Poetry of the Week: Pablo Neruda

My week has been bookended by the weddings of dear friends. One of my oldest friends in the world said her vows under a flower crown last Saturday, beaming up at her now husband, and in two days I'll stand beside two more friends as they pledge themselves to each other. Given that, love poetry seems the only option this week, and I know of few love poems as beautiful as Pablo Neruda's. 

But my mind is also dark and wandering at the moment, so I'll share a poem for that, as well.

Sonnet XVII

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio

o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:

te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,

secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva

dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,

y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo

el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber como, ni cuándo, ni de donde,

te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:

así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,

tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,

tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

Translation by Mark Eisner

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,       

or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:          

I love you as one loves certain obscure things,   

secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries     

the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, 

and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose         

from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where

I love you directly without problems or pride:    

I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,

except in this form in which I am not nor are you,

so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,

so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

Sonnet VI

En los bosques, perdido, corté una rama oscura 

y a los labios, sediento, levanté su susurro: 

era tal vez la voz de la lluvia llorando, 

una campana rota o un corazón cortado. 

Algo que desde tan lejos me parecía 

oculto gravemente, cubierto por la tierra, 

un grito ensordecido por inmensos otoños, 

por la entreabierta y húmeda tiniebla de las hojas. 

Pero allí, despertando de los sueños del bosque, 

la rama de avellano cantó bajo mi boca 

y su errabundo olor trepó por mi criterio 

como si me buscaran de pronto las raíces 

que abandoné, la tierra perdida con mi infancia, 

y me detuve herido por el aroma errante.

Translation by Gustavo Escobedo

In the forests, lost, I cut a dark branch

and to my lips, thirsty, I lifted its whisper:

it was perhaps the voice of the rain crying,

a broken bell or a torn heart.

Something which from so far seemed to me

gravely hidden, covered by the earth,

a scream deafened by immense autumns,

by the half open and moist darkness of the leaves.

But there, awaking from the dreams of the forest,

the branch of the hazel tree sang under my mouth

and its wandering smell climbed through my mind

as if suddenly the roots I had abandoned

were searching for me, the land lost with my childhood,

and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.