Pablo Neruda is probably the the most influential Latin American poet of our time. He was born in Chile on July 12, 1904 and died on September 23, 1973.
Neruda wrote in different styles including love poems like his famous collection Twenty Poems of Love and a Song of Despair, wrote it when we was nineteen. Twenty Poems was controversial for its eroticism, especially considering his very young age. Over the decades, Twenty Poems has become Neruda's best-known work, and has sold more than a million copies and translated into many languages.
In 1971 Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature. The Gabo called him "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language."
Neruda used to wrote in green ink because he considered it the color of hope.
Here's one of his Twenty Poems of Love...
Tonight I can write the most sorrowful lines.
I can write, for example: "The night is star-filled
and the blue stars are shivering in the distance."
The night wind turns in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the most sorrowful lines.
I loved her then, and sometimes she loved me back.
Through nights like tonight I held her in my arms.
I kissed her and kissed her under endless skies.
She loved me then, and sometimes I loved her back.
How could I not love her giant, still eyes?
Tonight I can write the most sorrowful lines.
I can think I'm not holding her. I can regret that I lost her.
I can hear the vast night, still vaster without her.
And the words settle on my soul like dew on the pasture.
It doesn't matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is star-filled and she is not with me.
That's all that matters. Someone is singing far away. Far away.
My soul cannot be content, because I have lost her.
As if they could bring her near, my eyes try to find her.
My heart searches for her, and she is not with me.
The same nightfall whitening the same trees.
But we have both changed so much since that night.
Surely I no longer love her, but how I once loved her.
My voice sought the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As before I had kissed her.
Her voice, her pale body. Her endless eyes.
Surely I no longer love her, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short; memories last so long.
Because through nights like tonight I held her in my arms,
my soul cannot be content, because I have lost her.
Even if this is the last pain she makes me suffer,
and this is the last poem that I write for her.
It's a really touchy poem. It seems to me that the author really lost his love and then wrote the poem. I wanna share one poem as well, which can be in accord with yours. Unfortunately, it is not mine. The most famous Russian poet Pushkin wrote:
ReplyDeleteI loved you, perhaps, I love you still,
The flame perhaps is not extinguished yet.
It burns so quietly within my soul,
No longer should you feel distressed by it.
Silently and hopelessly I loved you,
At times too jealous, at times too shy,
God grant you find another who will love you
As tenderly and truthfully as I.