the least. Yet the poem itself struck me as passionate, indeed
somewhat erotic! The poet was Pablo Neruda. Since then, I've had an
on-and-off experience with the works of Neruda. There are works such as
"Bird" that move me immensely, especially the last 5 lines of the first
stanza and the last 2 lines of the poem (to my mind, among the most visually
striking and memorable lines - some of us would say "Evocative" - that I've
read). But at times, I've struggled to understand some of his other works,
because it was near impossible to pin down the emotion underlying. In any
case, "Bird" qualifies as one of my all-time favourites. I hope you like it
too.

Regards
Rajeev

Biography

Neruda was born Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto on July 12, 1904, in Parral,
Chile. His mother died soon after. He completed his secondary schooling in
1920, the year he began using the name Pablo Neruda. In 1921 he went to
Santiago to continue his education but soon became so devoted to writing
poetry that his schooling was abandoned. Neruda's first book,
`Crepusculario', was published in Spanish in 1923. The next year he
published `Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair'.

Early in life he took an interest in politics. He was for a time an
anarchist but later became a Communist. His government service began in 1927
and ended only shortly before his death on Sept. 23, 1973, in Santiago. From
1927 to 1933 Neruda represented Chile in South Asia--in Burma (now Myanmar),
Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), Java (now part of Indonesia), and Singapore. In
1933-34 he was Chilean consul in Buenos Aires, and while there he met the
great Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca. From Argentina he went to Spain,
where he served through the early part of the Spanish Civil War. His `Spain
in the Heart' was published in 1937 during the war.

Over the next decades Neruda traveled widely and continued writing poetry.
Among his other books were `Residence on Earth' (1933), written while he was
in South Asia; `General Song' (1950), one of the greatest epic poems written
in the Americas; and `One Hundred Love Sonnets' (1959). During the Marxist
regime of Salvador Allende, Neruda was Chile's ambassador to France
(l971-72).

He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971 for, in the words of
the awarding committee, "for a poetry that with the action of an elemental
force brings alive a continent's destiny and dreams".

He died in Santiago on Sept. 23, l973.

                                 - Compton's Living Encyclopedia

"Neruda's body of poetry is so rich and varied that it defies classification
or easy summary. It developed along four main directions, however. His love
poetry, such as the youthful Twenty Love Poems and the mature Los versos del
CapitE1n (1952; The Captain's Verses), is tender, melancholy, sensuous, and
passionate. In "material" poetry, such as Residencia en la tierra,
loneliness and depression immerse the author in a subterranean world of
dark, demonic forces. His epic poetry is best represented by Canto general,
which is a Whitmanesque attempt at reinterpreting the past and present of
Latin America and the struggle of its oppressed and downtrodden masses
toward freedom. And finally there is Neruda's poetry of common, everyday
objects, animals, and plants, as in Odas elementales.

These four trends correspond to four aspects of Neruda's personality: his
passionate love life; the nightmares and depression he experienced while
serving as a consul in Asia; his commitment to a political cause; and his
ever-present attention to details of daily life, his love of things made or
grown by human hands. Many of his other books, such as Libro de las
preguntas (1974; "Book of Questions"), reflect philosophical and whimsical
questions about the present and future of humanity. Neruda was one of the
most original and prolific poets to write in Spanish in the 20th century,
but despite the variety of his output as a whole, each of his books has
unity of style and purpose."

 - Encyclopedia Britannica

Check out this outstanding website (the effects are amazing and the site
very well planned out) for some more of his works
http://members.aol.com/KatharenaE/private/Pweek/Neruda/neruda.html