"in a river of flowerbeds the sun reaches my mouth like an old buried tear that becomes seed again” - Born in the Woods, Pablo Neruda.
Each day in February I have been posting pictures of snippets of poems by Pablo Neruda.
Month of Neruda has been a way to share the poet’s writings with a daily reminder of love through Path and Twitter.
(I Ask For Silence.)
When your hands go out, love, toward mine, what do they bring me flying? Why did they stop at my mouth, suddenly, why do I recognize them as if then, before, I had touched them, as if before they existed they had passed over my forehead, my waist?
Their softness came flying over time, over the sea, over the smoke, over the spring, and when you placed your hands on my chest, I recognized those golden dove wings, I recognized that clay and that color of wheat.
All the years of my life I walked around looking for them. I went up the stairs, I crossed the roads, trains carried me, waters brought me, and in the skin of the grapes I thought I touched you. The wood suddenly brought me your touch, the almond announced to me your secret softness, until your hands closed on my chest and there like two wings they ended their journey.
- From The Captain’s Verses
All referenced Neruda poems and pictures here are from “The Poetry of Pablo Neruda” Edited by Ilan Stavans, 2003.
Found this gem at the end of W.S. Merwin’s The SHadow of Sirius.
When I think of the patience I have had back in the dark before I remember or knew it was night until the light came all at once at the speed it was born to with all the time in the world to fly through not concerned about ever arriving and then the gathering of the first stars unhurried in their flowering spaces and far into the story the planets cooling slowly and the ages of rain then the seas starting to bear memory the gaze of the first cell at its waking how did this haste begin this little time at any time this reading by lightning scarcely a word this nothing this heaven