Literature & poetry

Pablo Neruda: So That You Will Hear Me Pablo Neruda: So That You Will Hear Me So that you will hear me my words sometimes grow thin as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches. Necklace, drunken bell for your hands smooth as grapes. And I watch my words …

Pablo Neruda: Walking Around Pablo Neruda: Walking Around It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes. The smell …

Pablo Neruda: The Fear Pablo Neruda: The Fear They all ask me to jump to invigorate and to play soccer, to run, to swim and to fly. Very well. They all advise me rest, they all send me to the doctor, looking at me a certain way. What happens? They …

Pablo Neruda: Sonnet Lxxiii: Maybe You’ll Remember Pablo Neruda: Sonnet Lxxiii: Maybe You’ll Remember Maybe you’ll remember that razor-faced man who slipped out from the dark like a blade and – before we realized – knew what was there: he saw the smoke and concluded fire. The pallid woman with …

Pablo Neruda: Ode To Tomatoes Pablo Neruda: Ode To Tomatoes The street filled with tomatoes midday, summer, light is halved like a tomato, its juice runs through the streets. In December, unabated, the tomato invades the kitchen, it enters at lunchtime, takes its ease on countertops, among glasses, butter dishes, …

Pablo Neruda: Poesia Pablo Neruda: Poesia Y fue a esa edad… Llegó la poesía a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde salió, de invierno o río. No sé cómo ni cuándo, no, no eran voces, no eran palabras, ni silencio, pero desde una calle me llamaba, desde las ramas …

Pablo Neruda: The Queen Pablo Neruda: The Queen I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen. When you go through the streets No one recognizes you. No one sees your …

Pablo Neruda: The Insect Pablo Neruda: The Insect From your hips down to your feet I want to make a long journey. I am smaller than an insect. Over these hills I pass, hills the colour of oats, crossed with faint tracks that only I know, scorched centimetres, pale perspectives. …

Pablo Neruda: Tell Me, Is the Rose Naked? Pablo Neruda: Tell Me, Is the Rose Naked? Tell me, is the rose naked Or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal The splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets Of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the …